The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square. Michele Gorman

And there’s no Einstein on your father’s side, either. Must be some rogue gene making you so bookish. I’ve never seen another like you.’ I can hear the pride in her voice, like I always do.

      ‘That’s good,’ she continues as I pack away my books. ‘Look at you, about to graduate from university! You’re the only one of us who didn’t quit by sixteen. You’re going to do good things, Emma.’ She smiles. ‘You might even get out of here.’

      ‘I don’t want to get out of here!’ I say.

      ‘But you will, and there ain’t nothing wrong with that.’

      Her words echo in my head as I make my way to work. I know every single shop, school and business along the route, and quite a few of the people too. Some of them wave when they see me – there aren’t that many powder blue Vespas about. The rhythms of the street and its characters are as familiar to me as those in a little village would be to someone from the countryside. There might be more buildings and pollution and graffiti and crime, but this is home. Why would I ever want to leave?

      My colleague pulls up at the same time as me. ‘All right?’ Zane asks. I’ll smooth out his accent for you, which is Jamaican courtesy of Hackney Wick. If I were to spell it out, it’d have only vowels. He likes to lean and gurn when he talks too. He thinks it’s street.

      I pull up the shutters on the Vespa dealership while Zane starts wheeling the bikes out front. ‘Where’s the golden boy?’ he asks as he brings out my favourite scooter so I can motorhead all over it. It’s the Vespa of my dreams, the one they’ve put out for their seventieth anniversary. It’s top of the range with a 300cc engine, front and rear disc brakes and all the glamour of the old bikes.

      I don’t bother answering Zane’s question. It’s not really a question anyway. It’s an accusation aimed at our boss, Marco. The golden boy is his son, Ant – it’s short for Anthony, but he hates when anyone uses his full name.

      Our boss has a few scooter shops so he doesn’t spend much time at ours. Neither does his son, even though he’s paid to.

      I don’t mind that much. We’re not usually very busy anyway, and since the scooter sales are commissioned, the less competition the better. It bothers Zane, though. Which is why he asks every morning.

      I crack open my criminology book and Zane pulls a tattered paperback from his bag. This is the perfect job for me, really. It’s steady money – not much but steady – and I can do it with my eyes closed. I should be able to by now. I’ve worked here since just after my sixteenth birthday. It was either work in a shop or start The Knowledge to get my taxi badge. And Dad really didn’t want me doing that.

      ‘Why not?’ I’d asked. ‘Because I’m a girl?’

      He’d shaken his head. ‘Don’t be daft. It’s because I want more for you.’

      ‘Dad, I hate to break it to you, but working at the scooter shop isn’t exactly climbing the corporate ladder.’

      ‘No, but you won’t work there forever. It takes years to do The Knowledge. Once you do it, you’re not gonna want to change to something better.’

      I hadn’t known what to say to that. Dad never complained about being a cab driver. He had lots of friends in the business and it kept the roof over our heads.

      Now I know what he meant. Cab driving would have made me just comfortable enough to be stuck. Why give up a bit of comfort to start all over?

      Dad was right. As usual.

      I try to study, but it’s no use; I can’t concentrate. And Zane’s frustrating disinterest in my wedding plans means I have to wedge it awkwardly into conversation myself. Lucky him. He’s stuck with me till we clock off at five.

      ‘Zane, your sister got married, didn’t she?’

      ‘Both of them did,’ he says, sucking his teeth. Tall and slender with baby-smooth warm brown skin and cheekbones that are wasted on a guy, he’s good-looking when he’s not pulling faces. He’s got a tattoo all up his neck that I know for a fact made him cry when they did it, but maybe people who don’t know him are impressed when they see it.

      ‘Where’d they have their receptions?’

      Teeth suck. ‘Eyeono.’

      ‘How can you not know? Didn’t you go to them?’

      ‘Aw, yeah.’ He thinks, nodding his head, which is covered in little braids that stick up in all directions. ‘We had a party at the Jam Club, in the room at the back.’

      I know the place. It’s a reggae bar that makes Uncle Colin’s pub look like Hampton Court Palace. Imagine Daniel’s family toasting our nuptials with cans of Red Stripe while everyone twerks to Bob Marley on the sound system.

      Daniel is outside the Overground station after work, watching the market’s ebb and flow as he waits for me.

      The fish traders are starting to clear up, emptying their styrofoam crates of ice and water and stacking them. If it swims, they sell it. Technically they’re Kelly’s competitors, but in reality they’re not. Everyone’s got their place in the market. They know their customers, and there’s an unwritten rule that nobody steps on toes, so everyone has enough custom.

      That’s not to say that tempers don’t flare with everyone living cheek by jowl here. But the shouting today is just the vendors trying to draw the punters’ attention, especially now it’s nearly the end of the day and they want to flog the perishables before going home.

      If I change my point of view, I can just about see what Daniel is seeing, though it’s not easy. Everything is so familiar to me. I see my neighbours in the veiled faces of the Asian women and old schoolmates in the lairy hoodies out-boasting each other next to the camera and phone stall.

      Daniel isn’t sticking out too badly in his navy V-neck jumper and jeans. The guys around here do wear V-necks, though not usually over button-down collared work shirts. And definitely not tied over their shoulders. For his own good I had to put a stop to that the first time Daniel tried it here.

      It’s the rest of the area that doesn’t quite fit with Daniel. The market isn’t neat and neutral like where he’s from in Chelsea. There you know you’ll see manicured trees and grass, shiny black railings and white-fronted houses, well-dressed people, clean cars and designer shops. The sounds will be of traffic and, in quiet corners, birdsong.

      Just as Daniel sees me, two of our neighbourhood junkies reel by with their cans of Strongbow. Daniel jams his hands in his jeans pockets.

      ‘Don’t worry, they won’t nick your wallet,’ I call as I approach for a kiss. ‘They never bother anyone.’

      He drapes his arm round my shoulder. ‘Yah, I wasn’t worried.’

      ‘Then stop looking like you’re about to face a firing squad. We’re only going for a walk before the pub. It’s perfectly safe.’

      He’s already worked out that this is Jack the Ripper territory, though he doesn’t know that one of the murders happened right behind the train station he just came from. The less grim local history that he and his family know, the better, I think.

      ‘Am I that obvious? It’s not rahly my milieu, is it?’

      Who says milieu in normal conversation? ‘Not if you talk like that, it’s not. You know, Chelsea is just as hard for me to get used to as this is for you.’ I look round at the older women in colourful sarees and young ones in trendy hijabs. Two Caribbean women sweep by in brightly embroidered caftans and matching head wraps. This is my milieu, as long as we’re being poncey about it. ‘It’s intimidating seeing all those people walking around your neighbourhood wearing expensive clothes.’ I’m only half joking as I lead him away from the station.

      ‘East End girl meets West End boy,’ he says.

      ‘There’s a song in that.’

      He laughs.