The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square. Michele Gorman

the way he asked everyone how far they’d travelled and whether this was their first course. Daniel was on a first-name basis with everyone within a few hours.

      And that sums him up, really.

      It’s not his fault he dresses the way he does. He grew up in one of those five-story white-fronted mansions in West London, with rooms stuffed full of masterpieces and precious artwork and a pond in the back garden. They had people who answered the door for them and made them their meals. They count most heads of state as friends and Daniel’s godfather is a lord. It took me a while to realise that his parents are very nice people, despite sounding like the upstairs family from Downton Abbey. What a world away from the council house where I grew up with Mum and Dad. Our furniture is more Ikea than iconic and our friends drink pints, not Dom Pérignon. I don’t run across many poshies in my day-to-day life, except for the ones who occasionally come this way to stuff fivers into G-strings at the local strip club. And I don’t date them.

      With such an upbringing, Daniel sounds like he should be spoiled or at least a bit of an arse, right? It’s hard not to make assumptions when you hear about someone’s giant house and their servants and gap year holidays. But like I said, he’s kind and easy-going and generous, totally unflashy and not the least bit judgmental. It helped that I got to know all these things about him before I found out he was stonking rich. Otherwise, naturally I’d have presumed he was a wanker.

      That doesn’t mean we’re not from different worlds, only that the differences are more about our accents and experiences, not the things that really matter. That’s why I do give him full marks for trying to fit in, even if the slang sounds wrong with his plummy pronunciation. Besides, he totally ruins it with his next remarks.

      ‘I’ll just put the seeded bloomer in to toast, yah? It’s the last of the loaf before Waitrose delivers again. I think we’re out of hummus too.’

      He sounds straight off the estate, doesn’t he?

      I stop wringing the sopping cloth into my half-drunk coffee cup. If I’m ever kidnapped, the police will be able to trace my last movements through the string of unfinished hot drinks I’ve left behind. ‘Having your seeded bloomer toast before or after you fold clothes won’t make a difference to your lateness, you know.’

      When his face breaks into a cheeky smile, one dimple appears on the left side. That dimple! It hints at a mouth that’s usually lopsided with merriment. He can make me laugh at myself like nobody else. It’s one of the things that’s always charmed me. It would probably work now, but I’m too tired. ‘I think I’ll be more efficient, energy-wise, if I eat first,’ he says, glancing at his phone. ‘You’re right as usual, though. Just let me answer this one email. I’ll be quick.’

      But he’s not quick enough. By the time he finishes his toast I need him to change Grace while I do Oscar. Our children are messy at both ends. So the laundry will sit in a heap for another day as my award for Homemaker of the Year slips further away.

      Daniel waits till he’s at the front door to break his news casually to me. He thinks it cushions the blow to kiss me when he does it. Kisses or not, it feels like an ambush.

      ‘I’ve got to meet with Jacob quickly after work tonight.’ He nuzzles my neck. ‘Are you wearing a new perfume? It smells so good.’

      That would be the tea tree oil for the spot that’s come up on my forehead. ‘But you were out just the other night.’

      ‘That was last week, darling.’

      ‘Was it? Still, do you have to? I’ll be working at the café all day with Mum. I thought you could do tea for us tonight.’

      ‘Yah, I could have if you’d told me before now, but I’ve already said yes to Jacob. He says it’s rahly important, otherwise I’d cancel. I won’t be late, though. And don’t worry about supper for me. If it’s easier, I can grab a bite with Jacob while I’m out. I love you!’

      Yeah, sure it’s easier. Easier for him. ‘Love you too,’ I say quietly.

      And I do. I’m crazy about him. I just wish he was, I don’t know, more helpful. No, that’s not the right word, because he is almost always ready to help. It’s his follow-through that needs work.

      When the twins were tiny we were such a solid team: cuddling, changing, feeding, fussing, staring for hours in wonder and bewilderment. We did it all together. Even though he hasn’t got the feeding equipment to be of much practical use, he’d sit with us while I nursed our babies so that I wasn’t the only one awake.

      Now that they’re toddlers, he sleeps through the night even when we don’t. He will do what I ask of him, usually without grumbles. But I’ve become more of a lead singer to his backing vocals and the thing is, I never wanted a solo career.

      Grace raises her arms and mewls for a cuddle as soon as Daniel leaves, fixing me with the same long-lashed blue-eyed stare that he has. She’s as irresistible as he is, with her golden hair and dimples. Oscar’s got my family’s red tinge, which thrills Mum. It would be nice, though, for one of my children to have my dark hair or even the cowlick at the front that I can’t do anything with. Not that one should ever wish a cowlick on their children.

      There’s no time on the walk to my parents’ house for a proper grizzle about Daniel getting to go out tonight. Even walking slowly, it only takes fifteen minutes, plus time to stop for the toys, dummies and shoes the twins jettison from the pushchair along the way.

      It’ll be no use whinging to Mum when I get there either. She didn’t manage to hold our family together – raising me, making ends meet and looking after Dad while working her cleaning jobs – by being soft. She’ll only be her usual sensible self and tell me that I’m overreacting. It’s not like Daniel is out every night or comes home pissed. You heard him. It’s a once-a-week thing at most. And the world won’t end because he didn’t fold our pants. I’m just overtired. Looking after the children is a lot harder than I imagined.

      Says every parent in the world. Still, I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Well, maybe I would, just for half an hour so I could have a bath without an audience. I’d want them back, though, as soon as I was towelled off.

      ‘Good morning!’ I call into Mum and Dad’s house as I let myself in with my key. ‘You have a special delivery: two toddlers, fairly clean and ready to play!’

      They’re all in their usual spots in the lounge – Mum and Auntie Rose on the settees and Dad in his old reading chair that Mum has tried to get rid of for years.

      Dad’s face creases into a broad smile when he sees his grandchildren. ‘Come ’ere, me loves!’

      It’s hard to unbuckle them with all the wriggling. They’re in Dad’s lap as fast as their little legs will carry them across the lounge floor. ‘There’s me angels,’ he murmurs as he kisses the tops of their heads.

      ‘Hah, you should have seen them at breakfast.’

      ‘They’re angels to me.’

      He means it too. I don’t know what happened to the strict father I had to deal with growing up. He’s turned into a giant marshmallow of a man. ‘How come you never spoiled me like that?’

      ‘I would have if you’d smelled like biscuits,’ he says.

      ‘That’s not what they smelled like an hour ago.’

      You’d have thought Mum and Dad had won the lottery when I asked if they’d look after the twins for a few hours a day till I can get the café ready to open. Mum had the whole house baby-proofed, including Dad. She saw her chance with his chair, reciting a litany of childhood diseases that might lurk in its nubbly striped fabric. But Dad offered to get it cleaned and she hasn’t thought up a way around that. If she ever does manage to get rid of it, I just know Dad’s going to go too.

      He glances up. ‘How are you, love?’

      ‘Okay. Just tired, Dad.’

      ‘She’s