Back to Dad again. Nick smiled. ‘Yep. We both need one. We both stink.’

‘You stink,’ Freddie said playfully, shoving his dad in the arm.

‘Not as much as you.’

Freddie’s normally bright and beaming smile returned, and Nick had a feeling of disaster being averted. A knock at the door drew his attention, but he recognised the outline of the visitors in the glass and opened it with a grin.

Trish, his neighbour, with her husband and Nick’s best friend, Len, were stood with their son, Peter. All three of them held various containers or, in Trish’s case, a steaming dish of food in oven-gloved hands.

‘Fancy some dinner?’ asked Trish. ‘We thought we’d pop round. Peter said that Freddie had a bash in the playground today and when I saw you were even later back than usual, we thought—’

‘She thought,’ said Len, pointing a huge baguette at her. ‘I was going to leave you alone.’

‘We thought,’ Trish repeated, eyeing Len and emphasising the word, ‘that you might like a hand with dinner.’

Nick laughed incredulously and ran a hand over his stubble. He’d been digging the foundations of a new patio today and probably still had mud in his hair. He could definitely feel the dirt beneath his fingertips. ‘Come on in.’ He moved aside and as soon as Peter had stepped foot in the house, Freddie was up and welcoming him before they began talking about which game they were going to play. Though Peter was a year older, the two of them had played together since they were toddlers.

‘Freddie, can you run and get changed quickly, please?’ Nick asked. They’d get another day’s wear out of that uniform as long as he didn’t spill dinner down himself.

Trish had already gone through to the kitchen with Len following. She placed the giant dish down on the counter while she set the oven then placed the pan inside. It smelled meaty and delicious. ‘We’ve got lasagne and salad with some garlic bread if that’s okay?’

‘That sounds amazing.’

As glad as Nick was for the free dinner, guilt shot through him once more. He and Freddie seemed to exist on a diet of pizza, chicken nuggets and chips, and the odd jar of pasta bake sauce if he was feeling like pushing the boat out. Token vegetables that were easy to cook like frozen carrots or tomatoes and cucumber would be shoved on the plate, but his son never had amazing meals like this. If Nick wasn’t careful Freddie was going to turn into one of those odd thirty-year-olds who only ate beige food. Maybe this weekend he’d do a big shop, cook a load of meals and put them in the freezer. He and Freddie could do it together.

‘Is it me or is it a bit tidier in here?’ Trish asked, looking around.