‘Oh, God …’ I mutter, embarrassed. ‘Why on earth did you do that?’

‘I might show them to someone else.’

‘Please don’t.’

‘I might do,’ repeats Kemp. He’s looking at me intently again. ‘Now let’s talk about another thing. Something about us. About the past. About India.’ He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his unruly hair. ‘I was going to ask you to come with me that time. When I went all those years ago. To Jaipur and Udaipur.’

‘Oh, come on!’

He doesn’t take his eyes off me. ‘I was. I was going to ask you to come with me.’

I set my prosecco down on the table. I’ve somehow drunk half of it and feel a bit pissed already, as I haven’t eaten anything today yet. Not entirely grown up. I drum my fingers against the side of the glass. ‘I think I’d like another drink. Shall we get another round?’

‘Not yet.’

‘OK.’

‘I had something for you, in the drawer of my bedside table.’

‘My sock?’ I enquire.

‘No, not your bloody sock!’ He sighs. ‘It was a hat.’

‘A hat?’

‘Remember my fisherman’s hat? The one I always took travelling with me?’

‘Yes, of course I do, because it was tragic.’

‘I bought you one as well.’

‘Oh!’ I swiftly glug more of my prosecco. ‘I look really bad in hats,’ I say.

He ignores me. ‘I was going to give it to you, the morning after we went up to Kenwood House. Our trespassing adventure.’ He smiles. ‘I thought about asking you to come with me while we were sitting outside, actually, but I was still worried, at that point, about ruining the friendship, about spoiling what we had, that if you said “no” it would change everything and be awful – but in the middle of the night I woke up and I saw you, creeping across the floor of the houseboat, and I knew I had to. I knew I had to ask you.’

‘This all sounds very dramatic,’ I say flippantly, but my heart is yammering. ‘You know I wouldn’t have been able to go anyway, because of the conference centre. Well, who knew they were going to get rid of me? And why would me coming with you ruin our friendship? Us wandering round ancient ruins, or capering through the streets in a rickshaw, or sharing a curry at a makeshift plastic table in some back-of-beyond backstreet?’ I am rambling, but the images are close to hand; they are something I had often fantasized about, after all. ‘Friends on tour …’

‘Yeah, well, you see, the “friends” thing wasn’t really working for me any more.’ Kemp picks up his pint and takes a sip. Sets it down again. ‘I’d started to see you as more than a friend.’

‘Right.’

What is he saying to me? What is he actually saying? I drain the dregs of my prosecco.