‘Ok, troops, shall we head for home?’ I say after half an hour of traipsing, stopping, cajoling the cat, being stared at. Bloody weekend walkers. They’re everywhere, with their stupid, damp, stinking woollen bobble hats. Tommy shouts ‘YES’ and runs back towards the car faster than I’ve ever seen him. A sprinter, a speeder, like me. We trot after him, his voice trailing in the soggy air: ‘Race ya, slowcoaches.’ And I do what any ‘normal’ parent would do – I slow down so my son can win. I never used to be able to let him win at anything.

We pile into the car, steam rising, and yes, stinking to high heaven. I roll down all the windows, crank the music up, foot to the accelerator, and this time Tommy joins in with my squeals of excitement, though the animals just press themselves tight against the back seat, quivering.

‘Where to, Tommy?’ I shout.

‘Gandad’s,’ he says.

‘Ok, hang tight…’

I wasn’t able to get through to him this morning, of course I wasn’t, but I left a measured, polite message saying that Tommy and myself would love to see him, and would it be ok if we called around. It shouldn’t be too much of a shock if we all land.

I leave Marmie and Herbie in the car, tell them I won’t be long. Press down on the doorbell, start off polite, then leave it a little longer, becoming more insistent. I know they’re in there, the car is in the driveway. He couldn’t possibly be ignoring me at such an important time in Tommy’s life, and mine. The heat is rising, the music an indistinct murmur. Her outline is forming when Tommy interrupts: ‘Maybe Gandad is not in, Yaya?’

Patience, Sonya, patience. I roll the word around in my mouth and it’s sticky and sweet, like a marshmallow. I swallow. Hard to digest.

Tommy puts his hand in mine, and I feel myself flow back down inside myself.

I look at him, wink. ‘Yes, you’re right, lovie. Thank you for making me see the obvious!’

He smiles, relieved.

‘Where to now, Tommy?’

‘Time to feed the aminals?’ he says.

‘Shall we all get pizza?’

‘Do cats eat pizza?’ He sounds amazed at the idea.

‘Probably not, but we can get some and then go home and open her can of yack.’

‘Yackety-yack,’ he says, and holds his nose.

The thought of seeing that rude little madam at the pizzeria again charges my body with adrenalin. I haven’t forgotten how she publicly humiliated me. And suddenly my mind is focused only on one thing: revenge. Displaced, maybe, but still.

There’s a different person behind the counter. My mood plummets, I really needed to let off steam with that little so-and-so, but this is undoubtedly a young man, and from his back, he’s broad and well muscled, probably a gym addict. I’m just about to give him a piece of advice about ‘all things in moderation, sonny’ (as I’m in no doubt he’s a steroid guzzler), when the boy turns and looks into my eyes. Mr Kittens/Black sacks/Stones. The boy from the cafe. He smiles, snarky, provocative. What’s he doing this side of town?