I know lots of people, and she is different in many ways. There’s never a “maybe” with her. Yes means yes, no means no, and both are categorical and nonnegotiable. Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of: if Edwina Tomlin ever says no to me, there’ll be no way back into her life.

But there is one thing I have kept a secret since we met: Sam. I have kept my own son a secret from her.

Ibrahim knows her. We took him to the airport with Greg and Monica. He’s studying law in Washington, specializing in human rights.

IT IS SHORTLY after seven when the taxi drops me off in Columbia Road. Is she still asleep? Eddie usually reads manuscripts until three or four in the morning.

I walk into the yard and carefully pull out the half brick. My fingers explore the cavity. Where’s the key? Panic grips me, but then I find it. I unlock the door, tiptoe through the office and up the spiral staircase, and sit down on the bedroom floor, leaning back against the wall that separates it from the rest of the loft space. Eddie looks as fresh as a young girl in her sleep. Her lips are pursed, as if she’s just finished chatting to someone.

I sit there watching her as she sleeps and I feel at peace. Her flat is the only place where I can settle down and resist the urge to flee.

Forgive me, I think. How am I now supposed to explain to you how it came to this? How Sam came about, and why I’m not allowed to see him? How can I tell this to your face without making you disappointed in me? I know that the longer I conceal this from her, the more appalled she’ll be.

She wakes up and life floods into her body, like summer and all the laughter and desire and fragrances it brings flowing into a house that has been empty throughout the winter. Her eyes are wide awake and say, Come to me!

I undress before those eyes and this body, as inviting as a beach in summer. I don’t know how Eddie does it, but her lingering eyes make me feel handsome. I exist because those eyes see me.

“Take your time,” she whispers. “I don’t want to miss a single detail.”

I unbutton my shirt, unbuckle my belt, and slip out of my trousers. I never wear socks. Just like my father, whom I remember differently when I’m with Eddie.

In fact, I can only ever think of him when I’m with Eddie, and it is only now that I’m in my forties that I notice all the things I’ve inherited from him. The shape of my fingers: just like his. My love of going barefoot—being able to feel the world with my feet instead of simply trampling all over it.