The kitchen is bursting with parents, laughing, chewing on nibbles and sipping drinks when I push through. Their kids are in the playroom being supervised by two mothers, Jen and Gillian, members of the ‘can’t drink in front of the kids brigade’. Thank God for them, they come in very handy at a time like this.

Outside the damp air cools my face. The tree at the back of the garden stands motionless beside the old wooden shed that’s struggling to stay standing. Before the adjustment, we were meant to have it replaced with one of those all new weather sheds that last forever according to the advertisement. But nothing lasts forever, not even a shed.

The door is locked. Reaching up onto the tip of my toes I stretch to look in the small plastic window that’s about as useless as an umbrella in a storm. It’s covered in dirt and blocked by a load of storage boxes. There is no way of telling whether Tom’s golf bag is in there or not.

Back inside the house I mingle with the laughing crowd while my heart beats a completely different rhythm to theirs. If Tom is not on the golf course where is he?

Amber looks over at me. She can sense something is wrong. Above her head her image hangs, all smiles and innocence. It was taken the day she started secondary school. Her hair short, cut in a bob. There’s a gap between her teeth. Four thousand euros later and the gap is gone.

I can still remember how excited she was to be starting secondary school. The extra freedom she thought she was going to get. The extra-curricular activities. The extra friends. Always extra, more, more, more, but never enough.

‘What exactly did your father say?’ I whisper in her ear while taking paper plates from the table by her side.

Amber is worried. This is not normal for Tom. Amber knows it. He was more excited about the kids’ party than the kids themselves. Planning, preparing, suggesting. If it was left to Tom there’d be bouncy castles, magicians, clowns, a hundred balloons. I had to show him the bank balance, remind him he was clown enough. So not being here for Cian and Aaron’s birthday party is worrying. Luckily the boys are so busy opening presents and playing with their friends they haven’t noticed yet.

‘I hope he hasn’t had an accident, Mom,’ Amber says, tears glinting like jewels amongst a field of mascara.

‘Don’t worry, darling. He’ll be back shortly.’ I try to console her but my words do nothing to wash the worry from her face. She knows I’m just saying this, that I don’t know if he’ll be back shortly.

‘Ellen, I’m popping out for a few minutes, will you hold the fort?’

‘Everything okay?’