Daisy’s mother starts nodding frantically in agreement, twisting her hands together as she looks anxiously between the open gate and the hordes of people watching the fireworks burst over our heads, panic starting to creep across her features. The mousy woman tidying the tickets whispers something, but before I can ask her to repeat it, there is a huge cheer as the grand finale of the fireworks goes off, and to my horror I see people start to turn to depart, gathering up small children with their glow sticks, stumbling over discarded polystyrene cups and sweet wrappers as they make their way through the field back towards the still open gate and the darkened lane that leads out and away towards the main roads.

‘Anna!’ Fran careers across the field, her feet almost sliding out from under her, her hat pushed right back on her head. Her eyes are glittery, and her cheeks flushed, and I think at first that it’s all OK, that Laurel was just locked in the loo after all. ‘Did you find her?’

My heart sinks. Fran is flushed from her frantic searching, not because it’s all over.

‘Anna? Did you find her?’ Fran repeats, and I shake my head.

‘No. No one has seen her. I checked with Pete at the barbecue station, and I asked the PTA mums at the admissions table, but none of them have seen her.’

‘Fuck.’ Fran pulls her hat off and shoves her hand through her glossy black bob, her eyes combing the scene behind me, as people now flood towards the open gate. ‘LAUREL!’ she shouts, grabbing my hand and pulling me back into the field, back into the thick of the dispersing crowd. ‘LAUREL!’ We both take up the cry, and a thick knot of fear rises up in my chest as the thought skitters across the back of my mind that maybe, maybe Laurel hasn’t got lost.

‘Mrs Jessop? Mrs Smythe on the PTA tells me we have a missing child. Is that right?’ Mr Abbott, head teacher at Oxbury Primary appears in front of me as I struggle to keep up with Fran.

‘I’m not Mrs . . . yes, she’s missing. Laurel . . . her name is Laurel,’ I manage to stutter. ‘We can’t find her.’

‘Right, try not to panic, the chances are she’s just wandered off somewhere.’ His voice is calm, but his brow is creased with concern. ‘Where did you last see her?’ I ramble on about Fran getting drinks and using the bathroom, before impatiently pushing past him and catching up to Fran, who is yanking open the doors to the portaloos again.

‘I thought maybe I missed one,’ Fran sighs. ‘I thought she might have gone in there after I checked. Did you ask the people who were serving at the bar?’