But, for all the smiles, and the stilted chat about the food, Graeme can see there is something inescapable happening. Aaron is growing up, and with that comes a haunted look that settles around his eyes. He’s always been damaged – there is nothing anyone can do to fix that. But it’s heartbreaking to see him realise it.

He’ll get out when he’s twenty-one. It’s easier not to think about what will happen to him then.

At home, Graeme takes down all the pictures. Rose using spot cream. Rose on a phone. Rose in trainers, Rose in a dress. Rose on the red carpet, twirling in the moment that everyone suddenly began to look at her.

There are no photos of Aaron.

At night, he sees Rose in his dreams, still. She’s young, eleven, stick-thin, her uniform hanging from her like she’s not even there. She looks at him, with those hungry eyes, and then he wakes, filled with disgust.

He wasn’t the worst of them, he knows. But that’s not enough.

Just before the final bell, on the last day of the autumn term, four days before Christmas, Paula’s PA tells her that Dillon Caldwell wants to talk to her.

She knows what this will be about, and it makes her uncomfortable.

But it must be done. This is her job too.

‘Hi, Dillon,’ she says. He steps in. He’s taller than she remembers. They are always taller than she remembers.

‘Hi, Mrs Jackson.’

His hair is short. His Adam’s apple is pronounced. He is thinner, leaner, more male than he was, and yet suddenly, strikingly, pretty.

Even a few months can do this. They walk differently. They bloom into the bone-sharp beauty of young adulthood.

She wants to smile, but she holds back. She’s well used to being a teacher now, but still it can take you by surprise, how we get from there to here. There’s no map. She’s still not sure how she found her way.

Dillon’s eyes dart uneasily around the room.

‘Have a seat, Dillon.’

He sits.

‘How can I help?’

Dillon casts his eyes down, then up at her. He looks directly at her.

‘Mr Bradman said he’s leaving.’

Paula nods. She waits. She needs to play her part.

‘I don’t think it’s right.’

‘It is his choice,’ Paula says gently.

‘But you made him leave.’

Dillon has a fierce look now. He is hunched forward. She can still see the little round-faced boy in him, but only just.

‘You know we had to do that investigation,’ she says.

Dillon shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. He gave me a hug. That’s ridiculous.’ He is speaking confidently now, angry, but in control. ‘He was the teacher I knew best, and he saw I was struggling. My mum died, and it was difficult, and he was punished for helping me.’