On Saturday lunchtime, I find an old instant-noodle meal at the back of the cupboard behind two rusting, out-of-date tinned peaches.

I pour the boiling water into the plastic pot and watch as the powdery noodles and lumps of tomato swell into fat, moist tapeworm and blood clots. The morsels that were probably once fresh carrots, morph into mushy orange globs like the sort that sink to the bottom of the toilet bowl when you throw up.

It sounds gross but tastes really nice, and it’s definitely tons better than eating an egg on mouldy toast without any butter.

I’m a minute into the noodle waiting time when I hear the front door bang open.

My heart nearly jumps into my mouth, but then Dad barrels through, carrying his big overnight bag in one hand and clutching a couple of carrier bags full of food shopping in the other.

‘You’re back!’

I forget the noodles and rush over to Dad, taking the shopping bags from him before peering inside.

Pizza. Pop. Biscuits.

Result.

Dad ruffles my hair with his free hand. ‘I got away a bit earlier, thought I’d surprise you.’

‘Great!’ I grin and start to put the shopping away.

‘I’d have been here sooner but I got a call on the way home. Someone’s vandalized the Expressions building again,’ Dad says grimly. ‘I called in on the way home to board up a couple of windows.’

I put the loaf of bread back down on the worktop and look at him.

‘Do they know who’s doing it?’ I ask. ‘The damage.’

‘Probably just bored local kids, little boggers. It’s sorted now anyway.’ Dad shrugs. ‘Any chance of a cuppa? Swine of a journey it was, another nasty accident on the M1.’

I make Dad a hot drink while he unlaces his heavy work boots and changes into his paint-spattered tracky bottoms and a T-shirt with gaping holes under the arms.

I think about telling him about the person I saw hanging around the Expressions building, but the fact was I didn’t actually see anything. Just the shadow of a person – a movement out of the corner of my eye and then nothing.

Whoever it was had just seemed to disappear in front of my eyes.

Dad comes back into the sitting room, but instead of drinking his tea in front of the telly like he usually would, he sits next to me on the settee.

‘Had a good week?’ He takes a noisy slurp of tea and looks straight at me.

I think about what’s happened. Getting a one-day exclusion and registering with the school counsellor.

‘’S’all right.’ I shrug and leave it at that.

Dad puts his tea on the floor and sighs. He’s got this stretched smile stuck to his face that looks out of place.

He picks up his mug again.

‘Did you have a good week?’ I ask, just for something to say.

‘I did, lad. I did.’

Dad keeps letting out loud sighs like he’s out of breath, but he can’t be. He’s just sitting here doing nothing.

‘Are you OK, Dad?’ I peer at him.

Dad squirms in his seat. His shoulders are hunched up and his face looks flushed.

‘I’m fine. Couldn’t be better, to tell you the truth.’ He coughs and puts his mug down again. ‘I’m good.’

‘It’s just you seem a bit, I don’t know . . .’ I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Different.’

Dad laughs and his shoulders drop away from his ears a bit.

‘Can’t get anything past you, can I?’ He clears his throat and takes a breath in. ‘Thing is, Cal, I’ve – well, I’ve met someone.’

‘Is it about a new building project?’

This might be a good time to tell Dad about my idea to go out on a few jobs with him over the summer.

‘It’s not a job, no. No.’ Dad’s knee jiggles up and down. ‘I mean, I’ve met someone. A woman.’

‘A woman?’ I repeat faintly.

Dad . . . and a woman?

I can’t think of anything to say. My forehead feels hot and damp like it did just before I got chicken pox two years ago.

Dad watches me and I manage to stretch a weak smile across my face.

He shuffles to the edge of the seat cushion then and starts talking more than he’s talked to me in a year. At least, it feels that way.

‘She’s a bit younger than me, but then age is just a number, isn’t it? She’s brilliant, Cal. Beautiful, bright, funny, she’s everything I never thought I’d have again, after – well, you know.’

Mum.

‘I wanted to tell you because Angie – that’s her name – well, she’s dying to come over. She says she wants to meet this brilliant son I’ve told her all about.’

I get a tight feeling across my chest and back like when I had to wear a rented suit for Dad’s best mate’s wedding.

Dad is still talking but I’ve stopped listening – I just watch him instead. He looks alive and energetic in a way I’ve never seen before. I just need to get rid of this lump in my throat and say something to show I’m happy for him.

When it all sinks in, I know I’ll feel happy for him.

Dad slaps his hand down on my shoulder. A splash of tea escapes his mug and scalds my thigh through my jeans.

‘Me and you, lad, we’re like this –’ He makes a fist in front of my face to show me just how tight we are. ‘Nothing could ever come between us. You know that, don’t you?’

I nod and the lump in my throat dislodges a bit but then settles itself a bit higher up.

I don’t see that much of Dad for the rest of the weekend.

He paints his bedroom on Saturday afternoon and then goes out early on Sunday buying new towels and bedding and getting a load of posh food and booze in while I tidy round the flat.

Usually when he gets home, Dad puts his phone on charge in the kitchen and leaves it there all weekend. But all weekend, his phone dings every few minutes with incoming texts, and every time I look at him, if he’s not reading them, he’s sending his own messages.

‘Angie’s coming over tomorrow night,’ Dad announces at Sunday teatime, when he finally sits down to watch the match with me. ‘We can all have a nice meal together.’

Maybe it’s not such a bad thing after all, this Angie being around. If Dad intends keeping the cupboards and fridge stocked up.

‘Can we open that carrot cake you bought tonight?’ I smack my lips together, imagining the moist, spiced sponge and the buttercream icing.

‘Let’s wait till Angie gets here, shall we?’ Dad pulls his eyes away from the telly and looks at me as if he’s going to say something else, but then his eyes flick back to the game.

After a bit he winks and says, ‘Angie’s bringing someone with her. I think you’ll enjoy getting to know him; in fact I’m certain of it. You two could even become great friends.’

I reckon she’s got a dog, but he’s keeping me guessing. I’ve always wanted one but Dad says it wouldn’t be fair on an animal, stuck in the flat all day while I’m out at school and he’s working away all week.

‘Oh yeah, what’s his name, this someone?’ I grin, playing along.

‘You’ll find out when you meet him tomorrow.’ Dad takes a swig from his beer can. ‘It’ll be a nice surprise.’