‘Don’t do chips.’ Her plait falls from her mouth. ‘We’ve got sausage in a roll.’

‘That’ll be fine,’ says Simon.

When she’s gone, he leans across the table. His watch glints at me. ‘Good appetite. I’ve always liked that about you. Can’t ever imagine you being anorexic.’ He says this with a smirk and a gleam on his small teeth. As if it’s a filthy word. Like cocksucker.

‘Mind you,’ he continues, ‘I have been worried about you, Joanna. You haven’t seemed yourself lately.’

He lets a silence grow. He spends a long time looking over my shoulder, squinting into the air, as if he’s considering the swag-tied chintz curtains. He even drums his fingers on the table. He’s waiting for me to spill it.

All I can think of is money. How much I’ll need to get to London with Rob.

Finally he picks up his copy of Frankenstein and fans through the pages. ‘I love the smell of books,’ he says, sucking a breath in.

‘We’ve finished that.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘We finished it ages ago.’

He puts the book down and folds his fingers together in a tent shape. ‘What are you doing now, then?’

‘Poetry.’

He waits for more. I look out the window. It’s greyer than my school uniform out there. The tea room’s lit by a couple of pink corner lamps, which means I can’t see Simon’s wrinkly cheeks in detail. But he looks grey, too. Grey and wilting.

‘What poetry are you doing?’

‘John Donne.’

He takes off his glasses and places them on the tablecloth. Then he closes his eyes and starts. ‘Mark but this flea, and mark in this, how little that which thou deny’st me is…’

‘It’s good.’

‘Yes! Isn’t it?’

‘Having someone who worries about me, I mean. It’s good. Nice.’

He pinches his bottom lip between finger and thumb, fixes me with a stare.

I tug on a strand of hair and wrap it round a finger. ‘I just wanted to say, you know, thanks.’

‘Well. I do worry about you. Your mother says you can look after yourself. But I’m not so sure.’

The violins grind away, quietly. I gaze at the tablecloth, concentrating on a pink embroidered daisy, petals stained with grease. I let a moment pass, then look back at his grey crinkly cheek. ‘Tell me more about John Donne,’ I say.

‘You’ve changed your tune.’

‘I’m interested.’

‘Well. Donne is perfect for you, Joanna. Now I think of it, he’s absolutely perfect.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Oh yes. He’s a bit bawdy. Bold. Like yourself. Colloquial – that means he uses everyday language. Likes playing games. But doesn’t shy away from true feeling, real passion.’