‘I see. What time are you going?’

‘Not until two.’

‘Two o’clock?’

‘Yes, two o’clock …’

‘That’s late.’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. OK.’ He shuffles on to another foot. ‘Look, do you fancy a quick drink before then, with me?’

‘A drink? What for?’

‘To catch up properly.’

Haven’t we caught up enough? I think. You’ve been round the flat, I’ve had tea and cake with you, you’ve brought me back a sock, you’ve said ridiculous things like you miss me …

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

‘Oh, go on.’

Kemp has an almost pleading look on his face. Childlike. Plaintive, with that ever-present touch of mischief. Do I want him in my life again? Do I want him as a friend? He was a very good one, when I wasn’t secretly lusting after him, in the moonlight. And I have a man in my life now – in the romantic sense – so I don’t need to be yearning for Kemp to fulfil that role. I’m over all that now, aren’t I? I have to be. I need to be. Perhaps I need a friend, too. Perhaps it would be nice.

And I’m nervous.

And I have time to kill.

And a drink would be good.

‘All right,’ I say. ‘Let me just get my bag.’

‘Too early for a JD and Coke?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ We are not those people any more, are we? Those eternal teenagers. Those pub and houseboat drinkers. I know he is joking.

‘Prosecco?’

‘OK, yes, please.’

‘A glass of prosecco and a pint of Stella, please,’ Kemp says to the pretty waitress standing at our table. We’re on a pavement table in St Martin’s Court, in the shade. Kemp has his legs stretched out under the table; I have mine tucked back, under my chair. On the way here we talked about movies and books and the dreadful state of current music. We talked about politics, art, television and photography. We talked about how we like the tube in the winter because it’s always warm down there, but how it’s an absolute sweatbox in the summer. I hoped I wasn’t sweating. I hoped my make-up stayed fast. I thought that maybe, yes, Kemp and I really could be friends again.

Kemp makes a joke with the waitress about sitting in the drinks fridge, or something, to escape the heat. She laughs, genuinely amused. I remember him in the King’s Arms, laughing with the old barman, Frank. One foot, in scruffy work boots, on the scaffolding of a stool. Keeping everyone smiling. Making everyone laugh. Dousing people in that special Kemp sunlight. Once she has gone, he steeples his fingers, rests his chin on them and smiles at me.

‘So …’ he says.

‘So,’ I reply.

‘Who’s the boyfriend?’