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I picked up the letter and tucked it into my jacket pocket.

A flutter of old memories came back to me then. They hovered in the back of my mind, loitering around this meeting with Sophie, just like they always did, each one distilled down to a single movie frame from heavy use – The Open Leather Satchel Memory, The Water Dripping Down Gloss Paint Memory, The Shards Of Glass On The Doormat Memory – each one fluttering and batting at the edges of my thoughts, drawn to the light of our conversation.

I lifted my glass and took a long, deep drink, mentally shooing them away.

‘Would more have made a difference?’ I said, putting the glass down. ‘To what you think of him, I mean?’

‘More books? No,’ Sophie said. ‘But it would’ve paid off the mortgage. So, you know, it’s something.’

‘My father thought a lot of him.’

Sophie held my gaze.

‘Your father, who we’re not going to talk about, thought a lot of his talent.’

She took her purse from the table, unzipped it and slipped the newspaper clipping back inside. She was about to put it back in her bag when she noticed my nearly empty glass.