When Will told me I’d been inducted into the Sunday lunch club, I didn’t realise that meant I’d effectively be kidnapped by Jonathan every Sunday I wasn’t working. I don’t mind, actually. Today’s roast is beef, with the most amazingly light Yorkshire puddings. Will informed me when I arrived that pudding will be treacle sponge with custard, which is probably going to finish me off. These Sundays tend to follow a similar format. Jonathan brings mountains of food out of the kitchen, we eat and then he disappears upstairs for a nap while Will and I clear up before sneaking out to the workshop to check on progress. Things are definitely happening as the enormous helicopter is now free of its blanket and sitting on the workbench. According to Will, Jonathan is starting to spend more time out there, and he overheard him on the phone talking to one of his old flying friends a week or so ago.

‘I don’t know how you manage shift work,’ Jonathan says with a smile. ‘I used to find just working regular hours tiring enough without having to alternate days and nights.’

‘It does bring its challenges,’ I reply tactfully.

The biggest challenge, which is totally unrelated to shift patterns and which I’m also not talking to Jonathan and Will about, is still Luke, unfortunately. Although I haven’t seen him since our confrontation in the staffroom, the law of probabilities means that the likelihood of our schedules aligning is growing with every shift, and I’ve managed to convince myself it’s got to be tomorrow. I’ve tried very hard to keep him out of my mind, but he’s still a malign presence, somewhere right at the back. In the end, I decided not to complain to HR, much to Tash’s disgust, but I just felt I didn’t need the extra aggro. I’ve pacified her by promising faithfully that I won’t hesitate if he steps even slightly out of line again, though.

‘I’ve had an idea,’ Jonathan announces. ‘You should bring your nephew along to flying club on Saturday. I’m going and I’m sure he’d find it interesting.’

‘I doubt it,’ Will counters before turning to me. ‘When Dad says flying club, what he actually means is a group of middle-aged and elderly men standing in a field flying remote-controlled aircraft. How old is your nephew?’

‘Three, coming up four.’

‘Yeah. I’m not sure it’s going to be his idea of a good time.’

‘I don’t know,’ Jonathan persists. ‘I was talking to Bernard and apparently the number of 3D flyers has gone up dramatically since I was last there. I can’t bear them myself, terrible show-offs, but it might be entertaining for a young person.’