‘Who come to the party, Yaya?’

Clare, Maureen, Father, Lara, David? Not much of a crew for a five-year-old.

‘What about your pals from school, Tommy?’

He shrugs. ‘Miss Maeve,’ he says.

‘Your teacher? Do you like her?’

‘She gave me gold stars.’

He’s engrossed in rubbing Pritt Stick glue on a blank page and shaking the tube of glitter in uneven triangular shapes.

‘Tommy, that is truly beautiful!’

He looks at me, delighted. I clear my throat, speak low: Come into my orbit. ‘Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night.’

Tommy looks thrilled. I climb on to the couch, smooth down my dress, engage my full, sonorous voice: ‘Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die… Go on, Tommy… What’s next?’

He stands and sprinkles glitter on the paper from a height. ‘Take him and cut him out in little stars…’

‘Yes? What’s next, you twinkly, brilliant boy?’

‘Fowget, Yaya.’

‘And he will make the face of heaven so fine…’ I prompt him.

‘That all the world will love Mr Sunshiny and fowget Mr Night!’

‘Magnificent paraphrasing, Tommy, you really are my little genius!’

‘Bow-wow-wow, Yaya!’

I curtsy and a cloud of glitter falls on my head. Tommy is throwing fistfuls like confetti. A twisting sensation in my guts. I need it to stop.

‘Ok, that’s enough, now. Are you going to hoover all that up?’

Again, that inherited gift for puncturing any happiness. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

‘I’m sorry, Tommy, I didn’t mean…’

Tommy ignores me and doesn’t try to make it all alright, like he normally would.

I continue, ‘How about we make your very first party invitations and you can take them to school tomorrow?’

He sticks the end of a red crayon stick in his mouth.

‘Yumptious scrumptious blood, Mr Dracool!’ I boom, baring my fangs.

Not a trace of a smile. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

‘This party, Tommy. How many invitations do we need? Ten, twenty?’

Shit, a children’s party. How do I do that? I’ll probably need to provide entertainment. Musical statues, I can do that, pass the parcel, what else? I can dress up, draw on my past, wear a tutu, dance with some sparklers. A fiery fairy godmother! I’ll track down Mr Fire Blower. My thoughts are speeding up.

‘Yaya?’

That bloody imp has made a shadowy appearance. If I don’t bring any attention to her, she can’t climb inside. Exert a little bit of fucking effort, Sonya.

I breathe deeply. ‘What do you think, Tommy? We can have all your little friends over on Saturday, get fairy lights, cupcakes, krispies, paper hats, sparklers, Catherine wheels…’ Excitement is building. That hazy memory about those spinning wheels of fire catches hold of me. A bright, sparkling moment. There were happy times too.

‘Yaya?’ he tries to cut in again.

‘Who are your friends, Tommy?’

He looks at me blankly.

‘Didn’t you tell David all about school?’

He lifts his shoulders slightly.

‘Why won’t you talk to your own mother?’ My voice is speedy, high. ‘And after all I’ve given up for you?’ A dark shadow is nipping at my heels. I try to kick it off. ‘Tommy, I need names. Names, Tommy, names.’