Holding the white cake box with both hands, I slowly walk up the steps to the main front door. I’ve made it this far without a cock-up, haven’t even opened the box to see the cake for fear of ripping the lid or sneezing on the icing. But I don’t have a free hand to ring the doorbell. I scuffle around the open porch; attempt to lift my elbow. That’s ridiculous. I rise onto my tiptoes, lightly headbutt the bell. No sound. Shit.

‘Hey, Chlo! Let me get that for you,’ a voice behind me calls out.

I hear the brush of footsteps coming up closer as I turn around. Peering over the top of the cake box, I’m shocked to recognise the man in front of me, although this is the first time I notice golden flecks in his brown eyes. Gasping, my knees jerk and the tense right angles in my arms break loose.

‘Whoa!’

‘WHOA!’

Legs bent, full squat, the man saves the cake box with one swift underarm catch.

‘Layla Birch’s dad!’ is the best I manage.

‘Miss Roscoe,’ he says. ‘That was almost a tragedy!’

‘You literally just saved me life.’

‘Best stick to teaching the drama, rather than creating it, eh?’

In his khaki trench coat and smart striped scarf, he straightens himself up and holds out the box for me to retrieve. Dying inside, I accept.

‘Thank you …’ I say.

‘Ollie,’ he reminds me.

I knew that. ‘I knew that.’

‘You called me “Layla Birch’s dad”. Which I am. But once upon a time, about fifteen and a half years ago, I was – surprisingly – a person with my own identity. I like to think he still comes out of the cupboard now and then.’

I break into a wide smile and then panic that my front teeth are stained with red lippy.

‘I meant the bell, by the way,’ Ollie says. ‘When I said, “let me get that for you”.’

‘Well, you’ve got good instincts.’

‘One of my few rare talents.’

I grip the edges of the box tight. It cannot drop again.

‘Shall I?’ he asks, pointing his index finger up.

‘Hold on, what are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same question.’

He smirks, coy rather than cheeky maybe, like he just answered back to the teacher. I could shoot him my best unimpressed face; give him a warning. But I’m genuinely interested. What the hell is Oliver Birch doing here, where I used to live?

‘I work with Giles,’ Ollie says. ‘He’s a good mate.’

‘Wow! Really? What a small world. I used to live downstairs, in the basement flat.’

Ollie laughs. ‘It’s brilliant news, isn’t it? Giles and Ingrid.’

‘Ah, deffo. They’re gonna be the cutest parents.’

‘With the cutest kid.’

‘Yeah, it’ll be pristine. No snotty nose or food in her hair.’