‘Under the sink in the bathroom.’ She sits up and wriggles out of the duvet. ‘I’ll come down and give you a hand with everything.’

‘No way,’ I tell her, mock-sternly. ‘You’re not lifting a finger today.’

She laughs. ‘You can save that attitude for the third trimester, when I’m genuinely losing my mind.’ She walks around the bed and takes my hand. ‘Come on, let’s do it together. That’s the best way.’

Down in the kitchen, we switch the radio on to hear Michael Bublé warbling about what he wants for Christmas. We start chatting and laughing as we pull out spices and chopping boards and everything else we need to prepare our slap-up festive lunch.

I am nervous, to be honest. About everything: about being a good husband and a good dad and a good teacher. It’s daunting. It’s scary.

But I also can’t wait.

Daphne’s right: we’ll do it together. All of it. That’s the best way.

Epilogue

London, 16 June 2022

‘Time for one more?’

Harv raises his empty vodka glass at me hopefully.

I check my watch. ‘Nah, it’s after eight, I’d better be off,’ I tell him. ‘Sorry. Daff’s on her own and I told her I wouldn’t be too late.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Mate, she probably wants some time on her own! In, like, ten days, she’ll never be on her own again. Neither will you.’

‘I’m having a kid, Harv, I’m not grafting on a Siamese twin.’

‘Still. This is your last opportunity for some actual me time. Or you time. Or … You know what I mean.’

I laugh. ‘Yeah, I do. But still, I’d better get back.’

Harv sighs as we stand and take our glasses back to the bar. ‘I thought this was supposed to be a celebration,’ he moans. ‘You’re now officially qualified to shout at children in exchange for money. We should be out tearing it up.’

I called him on the spur of the moment, as soon as I walked out of the final interview. I was still dazed at being officially offered the job I’ve been training to do for the last ten months. When the new term starts in September, I will be an English teacher – and a Year 7 form tutor – at Belmont Comprehensive School, Willesden.

It feels absolutely amazing.

We’ve just spent a very pleasant couple of hours toasting the news in a little pub next to Harv’s new office in Bloomsbury, but now I’m eager to get back to Daff. She’s always telling me not to worry, but I can’t help it. Plus, I just like coming home to her.

When we step outside the pub, it’s still very much T-shirt weather, the sun blazing brightly in the clear blue sky.

‘You heading back to yours?’ I ask Harv.