‘Yes. We might not ever get another one – a heatwave. The summer of ’seventy-six and this one, and that might be it. Don’t you think?’

‘Yes. No.’ I’m trying to gather my thoughts. I’m terrified.

‘What do you say? Shall we have a day out?’

When Dad used to sit in deckchairs with rolled-up trouser legs, he could see. When we last went out properly, and not just to the very local doctor’s surgery, Dad was guided by a calm and clever guide dog, not a grumpy, disillusioned daughter. And he was not grumpy himself, like he has been for so very long. Can Dad and I really do this? Can we have a day out? Will it be warm sun on our backs, or dozens of tripped-up kerbs, lots of swearing and staring faces, three falls and a trip to A & E …

‘Well,’ I say, looking at my father and glad he can’t see the fear and anxiety that must be written all over my face. ‘Where would you like to go?’

Dad smiles. ‘I’d like to walk up to Camden.’

CHAPTER 7

It’s thirty-two degrees. Dad and I are on the pavement outside The Palladian with the sun beating down on us like an angry torch. He’s wearing navy shorts, a white Fred Perry shirt, trainers and a hat to cover his bald patch. I’m wearing a sundress unearthed from the back of my wardrobe and a scowl.

We’re doing it. We’re walking up to Camden this morning. I’m not relishing the thought of it. It’s so bloody hot. I have my hair tied back in a ponytail, but my fringe is bothering me and my birthmark is already spoiling for a fight. It didn’t play ball this morning, despite my down-pat, tried-and-tested routine of dabbing on green colour corrector with my finger, carefully working in a concealer with a brush, blending the edges with a sponge, and applying translucent powder. Then adding another layer of concealer and powder. Then a third layer. Sometimes a fourth. This morning I pushed all boats out by eschewing the fourth layer and doing my special contouring – dabbing a lighter concealer into the recessed parts of my birthmark and a darker concealer on to the raised parts, to create the optical illusion of flat skin. It can be a bit hit and miss, and this morning was very much ‘miss’. I don’t feel adequately disguised. My mask feels uncertain. It’s going to slip, in this heat; everything’s going to slip like a Hermès scarf off a French-polished coffee table.

‘Lock the door, then,’ says Dad.