We trail through, room after room. I describe what I can see to Dad. The rich Aubusson rugs; the marble fireplaces and the cast-iron radiators; the window seats framed by heavy and pelmeted velvet curtains. The extensive artwork. I describe everything as carefully and concisely as I can. We enter the library, or great room. Here there is a stunningly pretty panelled and decorated domed ceiling, in pale pink and blue.

‘Look up,’ says Dad, ‘at the cornicing. They’ve painted over some of the gilding, apparently, after extensive research of hundreds of forensic paint samples. Can you see it?’

I don’t know what I’m looking at.

‘A protective barrier between the old gilding and new paint, but the next generation of renovators will still be able to get to the gilded layer and—’

‘Oh, it’s Carina!’ Kemp exclaims. ‘Excuse me a moment.’

Looking away from the cornicing, I see him bounding over to a woman in a black shift dress and navy ballet pumps, who is staring up at one of the old masters. Her hair is a blond contained chignon; her arms are gilded with wide bronze cuffs; she has an enormous designer bag over one shoulder. She is one of those women – glossy, polished. The sort of woman that makes me feel like the last pumpkin in the bargain bucket at Halloween.

She looks delighted to see Kemp. They share a hug and two air kisses. I turn back to Dad and a portrait of a man sitting on a gold chair. I describe the painting to Dad: the colours – as best I can, hoping he can imagine them – the use of light and shade, the direction of the brushstrokes.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks me.

‘Yes, absolutely fine. Why?’

‘With Kemp being here, I mean. You seem a bit off.’

‘I’m OK,’ I say flippantly. ‘I’m fine. Of course I’m fine.’ I stare resolutely at the painting. I am not going to look over at Kemp and his polished Carina. He’s never hugged me like that.

‘You like him, don’t you?’

‘Everyone likes Kemp. What’s not to like?’

‘No, I mean like him.’

I move Dad on to another painting of another long-dead gentleman. Lots to describe here. A rather interesting hat.

‘I liked him,’ I say. ‘We were friends. That’s it.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I say so. Now, let me tell you about this painting—’

‘Hmm.’

‘What do you mean “hmm”? Are you OK, Dad?’ I ask. I’m deflecting like crazy, but I also want to know. ‘After what we talked about at the Shard? Are you OK today? Being out? Being here?’