I walked around the classroom, cup in hand. At the wall at the back there was a display titled ‘My Family’, so I looked for Gigi’s. There we were. Somewhat creepily, mine, Will and Gigi’s heads had been cut out of the family photo I had dutifully supplied one morning and stuck on stick figures made out of penne pasta pieces that were all holding hands.

‘Jesus, this is terrifying. Why have we all been impaled by angry pasta?’ A man in a suit had joined me and was staring at the wall, grimacing.

I smiled. ‘Which happy family are you?’

‘Here we are.’ The man pointed to the one next to Gigi’s. His wife was blonde, and with those jutting cheekbones I doubted her body was much more filled out than the pasta stick figure on which her photo was currently stuck. Her pasta body was holding hands with a round baby head of indeterminate sex and a frowning white-blonde-haired girl I recognised from drop-offs.

‘Oh right, so you’re Florence’s dad. Gigi talks about her a lot.’ I remembered the anonymous bite victim and made a silent prayer that I wasn’t about to be on the receiving end of a lecture on violent pre-schoolers.

‘Yes, that’s me. Florence’s dad. Although my name outside of this Portakabin is Frederick.’ He held out a hand. It felt strangely formal considering the setting. I shook it. Was it my imagination or did he hold it just a moment too long?

‘Alexis.’ I motioned to my name badge. ‘But everyone calls me Lex. Nice to meet you.’ I nodded my head towards their family portrait. ‘She has your eyes.’ I really thought it was just something people always said when they didn’t know what to say when admiring a baby or child. But in this case Florence really did have Frederick’s eyes. Piercing blue with a fleck of green. She didn’t share the rest of his features – strong jawline, coiffed dirty-blond hair. And thankfully the delicate little two-year-old did not have his build. He was broad shouldered, and his white shirt seemed to be straining to fit what looked like a very defined torso.

‘The photo doesn’t really look anything like me but I do look just like that under my clothes.’ He motioned towards the penne.

I laughed. ‘Now that’s something I’d like to see.’

‘I . . . Well . . .’ He looked surprised, then smirked.

Shit.

‘I mean . . . that would be funny, if you really were made of pasta. How could you be? I mean, where would the food go? I’d better check where my husband is. Yes, my husband. Right. Bye.’

Abort. Abort. Mission abandoned.