I should really believe this is some kind of joke. I should really believe that it hasn’t been lovely to meet me, that he won’t call me tonight. But I want him to. I want to imagine that he’ll call me, that we’ll go out, that he’ll banish the returned ghost of Kemp; that I might fall in love and sink like a stone. I may not have my little notes any more, my dreams, however stupid, locked up in that sewing box, but I still keep them inside me, under the sharp needles and the clacking cotton reels of my hardened heart. It would be lovely to think this isn’t a joke.

I put my phone back in my bag and Dad and I get off the train at Chalk Farm. The platform is empty. A crisp packet, whipped up from somewhere by the hot wind of the tunnel, flies up the walkway and grazes him in the face, on his right cheek, but he doesn’t scowl; instead, he laughs, my dad laughs. This has been a good morning for him. I really do believe he has enjoyed himself. The lifts are working now and we glide up to floor level, the blind bloke and the daughter who has a text on her phone from a sexy street performer called Salvi, who hopefully isn’t joking.

There’s a third surprising thing. When we come out of Chalk Farm tube station, Kemp is on our street.

‘Hello,’ he says cheerily. He is slouching against the oxblood tiles just outside the Stop n’ Shop, munching on what looks like a Crunchie ice cream.

‘Hello,’ I say suspiciously. ‘What are you doing here?’ I wasn’t expecting to see him again. I don’t want to see him again. What is he doing here, on our street?

‘You look nice,’ he says.

Hardly, I think. I’ve been flat on my back in a stampede. I’m hot and bothered. And when have I ever looked nice? ‘So do you,’ I say, to throw him. He does, though. He’s wearing the ubiquitous jeans and boots. A ‘Caracas’ T-shirt. Scruffy and handsome, as per. I can’t let it throw me.

‘I knocked on your door, but you weren’t in.’

‘No, we’re here,’ I say. ‘I mean, we’ve been out.’

He nods. ‘Although, thinking about it, it’s not like you haven’t got form for not opening doors …’ he says with a grin. I ignore him. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Covent Garden.’

‘Nice,’ he says. ‘All right, Vince? How’s it going?’