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‘Does that include service?’ Reggie eyed the waiter through slanted eyes.

‘No, sir,’ said the waiter. ‘It doesn’t.’

Reggie sighed and pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket which he dropped onto the tray disdainfully. He didn’t bother counting them. He didn’t care. A few quid was enough.

He glanced at his watch. Three-thirty. He patted his belly and downed the last of his coffee. Disgusting coffee. You couldn’t get a decent cup in London. He looked out of the window at the street outside. It was raining. Of course it was raining. This was London. He’d had enough of London, only been here two weeks and he was fed up with the place already. Admittedly March wasn’t the best time of year to be here, but, still, he remembered now exactly why he’d left in the first place. Bad coffee, overpriced food, never-ending rain, and all these miserable, whey-faced people wandering about, grumpy and dissatisfied, as if all the troubles of the world were on their shoulders.

Talking of which, it occurred to him that he’d arranged to see his son this afternoon. Well, he hadn’t arranged it; Peter had arranged it. Reggie hated talking to people on the phone. It was bad enough talking to people you knew well; the thought of phoning up his son was unbearable.

He pulled a piece of paper out of his wallet and looked at it.

31 Silversmith Road, London N2. Where the hell was London N2? And how was he going to get there? He sighed and put the paper back in his wallet. He thought of his big peculiar son, his strange haunted eyes, his mass of unkempt hair. Could that much have changed? Was it really worth trekking all the way out to some godforsaken part of North London to find out that they still had nothing in common, that he still didn’t like him very much?

But then, he’d like to see this house, the house he’d bought him all those years ago. And he’d like to see Karen and any children they may have had together. His grandchildren. He had no other plans for this afternoon. Sod it, he thought, sod it. He’d go.

He allowed a man by the front desk to fold him into his overcoat, then he unfurled his small umbrella and left the restaurant. He waited awhile on the corner of Dover Street and Bond Street, for a cab to appear. When one failed to materialize he began to walk, feeling the legs of his trousers soaking up the rain with every step. People barged towards him, forcing him into puddles and almost into the kerb. This was what it was to get old. No respect. No acknowledgement of the person you were or the person you had been. A strident gust of wind forced the spokes of his umbrella into rigor-mortised angles and he battled to bring it back under control. He zigzagged through the streets of Mayfair, his eyes scanning the street constantly for that welcoming amber glow. Finally he saw a cab, across the road, just dropping off a fare. He skipped across the road, feeling his rich meal slopping about in the pit of his belly.

‘London N2,’ he said, breathlessly.

‘Sorry, mate,’ said the driver. ‘I’m on a call. Pre-booked.’

‘Shit,’ hissed Reggie, under his breath. ‘Well, where are you going, then?’

‘South Ken.’

Reggie thought briefly of his son, waiting for him on the other side of London. And then he thought of his warm flat in Chelsea, where he would be alone, required to talk to no one, to do nothing.

‘Fuck it,’ he said, ‘fuck it. Take me there. Take me to South Ken.’

He closed his umbrella, slipped into the back of the cab, and looked forward to getting home.