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ready to buy somewhere now, I can help you.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜With a deposit. I’ve set something aside for you. So if you’re ready to buy somewhere, then let’s have a chat about it.’
    â€˜Wow.’ I laugh, taking it in. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
    Ben looks as shocked as I do – but when our eyes meet he gives me a grin.
    I look at Stefan, wondering if he knew about Dad’s secret fund. ‘He did the same for me when I bought my flat,’ he says. ‘So don’t go thinking you’re the favourite or anything.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t be too sure about that, son,’ says Dad, getting to his feet and patting Stefan’s shoulder playfully. ‘Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to set the table for our delicious Italian feast.’
    As a family, we always eat at a table. Admittedly, we ate out half the time when I was growing up, but even at home, it was always at the table. No telly, no phones, no computer games. Music was OK as long as it was quiet enough to chat, because Dad always insisted meal times were family times.
    It’s a habit I never got out of until I met Ben. The first time he cooked me dinner at his he carried the shepherd’s pie through, and I followed excitedly holding the crockery.
    â€˜For the love of God, what are you doing?’ I asked, watching in horror as he placed the pie on top of a magazine on the coffee table.
    â€˜Thought we could sit on the couch and eat,’ he said, looking perplexed as he watched me set two places at the dinner table. ‘Watch a film or something?’
    So we did. And after we finished eating, Ben pulled my legs on to his lap while we watched the rest of the film. We ended up falling asleep, me snuggled into his shoulder.
    Then that became the norm, though I would never suggest it when coming to my dad’s.
    The feast, when we eventually sit down to eat it, is far from delicious. It is, at best, edible. We all know it. Dad doesn’t pretend to be a good cook – he just isn’t a believer in not doing something just because you’re a bit crap at it.
    â€˜That was really nice,’ says Ben, soaking up the final spot of tomato sauce on his plate with burnt garlic bread and swallowing it, before sitting back and patting his tummy.
    â€˜It was?’ asks Dad.
    I feel the corners of my mouth twitch.
    â€˜Absolutely.’
    Stefan picks up his napkin and wipes his mouth, and I can tell once again he’s trying not to laugh.
    â€˜Would you like more?’ I ask Ben sweetly. I pick up the pot without waiting for an answer and serve a huge dollop on to his plate. ‘There you go.’
    â€˜Lovely. Ta.’
    He gives Dad a smile.
    â€˜You are welcome,’ I say.
    He manages to finish his second portion and I’m still struggling not to smile when Ben says: ‘Oh my God – who’s that?’
    â€˜That’s Alice,’ says Dad, following Ben’s gaze to the photo on the fireplace as he tops up our wine, not seeming to notice I’ve barely touched mine. ‘Their mum.’
    â€˜God, she looks like you, Rebecca.’ Ben stands and goes to pick it up, looking perplexed. I avert my eyes, but the image in the frame is imprinted in my mind. My mum is gardening. Her fair hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and even though she’s crouching, you can see how petite she is. Her dungarees hang loosely from her shoulders, rolled up at the bottom above her tiny, bare feet. I take after my dad in every way, except . . . ‘It’s the eyes! Those are your eyes. That’s incredible.’
    I try to turn my attention away, and think about something else. I take a sip of my wine but all it does is make me realize how dry my mouth has become, and it hurts to swallow.
    â€˜I’m just nipping to the loo,’ I announce, turning quickly but catching the confusion on Ben’s face.
    Picking up my