‘Hang on, let me get my bearings,’ she snaps. ‘See that building?’ She points to a warehouse on the other side of the water. ‘That’s his place.’

My head is literally about to explode. It is the coolest building I have ever seen, Kardashian- or Manhattan-cool. My dad lives here. And, for the next month, so do we.

We cross the bridge and park in a spot marked MERCHANTS’ LOFTS VISITORS. Getting out of the car, I almost get run over by an e-scooter rider.

‘You need to be careful here,’ Mum says. Like, when am I ever not careful? I turn and see the famous bridge that was in every photo when I googled Bristol and, floating over the top of it, so many balloons, against a sky so blue it makes me think I’ve never seen real blue before.

But before I can show Mum, I smell doughnuts and curry: right next to my dad’s building there’s a pile of shipping containers with shops and cafes inside them! Can’t wait to WhatsApp Molly some photos. She will be mega-jealous.

‘Ready?’ Mum says, taking two cases out of the boot. ‘Your father can get the rest.’

When she buzzes the intercom, he answers immediately. ‘Hey, welcome to Bristol, you two.’

Of course I’ve spoken to him on the phone, but his voice sounds different today – kind of American. ‘How did you know it was us?’

‘There’s a camera.’

Ugh! When we’ve FaceTimed I’ve always added filters or bunny ears, but now he’s seeing the real me. Too late I tilt my chin, the way Molly’s taught me, to hide my fat face in photos. The skin under my wig is sweating and I hope it won’t run down my forehead.

‘Take the lift, it goes all the way up to the penthouse,’ he says, like the word penthouse is one he uses all the time. I’ve never said it in my entire life.

Hospital lifts are wipe-clean and dented from trolley wheels. This one has wallpaper of huge green leaves with parrots and birds of paradise in turquoise and gold, and it smells of fruit, not sick people.

The doors open.

There he is.

Dan Lennon.

My father.

He’s taller and better-looking than his photos. He could be an actor on Hollyoaks or a singer in a band.

Oh. In his picture, his eyes seemed blue. But they’re actually grey-violet, with long lashes. He’s got my eyes.

Or, I guess, I’ve got his.

Doors closing, the lift says, bored with waiting. Mum and I are still inside it, but my legs won’t work.

‘No!’ Dan says as the doors start to shut. Before he disappears completely, he puts his foot into the gap – how ultra-cool are his Vans? – and his arms stop the door closing and he’s got so many muscles. No one else’s dad has muscles like those.

‘Come on, let me help you.’ As he takes the bags, I step through the doors and see his flat, and everything else stops mattering.