He scratches at his chickenpox scar. ‘A secret Cold War-era telephone exchange, below High Holborn. I’m between assignments so I’m doing a bit of urban exploring – you know, going into hidden places, disused and neglected buildings, former mental institutions, that kind of thing. Places where the public aren’t allowed access. Taking photos. It’s really interesting.’

‘Oh right, sounds it.’

‘What, you break in to places?’ Dad interrupts. I realize his headphones are off again. He’s halfway out of his chair, probably to get a drink.

‘Not really break in,’ says Kemp. We exchange looks. ‘Well, kind of, but it’s not illegal. It’s just exploring, going where you’re not allowed to go. It’s fun. And I’ve been sent into some places by a couple of magazines. The rest, I go by myself. Hopefully I’ll be able to sell the photos somewhere.’ He pushes back his hair with his right hand. He tucks some of it behind an ear.

‘All right to go in the bathroom?’ Ryan is at the doorway.

‘Not much to see in there, but yes, of course,’ I say.

I’m standing too close to one of the side windows and the sun is coming in and hitting the left side of my face. I step forward and out of the sun. I turn my face from Kemp. Even now, I must hide all the worst parts of me from him. He has seen my birthmark, of course. Once we got caught in a rainstorm on the way back from the pub and I knew my make-up had run off; another night, in August, when there had been a terrible skiffle band at the pub we’d attempted to dance to, I sank one Jack Daniel’s too many and threw up in his chemical toilet (the shame!) while he held my hair back. Afterwards, I looked in his tiny bathroom mirror and my birthmark was exposed and raw-looking, a mocking, witchy reminder he could never love me.

‘Do you still live on the houseboat?’ I ask, and I wish I hadn’t as I am blushing again.

‘No, I don’t now. Another winter in that place almost did me in. I’ve got a flat in Primrose Hill. A studio – you know, the ones with a pull-down bed and no room to swing a rat.’

I smile. There were plenty of river rats in the houseboat days. Streaming on down the Thames or peering at us, curious from the bank, as we clambered drunkenly aboard Summer Breeze, their eyes shining in the dark.

‘I’ve got a photo on my phone somewhere. I’ll show you.’