‘Yes, he did,’ I say. I remember Dad’s photo, him and his mate, Jack Templeton, at the Roundhouse, where he saw Blondie before. In 1978. I think about how I have never been, despite all the events that have been held there, over the years, and all the times we have shut the window on the music that escaped from its conical slate roof. I wonder if Dad would like to go. Now we were on our walkabout streak. Now he was – unlike me – being brave.

‘How many would you like?’

Kemp looks bemused at how long I’m taking to answer. I’m still thinking. I’m thinking about everything. Then I think of Salvi. If Dad and I go, I could take him as well, maybe. Lord knows I need him in my life more than ever if I’m back in Kemp’s, somehow. My distraction. Thank goodness for our upcoming lunch date at The Monastery on Sunday. Thank goodness for this man, Salvi – this charismatic, slightly bewildering man – who seems to like me. If Kemp’s at the concert, too, I will have Salvi as an emotional balustrade. ‘Three?’

Kemp slightly raises one eyebrow. ‘Three? OK, done! Great. I’ll drop round with them at some point.’

‘OK, great, thank you.’

We sit in silence for a while, after this rather random and unclear exchange. Eventually Ted and Annie get up from their table. Ted is a little wobbly on his feet and Annie has to steady him before they set off. They take each other’s hands and hold them fast as they walk through the café garden and out of sight, with Kemp and I both watching them go.

‘Prue, I—’

‘Oh look, Dad’s back.’

Here he is with the nice chef woman and they are laughing at something and Dad has a great bundle of herbs in his left hand and she is carrying some sort of trug also full of leafy delights. She places Dad’s other hand on the back of his chair, and he navigates it to sit down.

‘Hope to see you again sometime,’ she says, touching him lightly on the arm.

‘Me too, Maria,’ says Dad genially.

‘Well, that was nice,’ he says to Kemp and me, after she has disappeared back into the café. ‘I’ve smelled about twenty-two different herbs and get to take some home for tonight’s dinner.’

‘And met your future wife,’ I add cheekily. ‘Maria.’

‘Ssh!’ Dad puts his finger to his lips. ‘She might hear you! And I haven’t met my future wife!’ Dad protests, but he is grinning, really grinning.

‘You never know,’ I laugh.