Royal histories with their centuries-old family trees reminded her that hers possessed three names: an irresponsible absconder, an abandoned orphan and one adored son, Terry – who left a dash after his name, and the acidic after-taste of his parting words: If you insist on an explanation, Mum, I have to be my own person, which means I have to get away from you! Spat out when he was sixteen and changing shoe size three times a year. She tried to stop him leaving the kitchen, her back to the door, hands gripping the knob so tightly it would have snapped off, if she hadn’t been dripping with sweat. Then she lost control …

It was only when Jessie snatched herself away from Stanley with a look of irritation that it dawned on him that theirs was not the companionable silence of two people who do not feel forced to make small talk. Rather, it stretched between them like an elastic band, ready to snap and ping in his face. He decided to break it.

‘This is the first time I’ve ever –’

‘Don’t!’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Just don’t say this is the first anything ever again.’

He stared at Jessie’s scowling face. ‘But this is Versailles. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’

‘Shows us how the other half lives, that’s for sure.’

‘Jessie, no one lives like this now.’

‘Whatever. Look, I can’t do this any more …’

‘What do you mean, you can’t do this? This is supposed to be pleasure, not penance. Isn’t this what it’s all about – seeing the sights?’

‘Not for me it isn’t. I’m not interested in dead things or touristic things like great big fuck-off Rococo palaces.’

‘Well, I wish you’d told me.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I love seeing the sights.’

She started backing away. ‘And I love drinking tea, so I’m going for one, or, more likely, une tasse de thé, if they’ve got it. You coming?’

The invitation was a gauntlet thrown down on the floor. Her expression was indiscernible as the sun blocked it out, leaving her in shadow.

She shrugged. ‘You’ll find me in the café when you’re done. Don’t worry about little old me.’

Gobsmacked, he watched her turn and storm off, long canvas bag hugging her hips, plaits jumping up and down as she shook her head. He noticed the prowl of her shoulders, the way she kicked up the pebble path, suggesting the countdown to a detonation. No, thanks. He wouldn’t chase after her. He hadn’t come here to sit in a café. He could do that in Blackheath Village. They’ll talk later. Right now all he wanted to do was return to the seventeenth century.

A few inches above the ground,

I trail him, sensing he is susceptible.