‘I’m fine, Prue,’ says Dad. ‘Nice subject change, by the way …’ He smiles at me. ‘You just have to keep on keeping on, you know? Isn’t it all we can do? And I’ve got you, haven’t I?’ I think of our huge hug again, in front of the Shard. ‘To keep me brave.’

‘Brave?’

‘To keep coming out again. To keep saying “yes”. To take opportunities. To put myself out there even if it’s scary. I want to ask you something.’

He already has, hasn’t he? Asked me about Kemp. And I have fibbed. It’s my default position, hiding my true feelings from Dad, isn’t it? I’ve done it for so long. ‘Go on.’

‘You can take opportunities, can’t you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You can say “yes” to things; you can put yourself out there. You could look for opportunities, if you wanted to. Develop your passions.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘I found your paintings,’ says Dad.

‘What paintings?’

‘Come on, you know what I’m talking about! Ten or eleven pieces of A4 cartridge paper, curled at the corners or slightly crunchy – some of them – like they’d been made wet and then had dried – plus paintbrushes, paints, one of those trays with the thumb hole in it … I may not be able to see but I can feel.’

‘When did you find those?’ I rack my brains for when I may have left them out.

‘About a year ago. You were out, on one of your occasional visits to a charity shop or something. You must have forgotten to put them away.’

‘A year ago. You never mentioned it.’

‘You obviously didn’t want to tell me about them, so I didn’t ask. Well, I asked you at Little Venice, about taking up art again. You brushed me off, if you excuse the pun. But I’m asking you now.’

‘Well, yes, I’ve done some paintings.’ I’m so cross with myself for inadvertently leaving them around; how could I have been so stupid?

‘And are they good? Are you going to show them to anyone?’

I gently move Dad out of the way as a mother and son are trying to file past us.

‘I don’t know, and no.’

‘You’ll never know if they’re good or not if you don’t show them to someone.’

‘Well, then I guess I’ll never know.’

‘Are you scared?’

I laugh. ‘I’m not scared, Dad.’

‘Really? I think you are. I think you’re scared you’ll be told they’re good and I think you’re scared you’ll be told they’re not.’

‘I’m not scared,’ I repeat.

‘Well, then show them to someone.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘It might be time for some true bravery, Prue. It might be time for—’

‘Dad …’