‘It’s about fifty minutes,’ I say. I have worked out the route, with Dad. We’re going to walk there and get the tube back. It’s another beautiful day and I have been looking forward to it. Since we hugged, at the Shard, I’ve felt closer to him. I’ve felt that we can be there for each other. I hope for better days, and that this sunny Tuesday will be one of them.

‘I know,’ he says, and I have to look away. ‘A nice long walk!’ He’s as excited as a three-month-old puppy, and just as bouncy. He’s hopping from one foot to the other, in his Converse. ‘Well, if that’s OK with you, Prue? Vince?’

‘Fine with me,’ says Dad. ‘And I’m sure Prue will be glad of the extra company,’ he adds. ‘Not just stuck with the blind old goat.’

‘Dad!’

‘Well …’ says Dad, doing an exaggerated shrug, but it is not the ‘blind old goat’ I am objecting to. I don’t want Kemp to come. I don’t want to have to look at him for nearly an hour. Talk to him. Be reminded of all I felt for him. And that’s just on the way … How am I going to feel when I get there?

‘Great!’ repeats Kemp.

I lock the door and we set off up the road, the three of us: Dad holding my arm as usual, Kemp the other side of me.

‘It’s a beautiful morning,’ Kemp says.

‘Yes.’

I begin describing things en route to Dad but, because of what he said to me at the Shard, because of his confession, there in the midday sun, I’m careful to talk about shapes and the detailed form of things and I don’t take for granted when I say ‘a sparrow’ or ‘a post box’ that he automatically remembers what I’m talking about. I paint a picture as best I can of people’s houses and gardens and birds sitting on overhead cables. I describe the shredded cotton wool of clouds, in the distance. The shop fronts. People out of earshot who look mildly eccentric or interesting. I’m worried about Dad but he seems OK. He nods and smiles. I’m also self-conscious because Kemp is here. I become slightly monotone. I sound like I’m reading from a political party’s manifesto leaflet.

‘It’s fantastic,’ says Kemp. ‘You two, coming out on these trips. Enjoying this wonderful summer in London together. You had an occasional sense of adventure, didn’t you, Prue?’

‘Did I? Oh, mind, Dad – wheelie bag oncoming!’ The three of us migrate to the right of the pavement to let an old man with a battered tartan trolley bag past. He smiles his thanks at me, and I smile back.