If I’d happened to be a cocky fifteen-year-old rather than a responsible adult, I’d liked to have found this so-called best friend and shoved a spike up her tight little arse. But what would my argument be? That she’s wrong? Because I don’t know if she is wrong. I’m not religious, so I don’t believe that Jack is in Heaven, keeping an eye on me from fluffy clouds surrounded by cherubs and harps. I’m not entirely sure I believe in the opposite, either. I struggle with thinking that we’re something until we die, and then BOOM! we’re suddenly nothing. And I’ve never found any satisfactory spiritual beliefs in the middle ground either. Never been to India. Never committed to a yoga class for more than two consecutive weeks. I’m more baffled than cynical.

‘What if she’s wrong?’ I ask Layla, throwing it out there.

‘Who?’

‘Your best friend.’

‘She’s not my best friend any more.’

‘Well, who’s to say she’s right?’ I ask. ‘Does she have hard evidence?’

‘Evidence, Miss?’

‘That when we die, we’re gone? Because if she has, well, I’d sure like to see it.’

She straightens herself and swaps her rucksack to the opposite shoulder, considering what I’ve just said. Her head cocks to the side and she inhales, tense and sceptical, afraid I’m being nice to her because she’s a kid, rather than being honest with her as an equal. I haven’t been a teacher too long, but I’ve seen teenagers do this multiple times. I make the choice to be honest with her.

‘Layla, me boyfriend died a few months ago. I’d like to tell you something he said to me when he was alive. He told me that being a teacher was cool. Hey, don’t roll your eyes, they’re his words not mine. I’m not saying I’m cool.’ I do my best T-Birds impression, badly. Layla loosens up and forces a kind smile. ‘Jack – me boyfriend – he worked in gaming. He’d oversee various projects, launch new online games and stuff, and he enjoyed it, organised events like crazy golf or paintballing and got away with calling them “team-building exercises”. When we got together, I told him that sounded pretty cool. He said, “No, being a teacher is cool. You’re making a difference, or at least trying to.” And I pulled a face. Told him, nah. In reality, it’s stress, it’s targets, it’s listening to your colleagues saying, “Roll on half term!” And agreeing with them.’

‘Really, Miss? Do you hate it?’