Chapter 4

FOUR

Zoe

‘MUM! IS THAT YOU? MUUUUUM!'

It's the greeting I get whenever I walk back into this house. I often think that if a burglar walked in, they could literally just reply yes, raid the house and leave and the two teens upstairs would be none the wiser.

‘No, my name is Juan. I'm from Deliveroo. Please can I use your toilet?'

‘Number one or number two?' a voice says, weaving down from upstairs.

‘Number two. I hope you have enough loo roll.'

There is a cackle from the upstairs landing and Lottie's head peers over the banister, her blonde curly hair hanging like curtains, the glimmer of her braces catching the light. The blonde is not from me but it's a glorious mass of curls that are either the best or worst thing about her life, depending on the humidity and whether her hair products like her. She swings off the banister in that way we've warned her not to do for years.

‘I wasn't kidding, by the way…'

‘About the big poo you need to do?' Lottie enquires.

I laugh heartily. ‘About me being the Deliveroo person. I bring Nando's.'

Lottie squeals in excitement and hammers a fist on Dylan's door. ‘Dyl – she brought chicken!'

I remember a time when Peppa Pig brought the same level of excitement. The door opens and Dylan appears in shorts and with wet hair even though it's autumn and I'm already in boots and a scarf. Dylan is one of those kids who just gets on with life – I never quite know if he's enjoying himself. He eats, he shares small details of his day, he leaves. He inherited the curls but they're sandy and usually hiding under a beanie. They thunder down the stairs, following me into the kitchen as I flick on the lights.

‘Did someone load the dishwasher?' I say, surprised.

Dylan nods. The apt response here is to say I should divorce their father more often if it means they'll finally get round to those chores I've bugged them about for years, but even I know it's too soon for that. The kitchen is the hub around which this whole house operates, despite having their own rooms: their homework is still strewn about the island, the fridge acts as some sort of social noticeboard, their black puffa coats are hanging on the back of the bar stools. They grab at plates, taking their seats, both with one AirPod still hanging out of their ears in case they miss anything important on TikTok.

‘I'm sorry I'm late. First day back and all that…' Lottie pushes some chicken my way. ‘It's cool, I had some already.'

‘With who?' she asks.

‘A new teacher – his name's Jack.'

They both pause for a moment, and I realise the implication. Mother, that's a man's name. Dad's moved on and out, maybe I have, too. Except the answer there is no. It's far too soon, even if Jack was kind, spoke to me in innuendo and I liked the swing of his satchel. I look at both of their faces and feel that instinctive, urgent need to protect them. The day they found out about their dad is still fresh in my mind. A day of seeing such pure sadness from both of them. It still haunts me, and I am conscious that whilst I will never be able to protect them fully, I at least never want to be the sort of person who evokes that sort of emotion in them. I respond laughing.

‘Not like that… he's a colleague.'

‘Was he fit? Do you have a picture?' Lottie continues.

‘You see, when I go out and eat, I don't spend my time taking selfies. I actually just eat,' I tell her, sarcasm in my tone to match all of hers.

She narrows her eyes at me, but I realise I haven't really answered her question. I need to lie. He is quite handsome. I did spend a great deal of time looking at his face, fascinated by his features, a little shocked at times that he was choosing to spend his time sitting across from me. You get the feeling he'd slide into the cast of some teen Netflix drama without worry. Good jaw. Do people still look at jawlines? I think this is an oft overlooked physical feature. You want something strong to frame the face and he had a good jaw. I can't tell my kids that.

‘He was just a very nice young man… that is all.'

Nothing more. And that's not because he's over ten years younger than me but because romance and my love life are quite far down on my agenda at the moment. It feels like a complication, something I can't fathom. I wouldn't even know where to start with finding love, with nurturing any sort of romantic relationship. If anything, it feels absurd, bordering on hilarious.

‘Was he like a dinner companion, accompanying your old arse to an early bird special?' Lottie continues. I flare my nostrils at her. These kids will always think me some sort of ancient relic who was born out of a pyramid, telling them stories of how I had to find public phones and carry metal money to contact my parents, and how I made mixtapes by recording songs off the radio. Nothing will ever convince them otherwise.

‘Yes, just like that. He helped me find my glasses so I could read the menu…'

‘That's nice. I hope he was respectful and called you ma'am,' Lottie says. Dylan laughs in reply, and I shake my head. Charming. If you want to know, he helped me remember what it was like to smile again, to laugh deeply from within. Sat across from him, over the peri-peri, he helped me feel human, reconnect to myself. But I guess they don't really need to know about that. They both continue to eat, content with my explanations. At the end of the day, I bought Nando's and I wasn't on a date-date so these small details don't matter. Dylan shovels some rice into his mouth, and I hang around them at the island, debating my next move. ‘And all good? First days back go OK? New timetables work out alright?'

‘Oh my god, I have Mr Weaver for chemistry and the man is literally the devil because if you so much as look out the window, he screams at you and he gave Lewis McFarland a detention for scraping his stool across the floor and I mean, I'd get it if the man could actually teach. He just screams and walks around with his pigeon chest like he owns the place and makes us copy things out of the textbook. I don't believe he's qualified. I think they need to double check his paperwork. And then, don't get me started, double PE on Monday morning. It's like the world hates me.'

Dylan smirks at me, as if to say, let's really not get her started. ‘And you, Dyl?' I ask him to try and get a word in edgewise.

‘Was alright. They've stopped doing those paninis at lunch, though.'

And that is all I'll get from Dylan until parents' evening when some random teacher will tell me he could contribute more to class but he's on track for a B in his pending exams which is Dylan all over – not excelling but coasting comfortably. He steals a chip from his sister which means they nudge each other on their chairs. She steals one back. This will either escalate to a headlock or they'll realise it's not worth the conflict. I try to act as peacemaker by stealing more chips and notice Dylan leaning into me, resting a head against my arm. I smile to myself.

Feeding time is suddenly disrupted by a key in the door, a familiar sound once upon a time, but now we all look up at each other in surprise, knowing who is there. I gulp quietly, trying not to let the panic reach my eyes.

‘He really should ring the bell,' Lottie snarls, grabbing her chicken and heading to the small cupboard next to the kitchen that acts as a utility room, presumably to finish her dinner by eating it off the tumble dryer. Dylan looks up at me curiously, wondering what to do next. Leave or stay or squeeze in that cupboard, too.

I hear his footsteps in the hallway and turn to see his face at the doorway. That face. I've known that face for over twenty years; I've seen the lines carve themselves into his brow; I know his eye colour is hazel, not green; I know he can't quite grow a beard on the sides of his face so his stubble at times makes him look like Dr Strange. It's a face I've known and admittedly loved for years but to see it now, the emotion hits me differently. Dread. I dread seeing it because I don't know what emotion will emerge. Do I hate it today? Do I miss it? Do I want to punch it? He's come straight from work. I know this because of the shoes but every time I see him now, I see the parts of him that are only there because of me, that only I know about: a button I re-sewed onto a coat; a shirt I bought him for Christmas; a way he walks which makes me think he's using haemorrhoid cream.

‘Brian…'

‘Nando's? Is it someone's birthday?' he asks. No greeting, no acknowledgement. He puts a hand to Dylan's back, and I see him shirk from the physical contact.

‘Just a back-to-school treat,' I say. I hate that he lets himself in here like he still has ownership over this household.

He glances around the place to see if anything's changed then casually walks over to switch on the kettle. ‘You didn't reply to my message. Where is Lottie? Can we chat?'

‘I was busy.' I was eating chicken with a fit younger bloke. Tell him. But I don't. ‘I guess I'm free now, though.' I lower my voice so that Lottie won't hear. ‘You just need to go easy on Lottie. Give her time.'

‘How much time? She's been angry with me all summer. This can't go on,' Brian says, opening a cupboard to retrieve a mug. I hate how natural the movement is, how he knows where everything is in this place. Maybe I need to move things around. I hear the tumble dryer go on in the cupboard and I smile.

‘Are you saying she's not allowed to be angry?' I ask him. He makes himself a cup of tea and paws through some bills and letters on the counter.

Dylan gets out of his seat and takes a mug from the cupboard. I see him avoid eye contact, not saying a word, but making a cup of tea and placing it in front of me, an arm going to my shoulder.

‘Thanks, Dyl,' I say, putting a hand to his arm.

Brian takes some of the junk mail and places it in the recycling bin. Once upon a time that would have been fine, but again, his presumptuousness riles me. I may have wanted to read about getting some new double glazing. He turns from the bin to confront me, his mouth puckered in the way he does when he's stern and wants to start a fight.

‘Well, I don't know what you've said but you have to help me.'

‘What I've said?' I repeat.

‘I am not the enemy here. I am her father, and she is my daughter. Nothing's changed there.'

‘Nothing's changed?' I repeat back at him, hoping he can hear how idiotic he sounds. You ripped the arse out of their world. You abandoned us, so we sit here, almost grieving you, the life we had. You were there when they were born, we had such dreams for them and the life we wanted to give them and you've taken that away from them, our beautiful children. But yes, nothing's changed, Brian.

‘If you were a good mother, you'd want to help me fix this.'

‘If I was a good mother…' I repeat slowly. What was that word Kate used? Shitspoon. I want to reply but instead I hear a sound from the cupboard that sounds like someone throwing something. Just not at the dryer, we need the dryer. I don't have words for Brian, just deep disappointment that he doesn't realise that something like this, to have found out in the way she did, would be world-ending for Lottie. For our daughter, a child. Before that, Brian was a pitch-perfect father – his emotional intelligence and connection he had with both kids made me so proud. Now? Now it feels like he's embedded in his own affair, and it feels selfish, it feels miles away from the person I knew and loved.

‘Also, in two weeks we have those tickets for that concert in Manchester. I'm making plans. She was part of those plans.'

She was before you callously flaunted your affair in public. All these sentences play out in my head. In some alternative reality, I have the sass, the confidence to tell him what I think, but I need to maintain some sort of calm. In the face of him misbehaving so badly, I can't run riot with my emotions too, and confuse the kids even more – I need to be reasonable in a wholly unreasonable situation.

‘We were looking forward to it… Right, Dyl?' Dylan doesn't look up but nods, half-heartedly.

‘Is she here? Can I go up and see her?' he asks. He heads into the hallway and starts shouting up the stairs, treading each step carefully.

I open the door to the utility room where Lottie's face is like thunder. ‘No!' she loud whispers at me.

‘Just hear him out?'

‘I will literally shank him with a chicken bone.'

Dylan can't help but smirk. ‘Well, you wouldn't because you have super weak forearms.'

She sneers at me from beyond the laundry basket, almost barricading herself in there.

‘Just don't touch my clean sheets with your chicken fingers… You were looking forward to Manchester?'

‘I was.'

I squeeze into the cupboard and squat down next to her, seeing her eyes well up. ‘Lottie. He's still your dad. For all that's changed, he will always be your dad.'

‘But he's also a wanker, too.'

‘Well, yeah…' She smiles and throws her arms around my neck.

‘Can I say that to his face?'

‘Only at Christmas.' I grab her face and look into those hazel, not green eyes. You're so angry and I get it completely and I'm almost grateful for it, but I can't have you hold on to that emotion forever. I don't like how this has transformed my bright bouncing teen into this seething ball of resentment and confusion. That's not a way to live, to grow up.

‘What is she doing in the cupboard?' Brian says, returning to the room and seeing us there.

‘Laundry,' she shouts out. ‘Idiot.'

‘Lottie, you can't talk to me like that,' he argues, trying to look over my body to catch her eye. I wouldn't try, Brian. With the anger steaming off her, she'd turn you to stone. ‘Why have you blocked my number?'

She shows me a chicken bone that she pretends to stab into mid-air. I put my body in the way so Brian can't see it.

‘I'll do what I like. I'm allowed to be selfish in this very moment – I must have learnt that from you.'

My bold and fearless Lottie. It was the only way I ever wanted her to be, but this courage is all so barbed, so hurtful and that's less good. I put a finger to my mouth, urging her to stop.

‘Why are you being like this?' Brian pleads.

‘No idea.' She's brave but by god, she's sarcastic, too. It's the best weapon in her arsenal.

He tries to enter the cupboard. She throws a bottle of Febreze at him. Brian should be grateful it wasn't the iron. He stops for a moment, and I look up at him. You know why she's being like this. You've known this girl all her life. She needs time, she needs space, she needs to trust you again because no one in this room does at this very moment.

‘Look, the tickets are booked for Manchester, and I'd really like for us to go together. It'd be good to get away. I… Please, Lottie…' he whispers.

I see her on the verge of screaming a hell of a lot of expletives, but she stops to see tears welling up in my eyes.

‘Dyl, talk to her. Please, mate. Look, I'll go,' he says, hands to the air, admitting defeat.

Dylan doesn't reply. He just sits there, and I hear Brian's footsteps leave the kitchen and the front door softly shut. I notice Dylan walk over to the sink with his father's half-drunk cup of tea. He throws it down the sink, puts the cup in the dishwasher and returns to his seat.

‘Can we leave the utility room now? Maybe… Please…?' I ask Lottie and pull her up to her feet, putting an arm around her as we walk back into the kitchen, and sandwich Dylan into a reluctant hug, trying to gloss over that awkward interruption.

‘I don't want to go to Manchester, he can seriously stick Manchester up his backside,' Lottie exclaims.

‘He's a massive arsehole but I'm not sure an entire city can fit up there,' Dylan mutters and we all laugh. It's his first and only words on the matter but at least they were funny. They both cling on to me so tightly and I'm not sure I've felt a hug this tight since they were tiny and it was thundery outside, a time when they used to cling to the very bones of me.

‘Remind me what the tickets were for again?' I ask them both.

‘The 1975.' It was a Christmas gift he'd given them way back when he was still the hero in both their lives, a trip they planned together to include shopping and dragging Lottie around a football stadium tour.

‘But we won't go now, Mum. It's not right.'

‘Why not?' I ask them, parting the hug.

‘Because he's a twat and it wouldn't be fair to you,' Lottie tells me.

And I exhale loudly because as much as I love their allegiance, I would be a terrible parent to punish Brian in this way, to get in the way and affect his relationship with his own kids.

‘Or maybe, you go. Try and have a nice time. You love The 1975.'

‘We love you, too,' Lottie says. ‘Possibly even more.'

I shake my head, laughing at her.

‘He did a shit thing, kids, but he's still your dad.'

‘We're only bound by genetics. I can make choices if I want to see him or not. I saw a TikTok about toxic parents,' Lottie mumbles. ‘He made a choice. He doesn't want us. He doesn't want this…'

‘Lottie,' I say, pushing her curls away from her face. ‘He just doesn't want me.' The words escape out of my mouth so very quietly. He stopped loving me, not you. The emotion would hit me at that moment, but it's interrupted by Dylan clawing his arms around me, squeezing me so very hard. This is when the emotion kicks in. To have my big gangly son envelop me like this and tell me his love still perseveres, that he still wants this, he still needs me. The tears well up in my eyes. Thank everything for the both of you.

‘Hate him,' Lottie says, pushing us away.

‘We don't use the word hate,' I tell her.

‘Then I am not keen on him,' she retorts, echoing a time when she was little and I said she wasn't allowed to hate broccoli. She spies my phone on the counter and picks it up, starting to scroll through it. I close my eyes slowly.

‘Lottie, you're not posting passive aggressive memes on my Facebook again, are you?' I ask, panicked. She did this in the summer. I had to delete a lot of things.

‘Chill your boots, Mother. I am just doing…'

Her fingers move mercurially over the screen until I hear a familiar sound which lets me know she's connected the phone to the speaker in the kitchen. And then a song starts blasting through, one I only know because I spend a lot of time scrolling through my Instagram Reels at night trying to sleep. Lottie pulls me to my feet.

‘Come on. We're dancing this shit out.'

‘Don't swear,' I snap.

She ignores me. ‘Dance. You too, Dyl.'

Dylan rises to his feet. We used to do this a lot, the four of us. Some kitchen dance break around bubbling pots, the windows all steamed up, chopping boards full of half-peeled carrots. It's like she's doing this to prove we can still do this as a trio.

‘And it's better now,' she says, throwing her arms around in wild abandon. ‘Dad can't tell me my music is unlistenable noise and try to make us listen to Oasis.'

Brian did do that. You can't dance to Oasis. He wasn't a graceful dancer in any case. It was like dancing with a turkey who had limbs. Dylan joins in reluctantly, the dancing more restrained, but he looks at me the whole time, waiting, hoping this might help. It does. I sway and pump to whatever this viral pop track is about being back on seventy-four. Whatever happens next, we keep dancing. I feel Lottie's arms around me in a strange hugging sway when suddenly my phone pings on the counter, breaking the music for a few seconds.

We look down as a message appears from The Anti-Wanker.

‘Who the hell is The Anti-Wanker?' Lottie says. I smile, too shocked by his name coming up to even try to hide the message from them. ‘And why is he sending you a chicken emoji?'

Jack

She's not replied to the emoji. I may not have thought that one through. I'm not even drunk. I just went home with half a chicken in a bag, and wanted to end the evening on a nice succinct message that would make her smile. I wanted her to know that I enjoyed her company. I should have just said that. Emojis are immature and lack a certain eloquence. She'll think I'm an idiot.

I sit here at my kitchen table staring at my phone, willing her to reply at least, but nothing. Damn. My phone starts ringing, and I jump a little at the interruption. I look down at the name of the caller. We're safe. I click to accept the Facetime.

‘UNCLE JACK!' shriek two faces into the screen and I laugh at the sight of the very snotty insides of my nephews' nostrils.

‘George, Barney. To what do I owe the pleasure?'

‘We're shopping with Dad and we're bored,' they tell me. To prove this point, they show me around the supermarket, going up close to a lovely row of tinned vegetables, just in case I'd never seen sweetcorn like that.

‘But you're helping your dad, yes?' I ask them. George makes for quite an erratic cameraman – there's quite a fair bit of heavy breathing and shots of the floor. I am so glad to be witness to this, especially when they zoom in on my brother's arse hunched over a trolley, examining a very scrappy list.

‘Daaa—ddd.'

My brother turns around. ‘What the… are you filming me? You didn't record my fart, did you?' I see Barney keeling over with laughter as my brother, Dom, grabs the phone and suddenly sees my face. ‘Bloody hell… Boys!' I hear them howling and running off down the aisle. ‘STAY CLOSE!'

He returns his attention to me. It's a Dom face I know well, one that looks like he's trying really hard to work out a tricky sum.

‘Well, I didn't hear a fart.'

He laughs, rubbing a hand across his stubble, his brown hair slightly frizzy at the edges. ‘They're out of chopped tomatoes. I can just chuck in passata to a bolognese, yes?'

‘Yes, you can.'

I smile. Back when the twins were very little and owing to quite sad circumstances, I lived with Dom for a bit. We had no effing idea what we were doing but we thought as long as we knew how to cook a decent bolognese sauce then we'd survive. I swear they now eat it at least once a week. He refers back to his list, chucking things into his trolley. The way he holds his phone, I'm getting a wonderful view of the supermarket ceiling and as before, the insides of his nostrils. ‘How are you? Sorry about the boys. Were you in the middle of something?'

‘Nothing. Just got in from school actually.'

‘Oh god, yes. First day. How was it?'

‘Interesting. You good? The boys back today?'

‘No. I have two more days for my sins… Boys, why on earth do we need that much Weetabix? Are we feeding another family?' I see him wave his arms around, not quite telling his twins off but standing there in disbelief.

‘It's all fibre, Dom.'

‘Yeah, Dom,' Barney says playfully, and I laugh.

‘Jack, I have to deal with these two hooligans.'

‘Hooligans?' I hear a ten-year-old voice protest.

‘Text me the highlights of today. Come round for tea,' he tells me hurriedly. I salute him and hang up. Highlights? Well, there was chicken. I open up my messages to see if Zoe has replied. Still nothing. Double damn.

‘Mr Damon, good evening to you…' The back door to the kitchen opens, the lights flash on and in steps Frank, one of my housemates, carrying a strange selection of Tupperware. Frank works in town, in IT, which means we have excellent Wi-Fi connection, and I think the printer we own as a household may be stolen. Frank only left home a year ago and his mother still worries about him, so he often appears with a week's worth of meals that she has prepared for him, so he won't waste away. Her legendary over-catering means that we all share in these gifts, and I tell you, the lady can do extraordinary things with rice. Frank likes a sensible coat and haircut, and knows the maths to split bills in the right way.

‘Francisco. I see your Ma has been busy?'

‘Indeed, she made that glutinous rice for you again,' he says, unloading the boxes onto the table and into the freezer. They're all labelled immaculately. ‘She also thanks you for soaking her Tupperware.'

‘Well, I'm glad my skills have been noticed.'

‘I hate that she likes you. Possibly more than me.'

‘Not hard, mate,' I joke but his mum bought me an expensive bottle of Johnnie Walker for my birthday, and I know for a fact that she only gave her son socks. It was like some sort of dowry for taking in her son.

Frank pulls up a chair at our very wonky kitchen table, the legs made even with coasters and old flyers. This is the style of our kitchen – everything has been fixed and made liveable through gaffer tape and our very mediocre DIY skills. Every night we say a prayer for the fridge that was last checked electrically in 2015. Frank doesn't tell his mother this.

‘Why were you sitting in the dark?' Frank asks me, leaning back and grabbing a fork from one of our drawers.

‘Oh, I was contemplating something.'

‘Is it the teaching? How did your first day go? I told you the kids would be wild and unforgiving,' he says. He did tell me that. I sometimes go to the corner shop with Frank and if groups of kids walk in, he always looks terrified and dodges them in the aisles, hiding behind the beer fridges.

‘Not that. Still finding my feet. I think the kids like me, but I also think they like the fact that I'm a sub.'

To be honest, I hadn't really thought too much about the teaching. I'd taught English before in Italy on what was meant to be a sun-kissed, post-uni trip where I imagined myself staying in a villa and riding my bike around long stretches of sandy roads with a linen shirt half undone. I never fulfilled that fantasy. Instead, I got stuck in a two-bed flat in Naples with a landlord called Mario who was an actual plumber, I shit you not. In comparison, the students I had back then were also a bit more willing to learn. Two of the classes I stood in front of today looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. There were a lot of paper airplanes, people secretly playing Candy Crush and one girl who stood up and started to French braid her mate's hair.

‘We were horrific to the subs,' Frank tells me. ‘We locked one in a stationery cupboard once and the rumour was it started the onset of her alopecia. I've always felt awful about that,' he adds, wistfully.

‘Not you, Frank,' I say in shock.

‘I was a bad boy once upon a time,' he jokes. He looks at me carefully. ‘Normally by this point, you've started to help yourself to my food – I thought you liked my mum's noodles?'

‘I've eaten. I had a Nando's.'

‘Like a welcome meal?' he asks.

‘Sort of…' Maybe that's all it was. Just two people eating chicken, me acting as some sort of dining companion and her welcoming a new colleague into the fold. I shouldn't read too much into things. Like when we said goodbye and she reached out and touched my arm. That was her just being nice; she does that. It's just an arm. It was just chicken. With a really nice, attractive person who gets my jokes.

Frank puts on the kettle and scrambles around looking for a clean teaspoon. In the meantime, the back door opens again to reveal our third housemate, the one who completes the holy trifecta in this house. ‘Gentlemen! I have returned.' Ben and I used to work in Zara together back when he was balancing out being a TV extra. He now works in television production with a sister who's a low-level celebrity chef, so he keeps us stocked in cookbooks and regales us in stories of the Z-list celebrities he's encountered. He inhales deeply. ‘Frank, did your mum fry us spring rolls?'

‘Yes, she did,' Frank says, pushing a Tupperware in his direction.

Ben takes off his scarf and sits down. ‘I love your mum. Can I marry your mum?'

Frank furrows his brow. ‘But you're gay.' Frank is like this, very black and white, not a lot of lived experience. I think this is why Ben and I took him under our wing. Ben's always loved that he has the same old man name as his dad. A boy like that needs saving from his naivety.

Ben laughs. ‘I'm still gay, my friend. I was just being facetious, but I have great admiration for the woman in any case. Does she really deep fry them, just for us?' he asks. ‘Does she do television? I think the public would love her.'

Frank shakes her head. ‘I think she air fries them now. And no, please do not put her on television. She'd be a liability, she has no method.'

‘The best sort of cook then,' Ben replies. ‘So how are we? How was the first day of school?' he asks me, putting a hand to my shoulder and shaking it around. ‘Were the kids nice to you?' Ben is also house mother – he likes to check in on us and make sure we're well, and this genuine concern for my wellbeing is probably the reason why we're still in each other's lives. He sits down as Frank gets another mug out for him to make a second cup of tea.

‘His colleagues took him for a Nando's after work,' Frank adds.

I take one of his mother's spring rolls. They are undeniably crisp; she could win awards for these. I go over to the counter with half of my Nando's chicken as an offering to this little feast.

‘Were they lady colleagues?' Ben asks, knowing there was a time many moons ago when I slept with two people we worked with at Zara and had to move branches. I nod. Frank looks supremely confused that I seem to have moved so quickly on my first day. ‘Already? That will get you a reputation.' Despite the lecture, he puts his hands under his chin to take in the gossip.

‘One colleague. Her name was Zoe, she works at the school.' I smile a little too widely to say her name, playing back all our little conversations today, remembering the way her eyes changed shape as she laughed.

Ben rewinds his mind. ‘Hold up. Zoe, the one from the wedding with the cheating husband. No actual way!'

That's the thing about Ben – he remembers everything. It's why he's on bin duty in this house. Frank places a cup of tea in front of him and offers him more of his mother's food.

I nod. ‘The very one.'

I told Frank and Ben this story. It must have been when I came back from the wedding. I was slightly drunk, and I think they were knee deep in a binge watch of Bridgerton . They both eat a bit more slowly as they take in the next instalment of drama. ‘Did she dump the husband? What happened? I hate the man and I don't even know him. Does he have a name?'

‘Brian. And no. I think he left her so she's just in the aftermath. Trying to work out what to do next.'

‘And are you what she's going to do next?' Frank asks innocently.

My jaw slackens. Ben chokes on some noodles, laughing. ‘Francis! You made a joke! But yeah…' he says, turning to me. ‘Are you?'

‘I don't know. I think after tonight, there's something… Possibly a spark, but I can't quite read it.' As I say the words out loud, I realise there's some feeling for her emerging, possibly a desire to act on it – but is that wise?

Ben picks up his phone. ‘Shit name, Brian,' Ben says. ‘Can we stalk him on social media and make his life hell? I can send him dozens of private messages pretending to be from OnlyFans and jeopardise his new relationship.' I like Ben's willingness to invest such hatred in someone he's never met.

‘Or not.'

He spies me glancing down at my phone. ‘What are you waiting for?'

‘What do you mean?' I reply, innocently.

‘I know that look when you're waiting for a text, to see if someone's going to reply.'

‘I am just conscious of the time. I need my beauty sleep. My hours are different these days.'

Ben narrows his eyes at me. ‘What's her last name? This Zoe?'

‘Zoe Swift,' I reply, a little too quickly.

He moves his fingers with mercurial speed over his keypad. ‘Found her…'

‘You have?' Even though we've only just met, even I haven't done the social media stalk yet. Frank and I peer over Ben's shoulders. The Facebook profile is very private which is a given when you're a teacher, but I like the profile picture, some golden hour shot that hits her face with all the right light. We look through the limited photos she has chosen to share plus a few posts that pop up telling me she's donated money to a dog's home and someone who ran a 5K in aid of a local hospice. I knew she was kind to her very core.

‘She's very attractive,' Frank says plainly.

‘Right?' I say, relieved that it's not just me.

‘No, Frank has a point. I'm getting a Rachel McAdams vibe. I like the hair,' Ben says.

‘And Rachel McAdams is like, what… thirty?' I say.

Ben shakes his head. ‘How old is Rachel McAdams?' he asks Siri on his phone. We all arch our heads over his screen. ‘She's forty-four. And quite frankly, it's criminal how as an actress she has been overlooked when Ryan Gosling did so well out of The Notebook . How old is Zoe?'

‘Forty-three. She's forty-four in March,' I say again, a little too quickly.

‘Older can be good. Some of the best sex I've had has been with older lovers. They know what they want, they have less hang-ups,' Ben mentions. Frank keeps quiet. The difference between my two roommates is that I suspect Ben has played the field whereas Frank stands by the gate of that field quite content, not really knowing how to play at all.

‘You make her out to be some sort of cougar style MILF,' I say, conscious I'm defending her honour. ‘She's just a nice soul and maybe someone who doesn't realise that about herself.'

Ben smiles. ‘There's a story here on her profile. It's public. Do you want to see it?'

‘Will she know I've seen it?' I ask tentatively. ‘I don't want to look weird.'

‘It's my phone, I'll just look like some random person who's come across her profile.'

I nod, not really sure if I should be delving into her life like this. But the video that comes up makes me smile. It's her half dancing to Jungle in her kitchen with two teenagers that I will assume to be her children. Her hair flies about and it's obvious she doesn't know she's being filmed. It reminds me of the woman I met at that wedding. Three is the Magic Number , says the text over the video.

‘Those are some old kids, though. When you said she had kids, I assumed they were smaller. The boy there has more facial hair than Frank,' Ben says, studying the video. Frank strokes his upper lip subconsciously.

‘They're thirteen and fifteen,' I add. I like how they look after their mum in the video, how they sing along completely out of tune and get their mother to join in. Those look like two kids who adore her completely.

‘So Brian really is a shit then. Can I put that as a comment?' Ben asks.

‘No, you can't,' I say, trying to downplay my horror at the thought.

Ben looks over at me, holding on to a spring roll in his hand. ‘You're staring at your phone a lot. Did you send the older lady a picture of your…' He fiddles with the spring roll in his hands. Frank seems distraught at the comparison given his mother must have rolled that with her fair hand.

‘No, I did not.'

‘Then our boy is crushing,' he says out the corner of his mouth. Ben would know. He's known me long enough that when I meet someone I like, I procrastinate. I try to reason whether it's a good idea and, in this case, the cons list is incredibly lengthy. But sometimes it's hard to ignore a spark. Sometimes there's a person who shines so brightly in the corner of your eye that your attention keeps moving towards them.

‘I am not crushing, leave me alone,' I reply, flaring my nostrils.

‘Never,' Ben says, pouting his lips into a kiss. And his eyes still follow me as I look down at Ben's phone, Zoe's video still playing on a loop. I can't help but smile as I see her dancing.