‘And you are?’ I ask.
‘Charlotte,’ she replies. ‘Charlotte Swift. But I used to be Barnett. Charlotte Barnett. Charlie Barnett.’
Did my mouth gape open? Yes it did. ‘Christ,’ I said. ‘Your father…’
‘My father is in hospital. I found out yesterday. It was on TV.’
‘That’s how you found out?’
‘Yes.’
‘No one told you?’
‘No one knows who I am. I hadn’t seen him for years, until he found me recently.’
‘He used to talk about you.’
‘That was dad. All talk, little action.’
‘How about your mother?’
‘My mother died three years ago. I live with my Nan in Brixton. She runs an antique shop in the market. Well, a junk shop.’
‘Brixton’s up and coming.’
‘Not if you live in a housing association flat.’
I nodded at that. ‘So what do you do?’
‘I’m at St Martin’s. I study design.’
‘That’s good.
