It is a sticky, sweltering July afternoon, and I have accidentally found myself at a wake with Jorja Smith. I’m told that the pub where we have met, in the leafiest part of leafy south-west London, is usually a safe bet for an inconspicuous table. But today, sweaty black suits carrying pints drift between tables, and long queues snake round the bar.
Dressed in a simple tank top, bare-faced with her hair scraped back, Smith is waiting for me when I arrive. “I’ve been waiting for my drink for ages,” she says. “But I feel bad saying anything because, you know …”
