‘And dear Miss Roscoe,’ Si says, once the last kid leaves. ‘There’s not a fallen sequin in sight.’

‘Too right. I’m not risking the wrath of that PE fella.’

‘He’s ex-marine.’

‘I know! Are you fuming? About the flowers?’

Si feigns shock. ‘Never! I love them. Was this you?’

‘The kids. I just sorted the collection.’

‘You’re going to make me cry, Chloe.’

‘Please tell me you brought your car and you’re not taking them home on the tube?’

‘No, I didn’t bring my car. Thought we’d be going for a drink? You always said how much you love an after-show.’

‘Agh. Si, I’m so sorry. I can’t tonight,’ and I close my eyes, awaiting a monologue about how I’ve broken his showbiz heart at the final curtain.

‘Don’t worry!’

‘What?’ I don’t need to feign shock. I am shocked. ‘What’s with the cheesy grin?’

Si hides behind the bouquet, his specs peeping over the top.

‘I might have invited a certain somebody to the pub to keep me company,’ he says.

‘Malcolm?’

‘Wah!’

‘Wah!’

‘I know!’

‘Well, go. Go! Don’t let me keep you!’

We air kiss and I watch Si go, holding his bouquet like he’s Gene Kelly with an umbrella in Singin’ In the Rain.

It’s not raining but it’s chilly, a biting wind in the autumn air. I get changed in the staff toilets; it’s a swift transformation into the shirt dress, the one I wore the night I met Jack at the Brexit musical. My roots are screaming again, but it’s nothing a cream beret can’t hide, complemented by a bright red lip. I wrap myself up inside my burnt-orange suede coat, a second-hand gem I’ve had for about ten years. Yeah, this is exactly how I’d dress for a date with Jack. I’m ready.

Halfway across the car park, I hear a man’s voice.

‘Miss Roscoe, is that you?’ It must be Layla Birch’s dad.

‘Ah yes, you wanted to speak to me?’

‘Erm …’ It isn’t Layla’s dad. Not unless he’s the school caretaker and I wasn’t aware. ‘No. I’d like to lock up, if that’s alright with you?’

I blabber some apologies and make a quick exit, keeping an eye out for Layla and her dad. The road outside the school is sleepy and the houses opposite are lamplit and cosy. The buzz from the musical has gone. I’m tired, and my enthusiasm for a late-night comedy show all the way out in the East End is diminishing. I’m surprised to feel disappointed. It would’ve been really nice to meet Layla’s dad; tell him how proud I am of his daughter.

I guess, in a strange way, I should hold onto this feeling: at the very least, it shows I care.