I keep nodding, my head floating loose on my neck. ‘I think that Charlie really likes Molly too. He talks about her a lot.’

The music for the game has started now and it’s loud. Really thumping. A headache buds at the back of my skull but in front of me everything is lovely and bright. I’m trying to see past Molly’s dad, to keep an eye on Charlie. The children swivel and tilt themselves as they circle the double row of chairs. It’s like an animation, a Disney Fantasia of movement. There seem to be arms and legs everywhere; it’s almost hard to see where one child ends and another one begins. When the music stops, the children tumble themselves towards the chairs, elbowing each other. Charlie gives a shriek of delight. Through the swirl, I glimpse him sliding neatly into a seat and I want to clap; maybe I even would if my hands weren’t taken up with my crumb-strewn plate. I feel almost giddy with how happy I feel.

I’m aware of Sally and Martin looking at me and I realize Molly’s dad – I haven’t even got his name – has asked me another question. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘what was that?’

The music starts again, a new bouncing, high-pitched song. Pharrell Williams, is that it?

‘I was just asking when Charlie’s birthday falls,’ Molly’s dad repeats.

I smile up at him, wider than ever. ‘First of May,’ I tell him. ‘May Day. He was a beautiful May Day baby.’

Molly’s dad and Sally and Martin smile and nod, but my eyes slide past them, back to the children, and I lose the thread of what anyone is saying. The music clicks off again; the children scramble for the few remaining chairs. Arms and legs and bodies tangle. The scene seems waterlogged to me, dreamlike. All of a sudden, everything grinds down to the slowest of slow motion. A boy shoves Charlie, thrusting him aside, sliding past him into the last empty chair. My blood feels as if it has jammed in my veins. Charlie is the only one left standing, spotlighted in the middle of the room.

His whole body turns rigid, a scarlet stain burning across his cheeks. My stomach plummets, seems to fall right away. An ugly shudder runs right through my son, as though he’s having some kind of seizure; he’s hardly able to focus his eyes. In the vacuum of silence he opens his mouth, and now his voice is a roar, his mood completely out of control, flipped. His tongue is huge and swollen behind his teeth and he stutters, he stutters:

‘That’s not f-f-f-air!’