Vivian leant in, her elbow accidentally tipping up a plate that clattered too loudly.

‘I want to know more about them,’ she said. ‘Thought you might have someone I could chat with.’

Tristan ran his finger around the top of his wine glass. ‘Might do. Might do. Is this work?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Because you’ve got that expression on your face. What’s Ing Enterprises done to you?’

‘Nothing yet. I want to keep it that way.’

He smiled to himself and straightened the newspaper at the side of his plate. Vivian remembered how he’d always been like that, even in the midst of a marijuana-infused protest camp site: he’d liked his space and bit of order.

‘How’s Thea?’ he asked.

‘She’s amazing. Got her head screwed on. Don’t know where she got that from.’

An image popped up in Vivian’s mind. Thea at about six, arranging a doll business meeting, not a tea party. The meeting had been about how to give out the necessary chores in the shared house in which they had been staying that month. She had even made a list in wobbly handwriting for everyone to look at. Everyone had ignored it.

Tristan cleared his throat. ‘You know …’

Vivian glanced up to find him looking at her rather more searchingly than she would have liked. It didn’t suit him, she decided; it made him look old.

‘I always wondered. I mean, you never said but—’

‘Whose is she?’ Vivian smiled at him. ‘Mine. She’s all mine. No one else’s.’

He returned the smile with less conviction and thoughtfully swirled his wine. ‘You never said. All those years.’

What was his expression now? The lighting was so ridiculously dim in restaurants these days and Vivian couldn’t quite work it out. It couldn’t be … disappointment, surely?

He shrugged. ‘Those days, the marches, the protests, the shitty little bedsits. They seem so very far away now. Like a dream. I think I was high for most of it.’

They both gazed at each other. Their table was a white-clothed raft set adrift in a badly lit sea.

‘So?’ Vivian snapped open a menu, enjoying the sharp sound. ‘Are we going to order? Or am I to get my own table?’

‘Oh no. We can make an evening of it.’

Vivian smiled and took another sip of wine. ‘Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Tristan …’

Vivian got back from her meal with Tristan later than planned, lit a joss stick, and unclasped her bra with a sigh of relief.

She reached for a nettle teabag, changed her mind and poured herself one last glass of wine. The living room floor was a trip hazard of paint pots and cardboard, leftovers from that day’s protest preparation. They needed Thea. She always had such neat lettering and a way with colour.