‘Tash is coming here to babysit?’ George frowns.

‘Yes. She’ll be fine.’ George used to say Tash was so much fun but irresponsible. But I wouldn’t trust her with Archie if I thought she couldn’t cope.

‘I thought Carly was coming?’

‘She’s unwell.’

Before George can respond the doorbell peals. I run down the stairs, checking out of the lounge window to make sure it is Tash before I answer the door.

‘Hey, Leah.’ She hugs me hello.

‘Thanks for coming. Have you had a good day off? Done anything nice?’

Her cheeks flush as she shrugs off her coat and I make a mental note to turn down the heating before we leave. ‘No. Nothing. You look fab! If I didn’t know any better I’d think you guys were sneaking off on a romantic date night.’ She raises her eyebrows.

‘Just the nursery. I thought I’d make an effort, though.’ It’s silly, I love Archie more than anything, but there is a part of me that feels everyone is judging me. Seeing me as the imposter I feel I am. How can I possibly be a good mum when I can’t always look after myself?

‘Where’s your gorgeous husband?’ Tash asks next.

‘He’s getting Archie ready for bed.’

‘He’s so good with him. You don’t know how lucky you are.’ Tash trails me into the kitchen.

‘Now, you will be okay, won’t you? If there’s any problems call me. Or George. Or the nursery—’

‘I’ll be too busy snorting cocaine off your coffee table to notice anything wrong.’ She catches my stricken expression. ‘Relax.’

I try to smile, flick on the kettle. ‘Coffee?’

‘I thought if I shared a vodka with Archie he’d sleep better—’

‘Tash.’ My tone is sharper than I intended.

‘Sorry, Leah. You know I’m only joking but it’s probably the last thing you feel like with the anniversary. It’s my defence mechanism.’

‘Defence against what?’

‘I don’t know. Ignore me. My moods are all over the place at the moment. Archie!’ Tash crouches down as a damp Archie snowballs into her open arms.

‘George.’ Tash raises her face and meets his eyes. There’s a beat before he says, ‘Tash.’ He pats his pocket for his car keys. ‘Come on, Leah. We’re going to be late.’

We perch on too-small grey chairs, our feet resting in patches of glitter that I know are impossible to clear up. The smell of Play-Doh is mingled with glue and something sweet. Biscuits, perhaps. George’s knees are bunched to his chest as Rebecca heaps praise on Archie. We are obviously doing something right. Despite my fears and rituals, we are told he is happy and sociable. There are no concerns at all about how he might settle at school. I will be the one who has trouble adjusting.

‘If you want to go through his tray while I clear up?’ Rebecca says.

For the first time in days I feel something close to relaxed as I head into the familiar space, confident my boy is doing well.