‘Let’s come again next week,’ Leo says as we make our way up to the changing cubicles.

‘And the week after that,’ Max agrees.

‘And every week after that for ever,’ I add.

The boys each hold out a hand and I do the same, and we link fingers in a promise that we will always, always do everything together, no matter what.

MAX

Max gave his hair one last rub and hung up his towel and swimming trunks in the airing cupboard before going to join his parents.

He and his friends had agreed to meet at the park after lunch and he wanted to eat and get back out to play as quickly as possible.

He was heading downstairs when he heard raised voices from the kitchen.

Max froze on the bottom step. His father was clearly in the middle of a rant and Max suddenly wasn’t in quite such a hurry to join his parents.

‘You should have seen his face when he saw me!’ he heard his father say. ‘He thinks he’s such a big shot. With his fine waistcoats and his shop – thinks he’s better than the rest of us. They all think that!’

Max heard his mother say something in reply. He didn’t hear what she’d said, but a moment later his father was off again.

‘Well, he hasn’t got a car, has he? So he can’t be as great as he wants you to think. Shows you what they’re like, all of them. Making out they’re one thing whilst underneath, they’re another thing completely. Liars, the lot of them. Sneaky, nasty, dirty, rotten—’

‘Oh, do please STOP!’

There was a moment of silence. Max could hardly believe it. His mother never spoke back to his father – but she had done this time. He edged closer to the kitchen.

‘I know what he is. I know how you feel about them. But he’s the father of our son’s best friend,’ his mother was saying. ‘Can’t we just leave them be for now?’

His father was talking about Mr Grunberg? Max couldn’t understand. He must have got the wrong end of the stick. Everybody loved Leo’s father. He was none of the things that his father had just said.

Either way, the ranting seemed to have stopped, so it was safe to go in.

Max softly pushed the kitchen door open.

His father was in front of him, his face red with rage. ‘Come in properly if you’re coming in!’ he yelled at Max. ‘Don’t tiptoe in like a scared mouse. Enter the room like a man! And sort your hair out. Where is your parting?’

Max’s mother crossed the kitchen to stand by his side. ‘Leave the boy alone,’ she said. ‘It’s not his fault.’

‘What’s not my fault?’ Max asked.