He’s gripping his teacup and he hasn’t blinked for ages. ‘My favourite’s always been – ’ he pauses, chuckles, ‘ – “To his mistress going to bed”.’ He winks, takes a breath, opens his eyes wide. Then starts again. ‘License my roving hands, and let them go, before, behind, between, above, below.’

Simon slaps the table before stretching his arms out on either side like he’s won the 100 metres. Olympic Gold. ‘Fantastic. And all in the seventeenth century.’

My sausage arrives. A ledge of margarine spills over the roll’s crust. I take a bite. Grease leaks out of the bread and onto the rose-patterned plate.

When I’ve swallowed, I say, ‘There is something I’d like to talk to you about.’

He nods and tries to stop himself smiling.

‘I need money.’

He stops smiling.

I blink a lot and gaze down at the grease-stained daisy. ‘I really need money, and I don’t know where to get it.’

‘What for?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘What for, Joanna?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

He leans forward. ‘If you won’t tell me, I can’t help you.’ He waits. I can see my reflection in his specs. My cheeks with their little blusher-spots of flush. My lips wet and a bit quivery. I wrap another strand of hair around my finger and examine the splitting ends. I think about taking another bite of sausage; decide against it. Eventually, I say, ‘I’m in – trouble.’

Simon puts his glasses back on and flicks his stiffened fringe. The violins chug to a stop.

‘What kind of trouble?’

I make my voice very, very, very small. ‘The usual kind.’ I sweep my lashes up and look out from under.

‘Joanna – ’

‘The kind teenage girls get into.’

He huffs out a breath.

‘Will you help me?’ Under the table, I put a hand on his knee and rub at his rough trouser leg. I even stroke a bit down his shin. ‘Please. I need your help.’

He’s silent.

‘I didn’t mean it to happen.’

He’s staring into his cup of smoky bacon flavour tea.

‘I don’t want to waste my life.’

‘Whose is it?’

I bite my bottom lip and look towards the window. It’s dark outside now. The tearoom’s emptied. The music’s stopped. There’s just the big tick of a grandfather clock in the corner, as regular as an ECG monitor on one of those hospital programmes.

‘Joanna. Whose is it?’

My sausage will be cold by now. The roll soggy. The margarine too soaked in.

‘Whose is it, Joanna?’

‘You don’t know him.’

‘Oh lord.’

After a minute he says, ‘It’s not that backward boy, is it?’

I hang my head and wilt my shoulders, like a sunflower that’s on its last gasp.

‘He didn’t – force you, did he?’

Don’t say anything.