The boy’s mum calls over. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s got into him.’

Tom replies cheerfully, ‘Don’t worry. Ivy loves kids,’ then turns back to me and mutters, ‘She’s planning on having a dysfunctional family of her own one day.’ I kick him under the table and he glances out of the window and stiffens. I wonder if the toddler is back to mount another attack, but then I see the teenage boys from before heading across the car park. They wander past his car and Tom visibly relaxes.

‘Need to keep an eye on my stuff,’ he explains.

Suddenly it occurs to me – all the bags in his car. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts before, and now I feel bad for not asking. ‘Are you moving house?’

‘Something like that.’

Before he can say more, the waitress arrives with our order. Tom’s eyes light up and he does the thing he always does when he’s about to eat: he rubs his thighs and wriggles his shoulders. It’s the slightest movement, but one you can’t un-see once you notice it.

I tear open a sachet of ketchup and Tom snatches it from me.

‘Oi, get your own.’

He swipes it over his burger and grins. ‘I bet you’re an only child.’

He’s asked me about my home life before, but I usually manage to find a butterfly that needs inspecting or a visitor with an urgent question they didn’t know they had. Right now I want to talk about my family, or lack of one, even less than usual.

Like always, Tom dispenses with a knife and fork and eats with his fingers. I try not to let my eyes pass comment as he grabs a handful of fries and chows down. He picks up another chip and dips it in ketchup before jabbing it at me.

‘I’m right, aren’t I? It’s obvious you don’t have siblings. You’re terrible at sharing and refuse to accept anyone’s help. I’m all for fiercely independent women – you’re looking at Beyoncé’s biggest fan – but you can take things too far, you know.’

I flinch at his words. Growing up in care taught me to do things for myself and I don’t see how it’s possible to be too self-reliant. Unsure how to respond, I take a bite of my burger. I know Tom’s from a big family, but not how old he is compared to his siblings. As I swallow, the answer comes to me. ‘I bet you’re the youngest.’ He raises his eyebrows, telling me I’m right. ‘It’s obvious, really. You’re lazy because everyone babies you, and it explains your reliance on humour to get attention.’

He laughs. ‘I feel so seen. Yes, I have four older sisters. But I’m not the baby of the family, more the runt of the litter.’ An edge of bitterness creeps into his voice and I want to ask more, but I resist the urge. The sooner we get off the topic of families, the better. We eat in silence for a while and then he asks, ‘So I know you’re an only child and you live in Coleford. Did you grow up there? Are you visiting relatives in Wales, or …?’