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“You have quite the imagination,” I say.

“My mum always told me that when I was younger. She said I should put it to good use and write stories.”

“She’s right,” I agree, then cringe. “Is your mum still around?”

“Oh God, yes. My dad too. The pair of them are the pillar of good health and will probably live until they’re one hundred, I hope,” she tells me. “They’re supposedly retired, but I use that word lightly, as I don’t think my dad will ever retire properly. My mum was an art dealer and still meddles in all things arty, and my dad was an accountant. He retired a few years ago but still does the books for friends and family, and he’s working part-time at a fishing shop. Honestly, the man just can’t seem to slow down. I think he’s working more now than before he retired.” She fidgets with her hands on the table. “What about your folks?”

“My dad passed away when I was nineteen,” I tell her quickly.

“I’m so sorry.” There’s a second when I think she’s going to thrust her hand out to grab mine, but she doesn’t, and I heave a sigh.

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“And your mum?” she asks like she’s about to push me out of an aeroplane with no parachute.

“She’s still with us and as feisty as ever. She’s probably heading up the Irish Mafia or running a drug cartel,” I say.

Alice laughs. She thinks I’m joking, but then she must register the look of sincerity on my face and says, “Seriously?”

“Probably,” I confirm, remembering the last time I spoke to my mum. She was telling me about some of her new ideas for improving the neighbourhood watch committee, which included enlisting the help of a friend of a friend who had given word that he knew a guy who knew a guy who could acquire handbag-sized Tasers.

“Geez.” She whistles through her teeth.

I check my watch. “We should probably get back.”

We have seven minutes until our lunch break is over, and it takes three minutes to get back upstairs, one minute to return my lunchbox to my locker, and two minutes and forty seconds to visit the men’s room.

“I don’t want Jamal sending out a search party for you,” I add.

We gather our things and make our way back into the building.

“What’s your favourite colour?” Alice asks as we climb the stairs. I glance at her, and I must look puzzled, because she adds, “It’s the kind of thing I should probably know about you.”

“Navy blue,” I reply.

“Wow, that’s very specific. Mine is pink, although I’d never tell anyone that, as it makes me sound about eight, so I’d probably say that my favourite colour’s teal.”

There she goes again, hiding who she is. But who am I to judge? I hide behind my scowl every day.

“Okay, favourite food?” she continues.

“Difficult one. I like food, but I’m quite picky.”

“Right, well, mine is ice cream, but again, it makes me sound like a little girl, so I’d go with something a little more sophisticated, like hummus.”

“Hummus?” I wince.

“Yeah. What’s wrong with hummus?”

“No one likes hummus. People eat it to be healthy and feel better about themselves, but no one actually likes the stuff.”

“Do you like it?” she asks.

“No.” I shiver at the thought of the mushy mess in the little plastic tubs.

“Have you ever tried it?”

“No.”