‘Is it all right if I go?’ he asks me.

Not his father – me. I am the parent with the power of veto. Like Russia at the United Nations Security Council.

‘But you only just got here!’ Christian protests, trying hard to keep the shrill note of parental outrage out of his voice and not succeeding at all.

‘Are you all right getting back to the hotel by yourself?’ I ask.

My boy doesn’t quite roll his eyes. Instead he smiles, as if we both know the answer to that one. We watch him go. We watch him until he is out of sight. Then it is just the two of us. Not what we planned or expected.

‘I thought we were all having dinner,’ Christian complains, more hurt than I want him to be. ‘It’s the only chance on the trip. For the three of us to be together.’

We stare at each other, lost for words. When Marlo was younger – when he was still Marlon – there would be handovers. But that’s all done now. There were my nights and your nights for Christian and me but now they are all his nights – Marlo’s nights. He travels the city alone, he makes his own way in the world and there is no reason for Christian and me to ever see each other any more. It’s only because we are all in Tokyo at the same time that we are having this failed attempt at a family reunion.

Christian sighs. ‘How’s he doing?’ he asks me. ‘I worry about him.’

‘He’s self-conscious about his skin. He doesn’t know what to say to girls. He doesn’t like wearing glasses.’

Christian self-consciously adjusts his glasses.

‘But he’s doing good,’ I say. ‘His skin will clear, although he doesn’t believe it. And he will learn what to say to girls and girls will love him, because he’s lovely. He’s fine, Christian. Don’t worry about Marlo.’

He is kind, I want to say. He will be a good man. Like his father.

But I don’t say any of it. I cling to the small talk. Much safer.

‘How’s the band?’

‘They’re having an early night. They were talking about going down to Roppongi, but we’re off to Osaka tomorrow.’

‘Big in Japan, are they?’ I say, smiling.

‘Small to medium in Japan.’

The waitress brings a round of Shiraz. We order truffle pasta. And Christian takes a breath and starts talking. He has been sitting in this bar waiting for his ex-wife and his growing son and unlike me, he is skipping the small talk.

‘One of the guys in the band I’m out here with wrote a book. It did quite well. Among – my kind. In this book the guitarist – who was also the band’s only songwriter – told the story of how they broke up. And it was so familiar – so much like the way a million bands have broken up – that it felt like a fairy tale, Tara. When they started, when they were young, when they thought they were going to be as big as Blur and Oasis, the guitarist-stroke-songwriter was taking pills while the rest of the band were out drinking. So he was staying up all night writing songs while they were caning it, then sleeping it off the next day. And there was jealousy, anger and resentment. And it all fell apart very quickly and they didn’t get together again until they played at the singer’s funeral last year. Fifteen years later. And the thing is, when they played together at the singer’s funeral – they couldn’t remember why they had broken up. Coming apart just seemed like a form of madness.’ He sips his Shiraz. ‘And it reminded me of us.’