She can’t even see her properly but the woman is right, Emily is gorgeous. All babies are. The woman thinks me and Kaden really are a couple with a baby and that’s a lovely feeling. A warm, huggy feeling. Perhaps it really is Our Anniversary, like it was Mary Brokenshire’s. Perhaps we Met Here.

When he returns with our drinks, I snap out of it – he’s here because he’s a nice man and he’s concerned that he scared me. And something is clearly wrong in my life if I’m terrified of my own door buzzer. That’s the truth. And the truth always stings.

He sets my milkshake down before me with a ‘There you go.’

It’s only when he sits down with his cup and saucer and biscotti that it occurs to me how childish my drink choice is. He’s changed his motorbike gear for a T-shirt and jeans and white trainers, and the back of his neck is still slightly sheeny with sweat but he doesn’t smell badly at all. I’m close enough to smell his aftershave properly now – not Paco Rabanne as I’d initially thought. It’s that one in the blue man-shaped bottle. Le Male by Jean Paul Gaultier. Oh it’s lovely. My cheeks heat up. Foy and I used to go mad in the fragrance department in Boots, spraying them all up our sleeves.

‘Think it’s going to be a nice day today,’ he says, staring through the window. ‘You can see the Lake District from here.’

I look out in the direction of where he points. Blurry mountains. ‘Cool.’

‘Have you ever visited the Lakes?’

‘No. I’ve been to Scotland.’ I can’t tell him about that, so I hurry on. ‘Have you?’

‘Yeah, I used to go hiking in the Lakes all the time with a couple of mates from Uni. It’s really stunning. It’s good to inflate your lungs with a long walk every once in a while. You could take the little one to the Beatrix Potter house.’

‘Emily’s only five weeks old. I don’t think she’d be that impressed.’

‘No, maybe not,’ he laughs.

‘I like Beatrix Potter though.’

‘Oh right.’

‘I mean I did when I was a kid,’ I clarify. ‘Tom Kitten’s my favourite story. And the one with the frog. And the patty pan one. I still don’t know what a patty pan is.’ I’m losing him. Men don’t talk about Beatrix Potter. I need to talk about more grown up things, more manly things like motorbikes and wrestling. But I can’t think of anything I want to know about motorbikes or wrestling. I push my drink away. ‘How long have you lived in the flats?’ I say, even though I already know the answer.

‘Nearly two weeks,’ he says. ‘You?’