I throw the final club to him. The sky is graphite now, above us. I feel a little chilly in my dress. Salvi juggles all three clubs while treading water on the unicycle; pedals spinning, that one wheel going backwards and forwards. I wonder again how this man knows Philippa. Then I wonder how long I should stand here for. Should I go back and sit down? I look over to Dad and he is talking to the woman with the shopping bags. I start walking slowly to the edge of the performance area so I can make my way back to him without too much of a fanfare.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

I halt, contrite, and glance at Salvi, who has stopped juggling and holds all three clubs in one hand. He is pinning me to the spot with narrowed eyes, eyebrows raised. He is shaking his head in mock condemnation. I bite my lip and know I probably look sheepish and stupid. A caught-out schoolgirl. Then his face breaks into a grin and he winks at me.

‘Naughty,’ he says and this cheeky reproach – so unexpected, so inappropriate, so saucy, even – plus the grin and the way he is looking at me, sparks something inside my body and my soul I’m not even sure I could quantify without sounding all unnecessary. I sense, I see, rather, here under grey London skies, amongst this crowd, an edge to this man – razor sharp and coal black, glittering almost – that pierces through my skin at this moment, like a slice of life that could be fully and exultingly lived.

‘Watch,’ he commands, and I am rendered as frozen as one of those metallic human statues, staring, spellbound, while Salvi finishes juggling the clubs, with a flourish, and turns to me again.

‘Now you can be excused,’ he says, and – there – the spell is broken. Did he really just call me ‘naughty’? ‘Thank you, Prue. Take a bow.’

I give a sarcastic little curtsy. I scoot back to Dad, who is clapping enthusiastically. ‘Excruciating,’ I say as I sit down, trying to hide under my fringe.

‘It was fun,’ he replies.

‘You don’t like fun.’

‘Maybe I do,’ he counters. ‘Maybe I remember how it goes.’

After a few seconds, I dare to peep out from under my fringe again. ‘Oh God, Dad,’ I say, ‘he’s getting the fire sticks out!’