Assi had resurfaced for his birthday weekend before going to ground again. They’d enjoyed their time away, Sarah told me, the hot springs in particular. But he’d stood her up this past weekend, on Saturday night, and still hadn’t replied to her calls and texts. In his absence, she’d taken Zac to a party with some of Valentino’s friends while Biddy and I watched over the kids. She’d pashed – Zac told me – a DJ called Vernon. I’d met him briefly at Valentino’s, apparently; could vaguely remember his red Elvis jumpsuit.

‘Hurry up,’ Sophie said to Biddy, coughing. ‘They’re going to beat us.’

‘Here, take my hand,’ Sarah said, reaching up for Sophie’s.

Fucking hell. They sped ahead – bastards.

‘Come on, Dadda,’ Oliver said. ‘Ya. Ya.’

I cantered, a beast of burden, to the far side of the oval, lifted Oliver from my shoulders – his arse in my face, his pants scraping my skin – got him to the ground, sighed, felt – oh, no – repelled by the throng of people through the glass doors of the assembly hall.

‘Biggest art opening of the year,’ I said to Biddy.

‘Looks that way.’

Her show at the Butterfly Club about Aidan was just over a fortnight away, my birthday three weeks. I’d already booked that day off work, wanted – no, needed – to spend it alone.

‘Hey, let’s all hold hands,’ Sarah said, ‘so we don’t get lost.’

I took Sophie’s hand, let it go so she could cover her mouth, held it again. She took Biddy’s with her other hand, Biddy took Oliver’s, Oliver took Sarah’s. We slinked through the door like a five-piece paper doll chain and, fuck, the noise inside was incredible. Parents. Kids. Parents. Kids. Parents. Kids. They sounded high, smashed, incoherent.

The hand-holding broke down. I lifted Sophie onto my shoulders – still had a couple of years left of carrying her – fought my way smiling and nodding through the assembly hall, through a crowded corridor, into a room with little chairs and tables, paintings on the wall, drawings, dioramas on top of bookshelves, miniature ceramics that hung from fishing wire on the roof.

‘Watch your head,’ I said, ducking, manoeuvring us past legs, backsides, shoulders and knitwear. ‘Which one’s yours, sweetheart?’ I asked Sophie.

‘I can’t … wait, I can’t see it. Oh, maybe this one?’

I stopped, looked up. ‘Oh, how –’

‘That’s not hers,’ Oliver said. He was standing next to us, flanked by Biddy and Sarah. ‘You don’t even know what your own artwork looks like, Sophie. You’re so dumb.’