‘Oh, I can see that couple again,’ I say. ‘On the other side of the road. The ones with the crisps.’ They are still kissing. They have their arms round each other’s waist and are kissing in an ungainly, grinning manner as they walk. The sort of kisses people would die for.

‘That was very amusing,’ says Dad. ‘Are they in love, do you think?’

St Dunstan in the East has had a weird effect on Dad, too, I think. I glance at him and he has an odd look on his face. Contemplative. Lost somewhere, somehow.

‘Yes, Dad, definitely in love.’

We walk up St-Mary-at-Hill in silence. Traffic is light and there are not many people around in this business district. They are all at work, like real people.

‘You know … this is not what I wanted for you,’ Dad says suddenly and rather quietly, his hand on my arm as we walk in tandem.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask him.

‘This life without love.’

I want to stop walking but I carry on. I don’t want to draw attention to the catastrophe of his words. Please don’t go there, Dad! I cry to myself. Don’t talk to me about love. Not when I have just seen Kemp. Stop talking about people in love and all the things denied to me, and to us.

‘That’s very serious,’ I say flippantly. ‘Is this the Italian family thing?’ I ask. ‘The pressure to get married, have loads of bambinos, be in an apron by my age, well on the way to Nonna status, feeding everyone?’

‘No, I don’t mean all that,’ he says. ‘I mean love. Proper romantic love. Love for you in your life. It would be lovely for you to have someone. You need someone. You need a relationship. I wish you would open your eyes and see who’s out there.’

‘I don’t need a relationship!’ I protest. ‘I don’t need anybody! And there’s no one out there, Dad! I’ve looked.’ Yes, I’ve looked and I couldn’t have who I saw and who I loved. ‘And I’m quite bloody old now – it’s all a bit late.’

‘I’m sad for you.’

‘Well, don’t be! I’m all right, I promise you. Love is overrated, anyway.’

‘Is it?’ he asks.

‘Why have you never dated again?’ I ask. He’s been without romantic love for a long time, too, I think. All that time since Mum. And, although I have asked him this before, I wait for his answer to see if it’s different from his usual reply – that he ‘can’t be bothered’; that it would all be too much ‘fuss and nonsense’.

‘Well, I’m blind,’ he replies. He has answered with this before, too. Sometimes I have said, ‘So?’ Often he has shrugged and changed the subject.