‘Do you have a car?’ I ask while driving.

‘DUI,’ he says.

‘Oh, how long ago?’

‘Three years now.’

‘Must be up by now, then.’

He shrugs. ‘Was never much of a car man myself.’

Think of how, when I first saw him, I’d imagined him driving the latest BMW, regularly serviced, all polished chrome and leather. I know the other guys pictured him driving some lean machine too. Impressions, instincts, off whack.

‘Don’t you miss your old job?’

‘Rather not talk about that,’ he says as he turns the radio up loud. Rainy with showers, temperature falling below zero at nightfall.

I can’t believe I let him leave the animals outside.

After parking up, I turn to him. ‘Actually, probably better if you don’t come.’

‘Jesus, Sonya, talk about not knowing your own mind!’ He gets out, closing the door behind him. ‘I honestly think it’ll look better if there’s a man in your life. Trust me.’

We walk to the back gate, where other parents are waiting, mostly women on their own, their husbands at work.

‘Do you have your ID to hand?’ David whispers.

The children tumble out the back door in groups of twos and threes. Tommy emerges last, the same woman from earlier shadowing him.

He’s staring at David.

‘Where’s Herbie?’

There he goes with that perfect ‘r’ again.

‘Ah, there you are.’ The woman trots up to me.

I hand her the passport in silence.

‘I hope you understand it’s only for the boy’s welfare. We hadn’t met you before. It was his previous carer who used to bring him in…’ She trails off, then offers her hand to David: ‘Mrs White.’

Heat rises and crawls across my skin.

‘Thank you, Mrs White, for your concern. Have you had a good look?’ David gestures at the passport unopened in the woman’s red, raw hands, which look like they’ve washed too many dishes unprotected.

She opens it, flustered, pretends to read the front page, then hands it back.

‘I’d have thought you’d have been made aware that Tommy is back with his mother?’

The teacher regains her composure and studies David carefully for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, and you are?’

‘David Smythe.’ He speaks his name as if she should know who he is.

‘I hadn’t been informed of a partner.’

‘I’m a family friend.’

I hate myself for this, but I start to blurt, wanting the woman’s approval: ‘David is a solicitor and a trained counsellor, Mrs White.’

He hands her his business card, smiles. ‘Now, come on, Tommy. We’ve a birthday party to plan.’

The teacher studies the card a moment, then says in a strained, forced manner: ‘Ah yes, lucky boy, Tommy. Who’s a lucky boy?’

‘Come on, now, Tommy.’ I take hold of his hand.

David looks at me, winks, and the two of us move to hold him under each arm and swing him high in the air. It feels so natural. ‘One, two, three, wheee!’ Tommy’s body goes hard. I know that signal and I want to tell David to stop, but the teacher is watching us closely.