“The review?” he echoed. “Oh, my review.”

A faint hardness came over his face; an all-but-invisible rigidity. He didn’t ask what I’d made of it; he never asked anyone what they made of his writing. The articles he wrote for the London Globe—and various other publications—were their own justification.

“Your train’s on time.” He paused under the departures board and glanced at his watch. “We’re early though, if you fancy a quick coffee?”

Dad had a long stride—or he did when he wanted to—and I could only keep up at a lopsided trot, which made me sound breathless and shouty, when I meant to be severe.

“You said Tom’s essay was ‘overthought and overwrought.’”

“Two Americanos, please.” Dad nodded at the man behind the counter, and then at me. “Well, I think that was fair enough. That’s the way Tom writes, I’m afraid; never uses one word when ten will do.”

“It’s not fair at all,” I said. “And even if it were, I don’t understand how you can be so cold about it. The whole exhibition, that was Tom’s big moment—he’s been worrying about it for ages. And you know how much he takes things to heart, even if he doesn’t let on.”

Poor Tom. It was like this when he got married at the age of twenty-one: all raised eyebrows and what does he think he’s doing? At least, on that occasion, Dad had only thought he was clueless; Stella was the one who’d actually said so, to his face. We never got to know Natalie, but she was marked down as glamorous and urbane—which Tom wasn’t and isn’t—so when she upped and left, it felt inevitable. Nobody ever seemed able to see matters through Tom’s eyes, by which I mean with romance at first, and sadness later on.

I had so much to say in his defence, but no eloquence to match. Not that it mattered: I doubted Dad could hear me over the hiss of the coffee machines and the station hubbub.

Mind you, I managed to hear him, and he didn’t even raise his voice.

“I am an art critic,” he said, pocketing his change and handing me my cardboard cup, “and I don’t do special favours. Not for Tom, not for anyone. And that, as you well know, is that.”

There wasn’t as much time as we’d thought, and I ended up taking my coffee onto the train. We said a brief goodbye, and I flinched when Dad kissed me, banging my nose against his cheek bone. I didn’t kiss him back, although when I was putting my suitcase on the overhead rack and sliding into my seat, I wished I had.

Dad waited on the platform until the train set off, waving uncertainly at the wrong carriage because he couldn’t see me through the tinted glass. I leaned forward belatedly and raised my hand, but the train was already moving and he was too far away to notice.