Natalia can’t hide her derision. And I am finding it hard to conceal mine. He’s taking the piss, isn’t he? I have never, by any stretch of the imagination, been beautiful. Dad once had a record – ‘When You’re in Love with a Beautiful Woman’, Dr Hook – I loved that song, but I knew the whole concept would always be beyond me. I gingerly touch my cheek, where the birthmark lies beneath. I want to scratch it off with my fingernails, bleach it, burn it, for it to be gone. I want a matching pair of smooth cheeks like everybody else. I want to be Natalia.

‘Certainly. Nuts?’

‘Why not, babe?’

‘Great,’ she exclaims and off she trots, wiggling her behind at Salvi.

‘Babe?’ I question.

‘Everyone’s “babe”.’ Salvi shrugs. ‘I enjoyed it last night,’ he adds. ‘Did you get home OK?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I say. I am bright, purposely chirpy. I am not going to acknowledge that he ran out on me. I am grateful to be here.

‘You can’t beat a London cab. Is that how you and Dad have been getting around? Taxi? Must be the easiest, you know, with him being the way he is.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘We’ve been walking and taking the tube. Always a bit of an adventure,’ I add wryly.

Salvi laughs. ‘I bet. Wow, good for you. I was stuck in a tunnel for twenty minutes the other week – it made me an hour late for a briefing. The wig that had been roasting in my briefcase came out like sweaty roadkill!’

I laugh, but I’m going to ask him, I think. I’m going to ask him about Philippa. His Facebook friend. ‘Did you hear about that poor girl who died on the underground a couple of weeks ago?’ I say, ultra casually.

‘Yeah, vaguely.’ Not a flicker on his face, not a blink. ‘There’s always some idiot.’

‘Philippa someone,’ I add.

‘Uh-huh.’ His gaze wanders round the room then returns to land on me, his eyes blank. He doesn’t know her, does he?

‘It’s terribly sad. She was only twenty-nine.’

‘Yes, terribly sad.’ He grins at me slowly, brushes a hand over the top of his head. Oh, he definitely doesn’t know her – Philippa probably just heard of him as this eligible bachelor, read about one of his cases at Egon and Fuller, or a profile in a magazine, and Friend Requested him, like people do. She was just one of his 3,015 and he was just one of her 102.

Our drinks arrive. My cocktail looks even more preposterous than its photo. I sip at it through a neon straw and it is savagely strong.

‘Where’s your mother?’ Salvi asks, draining a third of his drink in one.

‘What?’ That’s a very blunt question. Salvi’s green eyes are glinting. What is he doing?