‘I’m just early.’ He shrugs. ‘Well, actually, I wanted to talk to you. You look awful, by the way. Where are you going?’

I look up. ‘Thanks. None of your business. I’ve got an appointment.’

‘What sort of appointment?’ I recognize that blue checked shirt. He often wore it to the pub.

‘Mind your own business,’ I repeat.

He’s not moving. I’m going to have to swerve round him. I want him to bugger off. I slalom round him, but he grabs my arm – firmly but gently – and stops me in my tracks. His arm is tanned. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up. I don’t want his hand on me.

‘You look upset,’ he says. ‘Maybe I can help, if you need to talk.’

‘No. I told you, I have an appointment!’

I extricate his hand from my arm and start walking away from him, swiftly, my phone still in my hand. Derek is now seven minutes away. Kemp is on my left, walking at pace beside me, his hair flopping over his forehead. Bugger off, just bugger off, I mutter in my mind. Why can’t people just bugger off?

‘Can we talk about something?’

‘Not right now.’

‘About your paintings?’

‘Not that again!’ I’m striding but he’s matching my pace.

‘I’ve just been to see a friend of mine about them.’

‘What?’

Derek is five minutes away. He’s still on Malden Road.

‘They deserve to be seen. They should be hanging in a gallery. I’ve just come from my mate Col’s gallery in Old Street and I showed him the photos I took. Of your work.’

I almost drop my phone. It slides into my elbow and Kemp catches it and hands it back to me, with a smile. I have to look at his face. We’re still walking fast. I check my phone once more. Six minutes again? For God’s sake, hurry up, Derek!

‘Don’t you want to know what he said?’

‘Not really.’

‘You don’t want to know?’

‘No, I don’t want to know!’

‘You’re still angry with me, aren’t you? About that stupid friends with benefits thing?’ He veers past a couple sharing a huge panini. ‘You really don’t see it, do you, Prue?’

‘No, I guess I don’t.’ I am walking so fast now I think I might take off into a run and run for my life.

‘Oh, come on, slow down. I’m sweating cobs here.’

‘I don’t want to slow down.’

‘Then shall I tell you what I want?’

‘It does seem to be all about you, so yes, if you must.’

‘I want you.’

A tourist pushes past us with a backpack. Hello Kitty, like the one I had on my face when I met Salvi. Mysterious, intoxicating Salvi. The right man for me. The right man for me.