‘Sorry about that,’ says Kemp. He is back. Carina has gone. I see the final corner of her expansive bag disappearing round a door frame.

‘Friend of yours?’ I ask him.

‘Kind of.’

I look at Dad, worried he is going to continue our conversation. He doesn’t. He takes my arm and we carry on circling the room, with me continuing to describe the paintings to him in a half-hearted manner. I’m sorry Dad found mine, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m not going to show them to anyone. I’m not going to do anything about them.

Kemp trails after us. He studies the paintings in great detail. Well, he’s an artist, isn’t he? It’s his kind of deal.

‘There’s a self-portrait of Rembrandt in the dining room,’ he says to Dad and me, after a while. ‘And after that shall we go and get some lunch?’

CHAPTER 27

We go to the Brew House café and sit outside in its pretty courtyard garden. I have a slice of coffee-and-walnut cake; Kemp has an enormous brownie. Dad orders a fresh ravioli dish and salad, which he has to wait ten minutes for but they offer to bring it over. We make small talk, mostly about the glorious weather, and I pour tea for us, and then Dad’s lunch is delivered to him by a smiling woman in a pale blue apron.

‘Enjoy,’ she says, placing it in front of him.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘It smells wonderful, just like the ravioli san Marzano Mama used to make. Bellissimo!’

She smiles. ‘You’re Italian?’ she asks.

‘Si,’ replies Dad.

‘Me too.’

‘Ah,’ says Dad, and they both give a silly little laugh.

She moves off to the next table to chat to the couple there. Dad takes a bite of his ravioli.

‘Delicious,’ he says. ‘Compliments to the chef,’ he comments to me and Kemp.

‘The chef is me,’ the woman giggles from the next table. ‘Sorry,’ she adds, turning back to us. ‘I appear to be highly tuned to the slightest compliment.’

‘So you should be.’ Dad smiles. ‘It really is wonderful. It’s got a lovely lemony hint to it.’

‘That’s the lemon balm. We grow it here in the gardens.’

‘I love lemon balm,’ says Dad. ‘I sometimes sprinkle it through a caprese salad.’

‘Nice. And it’s wonderful with fish,’ she adds. ‘There’s also plenty of basil and wild garlic in that dish, all grown here.’

‘Wild garlic is the nectar of the gods,’ offers Dad. ‘I throw it in everything, from ribollita to pasta alla Norma …’

Kemp and I glance at each other.

‘You cook?’ asks the woman.

‘Every night,’ says Dad, turning his face in my direction. I grin sheepishly.