He’s written this musical himself, a story of a starlet arriving in the big city without a dime (yep, a dime) in her pocket but a heart full of dreams. I know, I know. The music will be mashups of famous show tunes and obscure songs that only true fans of Broadway will know, mixed in with some current music – you know, to ‘keep it real’.

Layla Birch is politely calling my name.

‘Are we going to start soon?’ she asks.

I look up from my impressively shaded biro drawing of a Venus fly trap and see that Layla has ended the warmup game and got everybody to sit cross-legged in the circle: focused, ready. They even have their eyes closed.

‘It’s the breathing techniques Mr Sullivan teaches,’ Layla assures me. ‘They help with nerves and anxiety.’

She’s brilliant, Layla Birch. I’ve only been at this school a few weeks, covering for a teacher on maternity leave, and admittedly I’m not great with names, but Layla Birch stood out to me from the word go. Attentive, keen and passionate about drama, she’s dyslexic but is determined to excel. And she will. She’s got that spark – one that can’t be taught.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ Si Sullivan runs into the drama hall, flapping.

He heads straight for the piano, making an absolute meal of laying out his sheet music.

‘Thank goodness the show isn’t until October,’ he reassures us all; but frankly, he lost the room on his first ‘sorry’. Breathing techniques ended with a group sigh, and heightened chatter has since broken out.

I leave it in Si’s flappy hands to regain control. I’m fixating on the word ‘October’. October. Oct …

Thank goodness the show isn’t until …

October.

That’s one, two, three … four months away. Half term.

‘It’ll fly by,’ Jack had said to me, recently. A week ago, maybe. ‘Vietnam. October.’

‘Seems a shame we can’t go this summer though,’ I’d said. ‘I’ve got six weeks off.’

The true crime documentary was on pause while I made a cuppa and Jack laid his wet socks on the radiator in the lounge. The heating wasn’t on – it wasn’t cold enough – but it’s how he hung his washing out to dry regardless, whenever it was raining.

‘I can’t take time off during this project,’ Jack went on. ‘It’s our biggest client and the deadline is end of August. I’ll get bank holiday off, though. We could go camping. Dorset, maybe?’

‘So I’ve got to wait ’til almost the end of the school hols to go camping? In this country?’ I’d glanced towards the garden, to the rain lashing down outside.

‘Not necessarily, darlin’. You can still go abroad if you want, just without me.’