As the car heats, fog forms on the windows. I draw a heart on the windscreen, keeping one hand on the steering wheel, and write ‘Mummy loves you’ inside it. ‘Tommy, look.’ I trace the letters with my fingertip, reading aloud. He opens his eyes, squinting, leans into Herbie, tries to hug him, arms only reaching a third of the way around his wide girth. The dog moans, a happy contented sound. ‘Good boy, Herbie, best boy.’ His thick tail thumps on the tatty nylon seats. ‘My best boys, what would I do without you?’ At the next traffic light there’s a man beside us who nods madly, winds his window down and shouts: ‘It’s not every day. Lucky day. Lucky me. Alright, darlin’?’ I ignore him until the traffic lights shift to green, when I give him the finger as I speed off, tendrils of his voice hanging in the air: ‘Yup, I’d like that alright…’ My adrenalin spikes as I realise he’s following me, or is he, or is that mad imp deluding me? ‘Not too long now,’ I say to my two boys in the back, who are still cuddled into each other. I turn to the right, checking the mirror, and see him still, but then, no, it’s not him, he was just having his fun, harmless fun, it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok. My heartbeat slows down as I think of the promise waiting for me in the fridge. I’m glad I had the foresight to do that: chill it. It’s hot in the car now and it’s still warm outside.

Pulling up at the row of tiny terraced red-brick cottages, I pray that none of the snoops are lurking behind their half-slatted blinds. That Mrs O’Malley, always butting in, dropping in home-made bread for ‘the little mite’. I know how to make Tommy happy with his orange food: his cornflakes and marmalade and baked beans and fish fingers and Cheddar cheese. Meat is dead animal flesh; I had to tell him that. Not the fish, though, I don’t tell him about the fish being hooked and whacked over the head. He won’t eat anything remotely resembling green – something to do with mould. He’s not undersized or anything, but then I don’t know any other four-year-olds. I cover myself as best I can with the skimpy towel and run up the tangled path to the front door, painted a shocking pink by my own hand, sploshed and botched. ‘Let yourselves in,’ I shout as I tear into the one bedroom we all share. I rip off my wet underwear and open the top drawer, a jumble of socks, bras and knickers, manage to locate a clean pair, before finding myself in the kitchen in just my pants in front of the fridge.

‘Yaya, you’ve no clothes on.’ Tommy’s voice is at the kitchen door. I hear his footsteps padding into the front room, the tip-tapping of Herbie accompanying him, then the sudden burst of noise as the TV blares. ‘Too loud,’ I shout. He doesn’t lower the volume – maybe he didn’t hear me, or maybe he’s trying to annoy me. I twist the top off the bottle and am tempted to glug from the neck – need to cool, to soothe – but force myself to open a cupboard and get a glass. A mark of staying civilised, even with no one to witness me. Particularly with no one to witness me. This delicate white deserves a glass, the space to aerate. Pour, sip daintily, then throw my neck back and drink the whole thing in one go. Instantly I relax. How tense that woman made me feel, that man in the car – other people, fuck them – and I pour myself a second glass. A faint burning in my stomach, a mellow warmth spreading in my chest. By the third I find I can swallow, breathe, swallow, breathe. Like swimming.