Salvi reels off an order of lobster bisque and spicy courgette fritter shards and steak with chunky chips and salsa verde and side orders of julienne carrots and sautéed broccoli and asparagus tips. As the waitress smiles and bobs and walks away he looks at me curiously and says, ‘How many glasses of wine did you have before I got here?’

Oh. That’s a funny question. I feel exposed or, worse, like I am on the stand, being cross-examined. I don’t want him to think I sat here waiting for him knocking back the sauce, like Dorothy Parker, so I blurt out, inadvisably, ‘Well, one here, and I did go for a quick drink with a friend, before.’

‘Oh? Male or female?’

‘Female,’ I say quickly. I don’t want to think about Kemp, and his Indian booty call or him seeing my paintings or anything about him.

‘Do you have a lot of friends?’

‘No. Do you?’ I remember Facebook and the three thousand, including Philippa Helens. Why did she move down two carriages? I wonder. When did she let go of her balloon with the little bow in the string? When did she decide enough was enough and she had to let it all go?

‘Yes,’ says Salvi.

Salvi didn’t know Philippa, I remember. She was just an insignificant face he’d never even noticed, one of thousands of thumbnails on a Friends list that was utterly meaningless. Is that how she felt? Just a face in the crowd there was no purpose being in? Just another snapshot of a person among many others in the world, going nowhere?

I hope the wine is not making me morose. Salvi turns to look across the courtyard and I swear I see him winking at a woman three tables down.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks, turning back.

‘I’m a bit hot.’

‘It’s nice to sit with your face in the sun, isn’t it?’

‘Not really.’ I drink more of my wine, in an attempt to flip my mood. I need to be brighter, more breezy, much more interesting and more interested in him. ‘So, how are you?’ I ask. ‘How’s your case going? And work in general?’

‘Well, I’ve hired a new clerk, Jennifer Dixon,’ he says, as though I should remotely know who that is. ‘I’ve been going over some things with her this week. She’s pretty sharp.’

‘What kind of things?’ I suddenly feel as dull as the dullest dullard; that if Jennifer Dixon is sharp, I am a sat-upon loaf of bread.

‘Notes for a new case tomorrow. Domestic violence. High provocation. We’re expecting it to go on for weeks.’