Porter’s parents had lived in the same four-bed detached house in Pinner since before he was born. The sort of neighbourhood where hedges were trimmed to within an inch of their life on a weekly basis, and lawns looked like they’d been clipped with scissors and edged with a ruler. His mum was standing on the doorstep as he arrived, waving as the reverse lights on his sister’s pale blue Citroën people carrier lit up. Shit! With all that had happened earlier, he had forgotten that he’d promised to try and make it an hour earlier to see her and the kids. He flashed his lights as he pulled up alongside her in the driveway, winding down his window as he came level.

‘Hey, sis,’ he said, pulling what he hoped was a sufficiently sheepish grin.

‘Gotta go, Jake.’ She shrugged. ‘These two need feeding.’ She jerked her head towards the back seat. He climbed out and saw two pairs of excited eyes peering from the passenger side window, small hands rapping out an excited beat.

‘Hey, trouble one and trouble two,’ said Porter, tapping the window with his knuckles, making them flinch backwards. ‘Sorry, Kat. Got stuck with—’

‘A work thing,’ she finished for him. ‘I know, I know. It’s fine,’ she said with a roll of the eyes. She stabbed a finger out the window at him, her tone and eyes warning in equal measure. ‘But don’t you dare forget about tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? What’s happening tomorrow?’ he said, feigning ignorance. She narrowed her eyes, and tried to swat him with the back of her hand, but he stepped back. ‘Joking. Of course I won’t forget,’ he said, making a mental note to get cards and presents for the twins on his way home tonight in case he forgot between now and their party.

Truth be told, he’d rather be forced to spend an hour naked in Trafalgar Square while tourists snapped his picture than sit through an hour-long party at the leisure centre. Sixty minutes of exquisite torturous small talk with the parents of the other kids, dodging the plastic balls hurled like missiles by five-year-old hooligans. Plan B was to turn up at Kat’s house in the morning and wish Tom and James happy birthday then, instead, and fall back on the clichéd excuse of work to cry off for the afternoon.

‘I’ll drop you a text in the morning to remind you just in case,’ she said as she started to reverse.