‘Kerb down,’ I say, and Dad and I cross the street to the first island. ‘Kerb up,’ I say as we arrive there. ‘Kerb down,’ I say again, when we step off it. We reach the pavement outside The Palladian. We’re at the brown doors. I’m putting my key in the lock.

‘Are you all right, Prue?’

‘Perfectly, Dad,’ I reply.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and the expression on his face is so full of contrition and anguish and hope and love, I almost hug him like I never want to let him go and tell him it’s OK, that it doesn’t matter, but instead, after I open the brown door and we go up the iron stairs and into the flat, I walk to the cupboard in the sitting room and rifle under the photo album and the sketchbook and Dad’s old A–Z and pull out my old square sewing box, the one with the creaky lid and the red and orange raffia flowers on the top.

‘What are you up to?’ asks Dad hesitantly.

I feel for a stack of pale blue, thin envelopes, edged in red and blue chevrons and secured with a faded elastic band, from under the material needle book and the cotton reels and the Japanese lady pincushion, and I place it carefully in my bag, between my purse and my powder compact.

‘I’m going to see her.’

CHAPTER 43

Chalk Farm tube station is packed. Loads of people are crammed into the ticket hall, sweaty and complaining because it has just been announced there are no southbound trains, due to a signalling problem at Morden.

‘Don’t even bother, love,’ says a man in a Bart Simpson vest top, and I step straight out again, back on to the pavement and the unrelenting late-afternoon sunshine. There are no black cabs in sight. Shall I get a bus? I can’t bear to wait for one. There’s a massive queue at the bus stop and everyone at it looks hot and murderous. I’ll have to walk. It’s about five miles. I can walk it. I’m fired up enough. Or I could try and get an Uber? I’ll walk and try to get an Uber. I get my phone out of my bag, sliding it past the stack of Angela’s blue airmail envelopes, and click on to the app.

‘Bertie!’

Kemp is coming up the pavement towards me. He’s wearing a blue checked shirt over a white T-shirt. Ubiquitous jeans and boots. He looks all perky and handsome, precisely what I don’t need right now. I keep my head down, pretend I haven’t seen him.

‘Bertie!’ He’s standing right in front of me.

‘Please would you stop bloody calling me that! Why are you so early?’ I tap my destination into the app. My nearest available driver is Derek, Ford Mondeo, eight minutes away.