A part of me wants to soften, to yield, but ‘sweetheart’ – no man has ever called me that before and it doesn’t sit. I’m not that; I’ve no desire to be anybody’s that. I want to push him away, throw him out of the house, but can’t risk traumatising Tommy with dramatics on his first night home.

‘Thanks,’ I mumble against his chest. ‘Thanks.’

‘Any time, you know that.’

‘It was just a moment, you know that.’

I gently push him away, look into his eyes, fight an urge to shake my head to clear it of the build-up. It’s all going on in there now. He leans in to kiss me on the lips; I let him. ‘Right, let’s tell him you’re staying, will we?’ He kisses me again.

I open the door. ‘Tommy, David’s going to have a sleepover. That ok?’

Tommy nods, not by his own volition, as if controlled by a puppetmaster.

‘Where does he sleep, Sonya?’

He knows well there’s only one bed in this house.

‘Maybe you should give the boy his space and you can sleep out here with me?’

Tommy shakes his head, snapping those strings.

‘It’s ok, Tommy. I’m coming in with you.’

Tommy looks sideways at David.

‘Herbie, Marmie,’ Tommy says. ‘Come.’

And the cat and the dog walk as one, trailing him.

‘Time for a bedtime story,’ I say to David, who settles himself on the couch, before I too follow Tommy into the bedroom.

Tommy pulls out a large picture book of Fireman Sam.

‘What about Yaya’s made-up stories? Our wave-riding adventures, Tommy?’

He screws up his eyes, shakes his head, then takes his clothes off and neatly places them on the chair.

‘Do you need a hand, Tommy?’

His body hardens. I know that signal. Once he has dressed himself and is under the quilt, I invite Herbie and Marmie up. Tommy looks pleased. I start to read about Sam, a minuscule plastic fireman who loves to be on time; when he hears that bell chime, he puts on his coat and hat in less than seven seconds flat! Oh, please. I try to ape the sound of a real-life fire engine but fail spectacularly. I try making up a different, more exciting, imaginary story, throw in a few flying roos and ginormous waves called Walter and Wendy, and far-off lands made of chocolate diamonds, but Tommy stops me.

‘That’s not it. Start again.’

I sort of fudge the words a little: ‘The little yellow fellow with the jutting jaw is the hero next door... He’s an avid timekeeper with his bright, clean engine (yes, really!) – whohoo...’

Tommy looks suspiciously at me before he starts to sing his own version: ‘Hurry, hurry, Mr Cool and Calm Sam the Fireman... Cos he’s gonna save the day...’

I lean in to kiss him on his forehead and continue reading until he stops singing and his breathing slows down. Come on, Sam!

41

David is lounging, socks off, feet on the coffee table, reading Bonjour Tristesse. ‘No wonder, Sonya,’ he says, and grins.