When we turn into the hall where the escalators rise, there’s the plaintive nasal sound of a saxophone weaving through the space like ether. A busker in an incongruous woolly hat and a Sound of Music T-shirt is performing Dire Straits’ ‘Romeo and Juliet’. This is incredibly romantic for a Saturday afternoon, I muse – I’m not sure many will find love at the bottom of the escalators at London Bridge tube station, but who knows? I drop 50p into his hat as we pass.

As the escalator takes us up, I check my phone and it chimes to signal the arrival of a text.

Beautiful night, Prue. Lunch on Sunday?

I quickly reply.

Tomorrow or NEXT Sunday?

And then feel incredibly foolish and overeager. Capitals, for God’s sake! A text chimes in return.

2 pm, The Monastery on the Embankment. Not tomorrow. Next Sunday.

Oh, the shame … and that’s ages away …

Great!

Still, I’m pleased. As well as being ridiculously keen to see Salvi again, The Monastery is one of the restaurants of the moment; I read about it in the Mail online. It’s tiny and exclusive, with a waiting list as long as the Thames, and very very expensive. It’s way out of my league and so is this man, probably. What the bloody hell am I going to wear?

‘Who was that texting?’ asks Dad as we queue for the barriers. ‘Covent Garden Man?’

‘Barrister man,’ I correct.

‘Bandits in striped trousers,’ says Dad.

‘I thought that was solicitors?’

‘Yes, maybe it was. You would have made a good lawyer,’ he adds.

‘Barrister,’ I correct, again. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, you’re very good at arguing the toss!’

I laugh, although my father is wrong. I could never stand up in front of people every day, performing like that. I could never have had a stellar career – something truly amazing. That was what my father was supposed to have done. He was the one with all the talent.

‘He’s taking me out for lunch next Sunday. The Monastery. Here, Dad, we’re at the barrier. You go first.’

‘That place still going?’ Dad asks, once we are through. ‘I remember that as a massive hot spot back in the sixties. It’s a beautiful building – has been standing since 1521. Five central pillars and twelve arches. Designed around a central courtyard for the comings-and-goings of the monks.’

‘You would have made a really excellent architect, Dad,’ I say warmly.

‘Don’t you know it!’ He laughs, but then a cloud comes across his face and I’m sorry for putting it there and as we walk through the concourse, to the exit, I say something I’ve never said before, ‘I’m sorry things got cut short for you, Dad. Your career. Everything. I’m so sorry.’