Rebecca alighted at Kings Cross and, sandwiched among the sweaty hoards, I was able to keep a safe distance behind. When she reached the information board, her eyes glanced my way a couple of times. She scanned the arrival times and then headed towards the platforms. I bought a newspaper from a kiosk and held it high. I must have looked ridiculous but it did the trick and hid my face.

Her mother was not at all like her. Hazel was frail, stooped, with an old person’s forgettable characteristics. She clung to Rebecca’s arm as her daughter dragged the suitcase along the walkway. From a distance I thought her mother was crying. However, Rebecca was purposeful. She wisely ignored the aged attention-seeker and walked steadily further away from my vantage point.

I scurried along the wall, snaking between the crowds, hopping sideways every so often to avoid collision. Her mother kept stopping, theatrically catching her breath in what appeared to be a ruse for attention. I must say Rebecca’s patience was extremely impressive.

My chance came when they paused for a second and Rebecca pointed at the pub up ahead, The Horse and Pitcher. It was located at the far end of the station concourse, next to the underground entrance, and at the top of a long flight of stairs. It was touch and go what their next step would be but I was pretty confident Rebecca would opt for a drink and respite from her mother’s demands.

While my girlfriend struggled with the suitcase and her mother hobbled along behind, I hurried past and mounted the stairs, two at a time. It was exhilarating to pass so close by, unnoticed. Before they’d reached the top step, I’d already disrobed from my disguise and was sitting, pint in hand, near the pub entrance. Although I was breathing more heavily than usual, I was composed, my magician’s carrier bag tucked neatly under the table.

‘Hi. What a small world!’

After a moment’s hesitation, Rebecca smiled. Although surprised, I could tell she was delighted to see me.

My enthusiastic considerations aimed at her mother were fated to be my secret weapon. I fired compliments thick and fast.

‘This must be your sister,’ I beamed.

Hazel would help me lead Rebecca to the altar, of that I was sure. Although it was nauseatingly difficult to ignore Hazel’s ugly self-interest, with such a prize at stake it was worth the effort. I played a starring role.

The invitation to supper, a couple of days later, came as no real surprise. Everything went smoothly and Hazel worked hard to ensure that I would become an integral part of their family. Rebecca seemed to trust her mother’s judgement, showing an offspring’s uncanny and inherent belief in the omnipotence of one’s parents. I suppose in her defence, I still think of my own mother as the Madonna.