“Yeah… unfortunately,” Robbie scowls.
“Crikey, he was a total control freak. We used to call him hairy Hoffman.” I whisper conspiratorially in Robbie’s ear, “he only liked the bright students, which excluded me and most of the class. Maths was my worst subject.”
We wait behind a couple who are seated at his table. Robbie is quiet but Dad is quite chatty. He’s telling me about the tomatoes he’s growing in the greenhouse, when Mr Hoffman motions abruptly for us to sit down. I perch on the edge of the chair feeling like a fifteen year old again.
“Ah Ms Henry,” his smile is sly and his eyes are cold as they travel over me, “still working in the baker’s shop?”
“Yep,” I grit my teeth, “still working hard.”
He leans across me to shake Dad’s hand.
“Robbie, Robbie, Robbie,” he begins, “t
