I stay close to Dad for another whole song. I refuse to look at Kemp. I refuse to look towards the bar. Well, I do a couple of times and there’s no sign of Salvi. God knows what he’s doing – changing a barrel? Oh, there – I can see him. His head is bent; I can see the cute little bald patch. He’s in conversation with that shiny redhead, at least that’s what it looks like. She has a curtain of red hair flopping down over one eye and she’s peering up from under it and laughing. Does he know her? Are they just having a bit of banter at the bar, the way strangers do? Has he just said something charming and funny to her?

He’s turning away from her, a smile still on his face. He’s pushing through the crowd, a full pint glass in his hand.

‘You didn’t get a drink for anyone else?’ I ask him, when he’s back at my side.

‘I wouldn’t have been able to carry four.’

‘I could have come with you.’

Salvi shrugs. He sips at his pint. He doesn’t put his arm back round me. He seems preoccupied. He gets his phone out of his pocket and stares at it. He looks at his watch, then in the direction of the bar. He’s twitchy.

‘Work?’ I ask.

‘Yeah.’ He awards me a businesslike smile.

‘You should switch off your phone sometimes. Try to relax.’

‘Not possible, darling.’ He gives me another smile and I wonder if it is indiscriminately universal: to other barristers, criminals, girlfriends … Yet this is the first time he’s called me ‘darling’. ‘Come here,’ he says, and he wraps his free arm round me and whispers in my ear. ‘I’ll try to relax, with you. You certainly help. You’re good for me.’

He turns my face towards him and kisses me, a lingering peck. Then he faces the stage, drinks his beer, and starts to dance, which makes me laugh as he really gets into it. For a glorious, glittering ten minutes he is all mine. Dancing, laughing, whispering things in my ear. Singing along to Blondie. Happiness once again sweeps my body.

‘Little boys’ room,’ he whispers and the glittering minutes are over, as he goes off again, and doesn’t come back, not for a really long time, although I’m sure I’ve seen him exit the Gents, a black shape that got engulfed by the dancers and the drinkers. Goodness knows where he is or who he is talking to. Not Shiny Hair, at least; she is back in front of me, bobbing among the tide with that floppy curtain of hair over one eye. Dad is in his own world – a happy one, still – and Kemp has finally buggered off to his friends, who are over by the main entrance.