‘Press a four-digit code to lock the lockers and don’t spend too much time in the sauna – fifteen mins max, otherwise you’ll pass out, OK?’ she says, sternly.

‘OK!’ I say.

‘So, you’re both booked in for the seaweed wrap bath and a full-body massage, correct?’

‘That’s right,’ I say, feeling upbeat.

‘OK, great, I’ll just ask you both to fill out these forms, change into your cossies and then come hang out in the waiting area in your robes. There’s a lovely selection of herbal teas in there too.’

‘Lovely, thanks.’

We go into the changing rooms.

‘How’s school at the mo?’

‘Rubbish.’

‘How come?’

‘Don’t really like anyone.’

I’m really aware that all my chat with Caitlin would be classed as small talk. I hate small talk, so kind of hate myself for it.

‘I used to feel that way at school,’ I say.

‘I don’t really want to wear these flipflops, I might get a verruca.’

‘You don’t have to,’ I say chirpily.

‘Bit nervous about the wrap massage, I have some bruises.’

‘Don’t worry, Cait. They’ll be gentle with you,’ I say, trying not to act taken aback by all of the signs pointing in the same worrying direction.

We get changed, and when Caitlin re-emerges, she is in a red crinkled swimming costume that is hanging off her. We go into the waiting room and then shortly afterwards go in for our treatments. There is no greater chance for self-reflection than looking out onto a rainy London road while covered in green slime.

‘How was your seaweed wrap?’ I ask her afterwards, sitting in front of the changing room mirrors, my hair in a towelled turban.

‘Nice … bit slimy. Bit … seaweedy?’ Caitlin replies, combing her hair.

‘I never know if these beauty things are a massive con. Or whether we’ll wake up tomorrow with dazzling mermaid skin. Shall we go in the sauna for a little bit?’ I ask.

‘Sure,’ Caitlin replies flatly. She’s still being reserved with me, which is understandable.

We sit on the warm wooden seats, and I put some more water onto the coals.

‘Mmmm, it’s nice to be warm,’ Caitlin says, closing her eyes.

‘Feels good to get all the bad stuff out of my pores. Mainly gin,’ I say, laughing.

We sit in silence for a bit, my wet bikini bottoms occasionally squeaking against the bench. I once read somewhere that it’s important not to steer the conversation too much with teenagers. Even if it’s awkward, it’s best to occasionally go quiet and let them come to you with what they want to say.

‘Dad seems really happy.’

‘Does he?’ I say, smiling.

‘Yeah. I was kind of wanting to hate you. That’s the easiest narrative when your dad finally meets someone like you.’

I wondered what she meant by ‘like you’.

‘But it’s hard,’ she continues, ‘you know, to hate you, when my dad is always in such a good mood. You really do seem to make him happy.’