The interior is so minimalist it seems unfinished with exposed pale-yellow bricks and immense glass walls that bring the outside in. The shop is a hub of activity with a never-ending stream of Londoners and tourists buying, upgrading or toying with the latest in pricey slimline Apple devices.

The sales staff, dressed in matching maroon polo shirts, are a curious mixture of nerdy hipster boys and pretty young women. In a social context, it might seem that these young men, hanging around with these young women, are punching above their weight. Archer is upstairs at what is called the Genius Bar sitting on a bar stool at a tall table with a young bearded hipster who calls himself ‘the phone whisperer’. He handles her phone like it is a dying kitten and does some weird tech juju with his delicate fingers, but fails to breathe life back into it.

‘Is it broken?’ she asks.

He gives her a half smile and under raised eyebrows shoots her a ‘how you doin’?’ look that lingers too long for comfort. He must be eleven years her junior.

He affects a grave expression. ‘Depends what you mean by broken.’

‘Is that a yes or a no?’

His cheeks flush. ‘Yes . . . erm, it’s knackered and it looks like your sim is missing. Perhaps it fell out when you dropped it?’

Archer is no frame of mind to tell him what actually happened. ‘How much for a replacement?’

‘I can do you a deal on a refurbished phone that is as good as a brand-new model but you’ll need to talk to your network provider about a replacement sim.’

‘So the phone won’t work?’

‘Not until you contact your provider.’

Archer sighs. ‘OK.’

‘I can get you the next model up from this one. It’s a better phone.’

‘Thank you.’

He places her phone gently down on the table top and gives her that look again. ‘Cool. Back in a jiffy.’

The whisperer disappears leaving Archer with her broken phone. Her thoughts turn to Grandad and she feels a pang of worry that he or the hospital might have called her and got no response.

‘Hello again,’ comes a voice.

Archer looks through the throng of customers to see a man with a chiselled jaw, dark wavy hair and an expensive overcoat smiling her way.

Jamie Blackwell.

‘It’s so nice to see you again,’ he says, weaving his way through the horde.

‘How are you?’ she asks.

‘I’m well, thank you.’

‘And you?’

‘Getting my broken phone replaced.’

‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’

The phone whisperer arrives with a refurbished phone that looks brand new and gives Jamie a dismissive glance.

‘Perhaps we can have a coffee sometime?’ Jamie suggests.

‘That would be nice.’

‘Important question – how do you take your coffee?’

‘I’m more a tea with milk girl.’

‘Tea is sexy.’

Archer smiles. ‘I never knew.’

The whisperer mutters something under his breath.

‘See you soon, Grace.’

‘Bye.’