The courtyard of The Monastery must be one of the most beautiful places in London to dine in, I think, as I stand a little unsteadily at its entrance, and definitely one of the most exclusive, as it’s absolutely tiny. Accessed by a damp, dark passageway I’m glad I researched first on Google Maps – a wafer slotted between an old-fashioned cobbler’s and a South African deli – the courtyard has cloisters on all four sides (each with three arches bowed with plump and weeping wisteria); a yellow flagstone floor both cracked and polished by centuries of shuffling monks’ feet; a scattering of round stone planters stuffed with miniature palms; and, apparently, an incredible survival instinct, as it’s all that remains of the original, much larger Cassinese de Londres Monastery the Luftwaffe bombed to smithereens in the Second World War.

Half the quadrangle is currently in bright sunshine, the other half in shade. The courtyard is beautifully open to the elements; the squared-off sky an azure blue above us – and by ‘us’ I mean a suited-and-booted maître d’ who is standing next to me and tutting into a leather clipboard because I am early.

‘Follow me, madam.’

With a tap on the clipboard and a condescending sigh, the maître d’ reluctantly walks me through the courtyard to the table Salvi has booked – one of only ten in the restaurant, which Google says in the winter are moved to The Orangery in the minuscule modern annexe I can spy through one of the arches.

The heels of my gold sandals skitter precariously on the flagstones. The skirt of my dress flips nicely against my legs. I’m glad I’m here early: I want to sit and catch my breath and try to sober up. Drunk at lunchtime before you’ve even had the lunch is not a good look.

The table is in the sunny half of the courtyard and when the maître d’ goes to pull out the chair on the side facing the sun I say, ‘Actually, can I …?’ and scoot round to the chair that allows me to have my back to the sun and a view of one of the cloisters.

‘Thank you,’ I say, as he tuts under his breath and lifts the chair back for me, and I try not to think of Kemp pushing back his, before, when he stood up, and how I fled, yet again. Self-preservation, my old friend …

The cloister and its wisteria are lovely. A waitress comes over and I order a sparkling water with loads of ice and lemon. I guzzle it down like a buffalo at a watering hole, staring at the wisteria. I think about ordering another, then I decide I don’t want to be sober, after all. I order a large glass of white wine. At quarter past two, a hand plomps on my right shoulder and Salvi is at my ear.