I hold it up to her face and click through the photos. They’re kind of all the same, but when you look at them in quick succession you get a sense of the way Anna moves, the way Sasha waves her arm around and smiles. I go through them all twice, and then forward and back and forward and back until Ariel smiles and nods to say that’s enough.

‘Shall I go?’ I say, and Ariel nods. Then I realize I have a better idea. What’s better than leaving? Making Ariel laugh is better than leaving.

I walk to the front of the room and stand on the teacher’s desk. ‘O Captain! My Captain!’ I bellow, hoping she’s seen the film. I look across and see her stifling a laugh. I jump on to the nearest table, and then leap from desk to desk across the room. I climb up the shelves to the ceiling and fling myself on to the floor. I start singing. I sing ‘Common People’, giving it my best Jarvis impression. I do my crap cartwheels round the room, channelling Lara.

I look at Ariel from time to time. I see her watching me, eyes wide. I see her cover her mouth with a hand. Biting her lip. Rolling her eyes. Then she sits up and says, ‘No, sorry. I’m fine, thanks,’ in a voice that means she’s being pulled up by a teacher.

I am lying on my back on the floor, singing ‘Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa, Po!’ at the top of my voice when I hear someone clearing their throat in the doorway, and Mrs Dupont says, ‘Joe? Joe Simpson? Is that you?’

Fuck it. I don’t care any more, so I jump to my feet and say, ‘Why yes, it is. You’re going to marry my dad, Mrs Dupont. I hope you’ll be very happy together.’

Things start to follow the usual route: they want to call Dad and I know how it goes from there. I decide to let it happen. I want to see him, and I’ll end up at Beachview no matter what.

I sit in the car and watch him drive. I don’t bother to pick up the piece of McDonald’s wrapper that’s next to my foot this time. Dad has put on a jumper over his work polo shirt: I think he’s going for a Cornish fisherman look, but the effect is actually more Christmas Day. He’s so perfect. I hate to imagine what he’s been going through for the past twenty years.

‘What’s up with you, Jojo?’ he says as he drives. ‘Care to talk about it? You don’t have to go on the French trip, you know. Your well-being is the only thing that matters. Shall I get Mum to come home?’