‘And do you ride, Christian?’ Jen said, her Debbie Harry face suddenly close to mine as she topped up my tea.

I nodded enthusiastically, and then shrugged, suddenly afraid I might be asked to saddle up.

‘Oh, you know, just a bit,’ I almost lied, anxious to ingratiate myself and my mouth full of lemon drizzle cake. But I saw a light in Leo’s eyes suggesting he saw right through me and I quickly shook my head.

I got why Leo didn’t love me at first sight. That was understandable. He thought I was a phase, a leftover from Tara’s wild years, and not her future. In the years since that first day that Tara took me home to her folks, I had not shown Leo anything to make him change his mind and that hurt me more than I wanted it to.

All the significant moments when Leo might have warmed towards me – when I had landed a grown-up job on a national newspaper, when I married Tara, the birth of Marlon – had failed to win him over. When we first met, Leo had taken one look at me and decided I was not good enough for his daughter – and so it had proved. Leo was always painfully polite to me, but I could see that losing my job had confirmed all his worst suspicions. After leaving school at sixteen Leo had built his building business up from nothing and a stay-at-home father was an oxymoron to him.

Fathers supported their families.

That’s what fathers did.

That’s what fathers were for.

But although I knew that I would not have been his first choice for a son-in-law – I would not even have scraped into the top ten – there was a part of me that always liked Leo because of his unconditional devotion to his daughter and grandson.

We both loved Tara and Marlon.

And if nothing else, Leo and I would always have that in common.

Deep inside the school, the going-home bell rang. Leo straightened up with excitement as the children started coming out. And suddenly there was Marlon, walking alone, his shirt untucked, his blond mop looking like it had never been combed in his life. The most beautiful boy in the world.

His grandfather and I shouted his name together, as though we had rehearsed it.

‘Marlon!’

The headmistress, Mrs Macduff, a doughty Scot in her last year before retirement, stood at the school gates shaking hands with the tiny children. Mrs Macduff knew all their names, and she had the same instruction for all of them.

‘Eye contact!’ she told Marlon, as she told them all. ‘Eye contact!’

We walked home, Marlon chatting between us about his day, holding our hands. This is when it was easiest for my father-in-law and me, when Marlon was there, gabbing away.

Just as we reached the house, a Smart car turned into the far end of the street.

It began to hurtle towards us.