‘Sonya, did you hear a word I said?’

‘About my father vouching for me, yes.’

‘And after? Obligatory aftercare for both you and Tommy.’

‘Yes, yes, of course…’

Maureen looks unconvinced, but not all that bothered, which makes me suspect my instinct was right – she’s overworked and under-resourced. I study her slack face and body, burrow deeper: she’s seen it all. Here she is, letting a little boy go back to a woman who’s capable of suffocating him with a surfeit of love – or is it need? The memory of that night twitches in me, terrifies me. Was it the booze, or will I be worse without it?

I go to the plastic spider plant on the windowsill, perfectly placed to drink in the sun’s rays, and rub my finger and thumb over its shiny surface.

‘Very lifelike,’ I say to Maureen, who doesn’t look up from her paperwork. I lean in to smell it. Artificial. Toxic. Obnoxious. What’s the point of such a thing?

A polite knock on the door interrupts.

Maureen looks up from her file. ‘He’s here.’

I nod. Don’t know where to look, what to do with my hands, how to stand. I am a seagull – no – no, I am an actress. My seagull has broken a wing and is thrashing about in the undergrowth. Feed me the lines, someone, please. A recurring nightmare in the run-up to opening nights. A prompt, please.

Tommy is ushered in by the lurcher-lady from last time, who doesn’t even bother to exchange a hello, just gently pushes him in, leaves him there. He seems swamped by the space in the room. He’s wearing a new tracksuit, all synthetic shine. Who thought that was a good idea?

‘Hello, Tommy.’

He shakes his head, hands deep in his pointless oversized pockets.

‘How are you, sweetheart?’

He stuffs his hands further in his pockets, as if he’d like to lose himself in them.

‘Herbie and Marmie are the best of friends now!’

His eyes dart around the room, alighting on nothing.

‘Marmie?’ Maureen asks.

‘Our kitten.’

Maureen looks back down. ‘That’ll be nice, won’t it, Tommy?’

He says nothing.

‘They can’t wait to see you, T.’

‘Sonya, are you going to tell Tommy the good news, or will I?’

I’m building up to it; trying to establish a connection first.

‘Tommy?’

I will him to look at me.

‘Maureen has said you can come home with me next week.’

He scuffs one of his ridiculous new trainers, with flashing lights set into the soles. What sort of a person—?

‘Tommy, don’t…’ My voice is high.

Maureen audibly sighs, and I can’t blame her. Some mother’s instinct.

‘Did you hear that, Tommy? You get to go home with Mummy next week?’ Maureen asks.

He says nothing.

‘Are you ok with that, Tommy?’

He’s four – shouldn’t have to answer questions like that.

‘Is everything ok, Tommy?’

‘Yes, thank you. Can I bring my Jupiter?’

‘Jupiter?’

He makes a sound like a fire engine in a cartoon: nee naw, nee naw.