I rinse my face, turn the water off and grab a towel. The bathroom door is slightly ajar.

‘Jack?’

As I wrap the towel around myself, wet hair dripping onto my shoulders, the screech of a bar stool against the laminate floor tells me he’s in the kitchen. Maybe I should drop the towel, give him a proper welcome home surprise: do a little shimmy-shake. But I expose myself involuntarily when I scream and the towel falls to the ground.

‘Who are you?!’ I hear from the man standing before me.

I scramble to cover myself, shaking.

‘Who the hell are you?!’ I manage.

He’s about twice my age, edging on seventy, but in good shape and a little taller than me. Smart, silver-haired with an impressive hairline, cleanly shaven and wearing a light blue shirt with tailored shorts, he’s pale, but doesn’t look ill. His mouth is hanging open so wide that I can see his gold and silver fillings. I’ve seen his photo – it’s on the fridge, beside where he’s standing now, held up with a magnet of the Leaning Tower of Pisa – except he’s decades older in real life. The shape of his green eyes behind his spectacles is eerily familiar. I know exactly who this man is. He’s Jack’s dad.

Gripping the towel around me with a tight fist, I wipe my free hand dry and offer it. ‘I’m Chloe.’

John seems reluctant to accept at first, and we exchange the flimsiest of handshakes as he looks around the flat at anything other than my almost naked body. His focus falls upon last night’s dirty dishes. Jack made bolognese. I’d made a lame attempt to start washing up, filling the saucepan with soapy water and letting it soak: remnants of minced beef and chopped onions float around like dead fish.

‘Sorry, the place is usually a bit cleaner than this,’ I say.

‘It’s not a problem,’ he mumbles, a soft northern lilt in his voice, although I know he’s lived the majority of his life down south. He removes his specs, rubbing his eyes with just his thumb and index finger. ‘Uh – who did you say you were again?’

‘Chloe …’

‘Ah, yes. Chloe.’

‘It’s nice to finally meet you; although I wish I was more suitably dress—’

‘Wait. I – I can’t recall knowing about a – erm – Chloe.’

‘Jack never mentioned me?’

‘He … He – erm – never …’

‘Are you okay? Mr Carmichael?’

‘It’s John. Call me John, please.’

I go to the sink, turn on the tap and fill a glass that’s been draining on the side. ‘Drink this,’ I say.

He thanks me with a nod and drinks fast, dribbling onto his shirt. I pretend not to notice and turn around to look at the photo on the fridge: Jack on his dad’s shoulders on a beach in Majorca.