His dad grunts in response before turning his back on Theo and continues rifling through a drawer.

Theo runs a hand across his chin. God, he needs a shave. Jen hates it when he has stubble, says it scratches her face when he kisses her. He steps further into the room. ‘Can I help?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. Right. Well, I’ll dump these in the freezer and then I’ll be off. I’m working tonight.’

His dad doesn’t say anything, his body a question mark as he bends over a drawer. Theo can see the outline of his shoulder blades through his polo shirt. He always dresses smartly – that’s one thing Theo can be grateful for. He showers every day, splashes on the same Prada aftershave he’s used for years and dresses in his favourite uniform of chinos and a smart Ralph Lauren top with a V-neck cable-knit jumper if it’s cold. If his father ever let himself go he would begin to worry.

‘Make sure you eat the lasagne. Keep your strength up.’

‘You fuss too much. Like your mother used to.’

He has an image of his lovely mum, running herself ragged in a fruitless attempt at keeping his dad happy. There had been an eighteen-year age difference between his parents. Friends at school had thought his dad was his grandfather. It used to embarrass Theo, although he probably wouldn’t have minded if his dad had acted like a kindly grandfather. Nevertheless his friends had been impressed when his dad occasionally picked him up from school in his expensive car.

Just as he’s about to leave the room his dad stands up, brushing down his chinos. He’s tall, even taller than Theo, with the same long limbs and rangy physique. Theo has to concede his dad is still handsome and fit for his age, from regularly playing golf at the club. ‘I’m going to look downstairs,’ he says, brushing past Theo. He doesn’t say what he’s looking for. ‘Are you staying for a cup of tea?’

Fuck. Now Theo is going to feel obliged. ‘A quick one. I’ve got to work tonight.’

‘Yes, you’ve said.’

His father had wanted him to go to medical school, follow in the family size-eleven footsteps. He thinks Theo’s job as a chef is little more than a hobby. It still riles Theo when he thinks about it so he tries not to.

‘I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ promises Theo, but his father doesn’t reply, slamming out of the door, the soles of his brogues clipping on the lacquered parquet.