Tom nods. ‘Dangerous things, condiments.’

The lady behind the counter takes our order (two burgers and fries with Coke and a chocolate muffin for Tom) and I have no choice but to let him pay. I grab a few sachets of not-so-dangerous-looking ketchup, while Tom chooses a table by the window with an impressive view of the rain-soaked car park.

He pulls out a chair for me and I roll my eyes. I don’t know if it’s his upbringing, but he’s ridiculously gentlemanly. Another reason Dot loves him. I have a theory he only does it to annoy me. I sit down and another thought enters my head. Maybe the reason I feel irritated has nothing to do with wanting to be treated as an equal. Maybe it’s because Tom has a way of making me feel cared for, and I don’t know what to do with that.

The family across the room is making lots of noise, the parents struggling to keep the kids entertained, and I smile when the woman tips her baby upside down and sniffs its bottom. She shrugs at the dad, though judging from the smell wafting over, the child definitely needs a nappy change. A moment later, the waitress appears with their food and apologises for the wait. The dad tells her not to worry, but their eldest toddler is more critical of the service. He throws his chicken nuggets on the floor and wails.

Tom flinches and turns away in his seat. He’s never shown an interest in the kids who visit the centre, whereas I loved taking the school groups, but I didn’t know he was that offended by them. He puckers his mouth and I laugh. ‘I’m guessing you don’t ever want children.’

His eyes flash. ‘Please tell me you don’t say that kind of thing when you’re on a date, Shorty.’ I give him my best withering look and he leans across the table and whispers. ‘It’s not that I don’t like them, I just don’t trust them. They’re here to replace us.’

One of the toddlers stands up in his seat, his podgy hands shaking the back of the chair, and scowls over at us. His mum grabs his arm and hisses. ‘Stop that, or your dad will take you outside.’ Evidently untroubled by the threat, the boy repeatedly stamps his feet. His mum yanks him down and he clambers to the floor and charges at us in a ball of fury. Before he can reach our table, his dad snatches him up and carries him kicking and screaming out of the café.

Tom shoots me a told-you-so look and we watch through the window as the boy’s dad tries to calm him down. It appears to be working – until the boy turns and sees me. He throws himself at the window, banging his fists on the glass, and I nearly jump out of my seat. For a moment, the look on his face reminded me of Anorak Man. I shake my head and laugh at myself for getting the jitters over a toddler.