‘I really, really don’t know. She just said she couldn’t, and that nothing’s wrong.’ And I wasn’t even thinking about it, but I tugged at my bowtie with my free hand until it came loose, because I was angry and confused and could think of nothing else to do. Of course this had happened.

‘Uh. What are you doing?’

I blinked back tears. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh. I see what this is.’ Leo leaned back in his chair. ‘Don’t tell me you’re about to say don’t come.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Do not tell me,’ he continued, ‘that you’re gonna cancel because she’s not going. Because that would be really, really stupid.’

‘No, I –’

‘I have a beautiful rented tuxedo hanging over my door right now, and so help me, I’m wearing it. So here’s the deal. I’m going to go put it on. I’m gonna lint roll it. And then I’m going to be at yours at –’ He tapped the screen to check the time – ‘five-thirty, when we are going to get a five-star meal at Ol-eev Gar-dain.’ He said it with a French accent.

‘It’s Italian,’ I said.

Then, in the flattest version of his usual accent, he said: ‘It’s-a me, Olive Garden.’

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

‘And then – and then we’re going to go to the dance and have a perfectly marvellous time, with or without the blessing of your special gal pal.’

‘Leo –’

‘No. It’s happening.’ And then, more seriously, quieter: ‘Your whole life can’t revolve round this girl. It’s not healthy. You can be happy without her, you know.’

I couldn’t even argue. No. It wasn’t healthy. ‘She’s all that helps.’

‘Yeah, in the same way a pacifier helps a baby who would prefer to spend half its existence sucking on a teat. Teats,’ he said, ‘are not forever.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you?’

‘Mm.’

‘Repeat it.’

‘Teats are not forever.’

‘Put your tie back on. You look sloppy.’

‘Duly noted.’

‘OK. Tell you what: I’m gonna shower. You can collect yourself in the meantime. See you in a bit.’

‘Bye, Leo. Thanks.’

I did as he told me, because of course I did. Retied my bowtie, straightened my hair, stared at myself in the mirror for a really long time.

Mom started cooing and getting all teary and stuff when I came downstairs. She actually looked really, genuinely happy. ‘You look beautiful. Or handsome?’

‘Either’s fine.’

She grabbed handfuls of my hair and draped them round the front of my shoulders, wound her hands through it, sort of shook it around my face. ‘You look just like your father,’ Mom said.

‘You’re only saying that because it’s the thing people say in movies.’