4

When I reach the magistrates’ court, there’s just enough time to speak to the probation service and collect their report before the case is called on. I deal with the sentence hearing and then hop on a bus to Walworth, where I spend the rest of the afternoon.

I’m just leaving custody when my phone rings. I glance at the screen. It’s the office. I’ve got less than an hour to pick up Ben, but against my better judgement I answer it.

‘Sarah.’ It’s Lucy. ‘Are you still at the police station?’

‘Well, yes,’ I say, ‘but I’m just leaving.’

‘There’s another one in. Matt wants to know if you can deal with it.’

‘I can’t,’ I tell her. ‘I have to pick up Ben, now. I’m late as it is.’

‘Hang on,’ says Lucy, and then she’s gone and Matt is on the line.

‘Sarah,’ he says, ‘can you deal with this job? The officers are ready to go. I tried to catch you in custody before you left.’

‘Matt, I can’t. I’ve got to pick up Ben. I’m running late as it is.’

Silence. ‘Well, you’re there already. It makes sense if you deal with it.’

‘But I told you, I—’

‘Can’t someone else pick him up for you? One of his friends’ parents or something? This won’t take you long.’

‘Not really. I don’t really have anyone I can ask—’

‘It’s rush hour.’ Matt’s voice is exasperated. ‘It’s going to take me over an hour to get there. You’ll have dealt with it before I even arrive.’

‘I know, but... I have to pick up Ben.’

Silence. Then, ‘Right. OK.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘If you want me to cover something for you tomorrow, I can. I could do—’

But he’s gone.

I power-walk to Kennington and then take the Piccadilly line from Leicester Square, positioning myself next to the train doors, where I’m ready to leap off and sprint towards the exit as soon as they open at Caledonian Road. Although there are only five stops to go, there’s a delay at Russell Square and the journey takes over half an hour. My stomach tightens with the familiar knot of mild panic that I experience daily from around three o’clock onwards, as I look repeatedly at the nearest clock and wonder if I’m going to finish and get to nursery on time. My worries are, in fact, well founded today; I’m fifteen minutes late. The building is locked and I arrive to find Helen and Lisa waiting outside for me, with Ben already strapped into his buggy. I’ve run all the way from the Tube station and I’m desperately out of breath, but that doesn’t stop me noticing the look of mild agitation on Lisa’s normally calm and smiling face.

Of all the people that are angry with me this evening, Ben is the angriest, and he expresses his dissatisfaction all the way to Waitrose. I bitterly regret my decision not to have gone yesterday, but I have no choice this evening, because there’s nothing left in the fridge with which to make a meal. Ben’s wailing turns to yelling as the double doors slide open and we enter the brightly lit store. I grab a basket and hook it awkwardly over one handle of the Maclaren Major. It doesn’t fit properly and digs into me as I walk, but it’s the best I can do; Ben’s too big for the baby trolleys, and the trolleys for the disabled are all designed to hook into a wheelchair. I once found a store that had a trolley with a seat designed for a disabled person to sit in and I was elated, resolving to do all my shopping at this store for ever more. But when I went back it had gone. A member of staff told me that it had been locked away and that I’d have to ask each time I wanted it. An assistant first went off to find the key, then to fetch the trolley. It all took what seemed like an age, and by the time she came back Ben had got himself into such a state that he’d thrown up all over the floor.

I glance down at Ben as I negotiate my way past the fruit and veg, grabbing a bag of potatoes and a bunch of bananas and moving on as quickly as I can. He’s calmed a little, thrown out of kilter, it seems, by the high speed at which I’m moving. The aisles are busy and I have to weave quickly round other shoppers, which I know is not entirely considerate, but these are my choices: it’s Ben or them. It’s at times like this that I wish the Maclaren Major came with a bell, or a horn.

I manage to grab cheese, yoghurt and milk before the wailing starts up again.

‘OK, OK,’ I say. ‘But bread. We’ve got to have bread, and eggs. And coffee, Ben. Mummy needs her coffee. It keeps her going.’

I locate the bread and, finally, the eggs, which are in a different place than they used to be. I don’t know why they have to keep moving things around in supermarkets. Well, I do, but it doesn’t help people like me.

As we round the corner to the tea and coffee aisle, Ben ramps it up a decibel.

‘All right, honey. Nearly done,’ I say, knowing that this means nothing to Ben. I can hear the whiny, high-pitched trill of desperation creeping into my voice as I try to reassure him. Ben’s own voice, in contrast, just gets louder. Heads are turning in our direction. The all too familiar feeling of panic sets into my chest for the second time today. We’ve still got the checkout to negotiate and so we are not, in fact, nearly done. Why, oh why, did I attempt this? I should have just... what? I don’t know what I should have done. I take a deep breath. I can do this. We’ve got almost everything we need and here we are now, in the coffee aisle. All I have to do is grab a jar and then get us out of here as quickly as I can.

I reach out for my favourite brand, which is on the top shelf. It’s the last one and it’s set back a little, so that I have to stand on tiptoes to get it. As I brush it with my fingertips, it topples and falls, bouncing against the handle of the Maclaren Major and narrowly missing Ben’s head, before it crashes to the ground. The jar explodes, slivers of glass and coffee grounds spreading across the shiny floor.

‘Oh, fuck!’ I shriek, before I can stop myself. I bend down to pick it up.

‘Don’t touch it!’ a male voice warns me. ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’

The man crouches down beside me, takes my elbow and guides me to my feet. He turns and calls out to someone and I then see a shop assistant heading towards us. He points to the mess on the floor. ‘Can we get some help here please?’

The assistant nods and goes off towards the rear of the shop.

I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. ‘I’m sorry I swore,’ I say.

The man smiles. ‘Not at all. It’s good for you. Scientists say that it’s actually advisable to swear at moments like this.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. It relieves stress. Although, if you swear all the time, it doesn’t work. You have to save it up for the times you really need it.’

‘What if you really need it all the time?’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘That bad?’

I sigh deeply and nod at Ben.

‘Hey, buddy,’ the man says, crouching down and facing Ben. ‘What’s up? Want to tell me what’s wrong?’

Ben ignores him and carries on wailing.

‘He doesn’t understand you,’ I say. ‘He can’t talk.’

‘Oh. OK.’

But the man remains there, crouching down and smiling gently at my son, in spite of all the noise he’s making. Through the fog of my inner turmoil, I notice that he has a nice face – his features are even, his eyes kind. He appears to be in his late thirties and is wearing a smart beige suit – like me, he’s probably just finished work. He has well-cut fair hair which is receding only very slightly and still leaves a fringe which flops about his forehead as he waggles his head at Ben, trying to make him laugh.

Ben, predictably, continues to ignore him, and after a few moments the man stands up. ‘Must be hard for you,’ he says. ‘Well, for him, of course,’ he adds. ‘But for you, too.’

I look at him, my mouth falling open. ‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘It is.’ Tears prick my eyes. I can’t help it. He’s being so kind, and this is so unexpected.

‘Hey,’ he says, soothingly. After a moment’s hesitation he reaches out and pats my shoulder. It’s an awkward, schoolboyish gesture, but his eyes are full of concern.

An assistant arrives and begins to sweep up the glass.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she says. ‘That’s OK. You two carry on with your shopping. I’ll see to this.’

She thinks we’re a couple. I shoot an embarrassed glance at the man in the suit, but he simply grins back at me and nods at the broken jar. ‘Do you want another one?’

I shake my head. ‘It was the last one.’

‘Do you have another one of those?’ he asks the shop assistant.

‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘I’ll check.’

‘Great. Thanks,’ says the man. ‘We’ll wait here.’

I glance at him again in disbelief. Will we? Doesn’t he care about the racket Ben’s making? It’s loud. It’s impossible to ignore. I can’t understand why he’s still here.

But Ben is not going to wait for my jar of coffee to arrive, that much is clear. He’s roaring now, like an angry lion, his thick mane of hair framing his face, his mouth shaped into a furious ‘O’.

‘It’s OK. I need to get him home,’ I say, nodding at Ben. ‘But thank you anyway.’

‘Not at all.’ He watches as I grab hold of the Maclaren Major and wheel Ben towards the checkouts.

Ben stops crying for a few glorious moments, as he sees that we are on the move again and senses the exit looming near. I glance around at each checkout in turn, but there are queues at every one. I join what appears to be the shortest queue, with the sales assistant – a young girl in her twenties – who looks to be bleeping everything through the fastest, but there are still three people ahead of us and it’s not long before Ben’s off again, his sobs getting louder and louder by the minute, his voice resonating round the store.

The woman in the queue ahead of me glances round at him, her face impassive. ‘His nose is running,’ she says, accusingly.

‘Yes. Yes. I know.’ I root around in my bag for a tissue and hold it against Ben’s nose. As I do so, Ben flings his arm out and bats my hand away. He then shoves his fist into his mouth and starts to bite down on it as hard as he can. I can feel my own tears pricking at the backs of my eyes again as I bend down to stop him. I gently pull his hand away from his mouth.

‘No, Ben,’ I plead. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t hurt yourself like that.’

Ben bats my hand away for a second time and shoves his own back into his mouth, clamping down again with his sharp little teeth.

I crouch down beside him and start to sing, softly, in a wobbly, tearful voice, ‘Twinkle twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are,’ but I already know that we’re way beyond the sing-soothing stage. I’ve just made the decision to abandon my basket and leave the store by the nearest exit, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

‘Here,’ says the man in the suit, as I stand back up. He hands me a jar of coffee, the brand that I’d wanted.

I take a deep breath and fight back the tears; I can’t cry in front of him again. ‘Thank you. You’re so kind. But he’s getting too upset now, so I think I’m just going to—’

‘Excuse me!’ the man calls loudly to the girl at the checkout, who’s finished serving one customer and is about to start on the next. ‘Can you serve this lady next, please?’

He frowns, subtly, but discernibly, at the woman in front of me and then says loudly, so that everyone in the queue can hear, ‘Can’t you see that this lady is struggling, here?’

The checkout girl nods. ‘Bring your basket up here,’ she says.

The lady at the front of the queue turns and looks back at me. ‘Oh. Yes. Of course,’ she says, and moves back to let me past.

I grab Ben’s hand away from his mouth for a third time and shove his buggy forward at the same time. ‘Ben, we’re moving,’ I say brightly. ‘Look! Look!’ But, what with Ben’s flailing arms and the Maclaren Major’s size and the basket sticking out at an angle, there’s not actually enough room to get by.

‘Here,’ says the man in the suit, taking my hand gently but firmly, removing it from the handle of the buggy and unhooking my basket for me. He passes it to the woman at the front of the queue, who then hands it to the checkout girl.

‘Go,’ he says. ‘I’ll get this. Wait for me outside.’

‘But—’

‘No buts,’ he nods his head towards the door, ‘just get yourself outside and sort your little man out. I’ll see you in a minute.’

I don’t need to be told a third time. I put the Maclaren Major into rapid reverse, and we speed like lightning towards the exit. There must be at least one store detective who thinks I’ve stolen something and am making a run for it, but I’ll take my chances. Getting gripped up by security staff couldn’t raise my cortisol levels any higher than they already are. Getting Ben out of the store is the only thing I care about right now; nothing else matters.

The relief I feel when I reach the doors is overwhelming. As if by magic, when they slide open and I wheel Ben onto the pavement, his yelling stops. I crouch down in front of him, unstrap him and take him in my arms, kissing the red bite marks on his hand and wiping his nose, before wrapping his legs round my waist and holding him tight against my chest. I can feel his little heart beating against mine, rapidly at first, but slowing down as the tension eases from his body, and as it does so, from my own.

‘There, there,’ I soothe him. ‘My poor boy. My poor boy. It’s OK.’

Ben lays his head against my shoulder for a moment, then looks up, takes one last, heaving sob and rewards me with a smile, his eyes still glistening with the tears he no longer needs.

‘Bah bah,’ he says.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘You don’t like shopping. I know.’

Ben watches me speak and then puts his fingers inside my mouth.

‘Teeth,’ I say. ‘Sharp.’ I close my teeth very gently onto his fingers. ‘See?’ I say. ‘We mustn’t do that. It hurts.’ But I know that’s why he does it. I know that he’ll do it again, next time. There’s always a next time.

But for now, me and my boy, we’re OK.

We stand on the pavement outside and rock gently back and forth together as the early-evening traffic whizzes by. The road empties for a few moments as the cars stop for the lights behind us and we watch a flock of birds take off from the branches of one of the trees across the road. I feel the stillness of the air, the stillness of my son who, exhausted by our ordeal, lies motionless in my arms, his head resting on my shoulder. The lights change and the traffic breaks through again. A motorbike whizzes past and Ben lifts up his head to follow it.

The doors to the store slide open and the man in the suit wanders out with my shopping. He glances round briefly, then spots me and Ben. I give a little wave and he walks over.

‘How much do I owe you?’ I ask immediately. I’m already heavily indebted to this man. I don’t want to owe him actual money a minute longer than is necessary.

‘The receipt’s in the bag,’ he says. ‘But there’s no hurry. We can sort it out later.’

He hooks the two bags of shopping onto the Maclaren Major and it immediately falls over backwards.

‘Don’t...’ I say at the same time, but it’s too late. The shopping hits the pavement and the buggy falls on top.

‘Oops. There goes another jar of coffee,’ he says, and we both laugh. He leans over to pick up the bags while I seat Ben back into the buggy and strap him in, his weight now stabilising the shopping that’s hanging over the back.

‘Do you live nearby?’ he asks. ‘Can I walk you home?’

I hesitate. I’ve only just met him, after all. He seems nice, but what if he’s a stalker? Or worse? A rapist? Or a paedophile? How would I know?

He takes a step away from me. ‘Oh God, I didn’t mean...’ He shakes his head and looks distraught. ‘I just meant... I could carry your shopping for you, that’s all, to your door. It’s all been a bit stressful for you. I just wanted to make sure you got home OK. But I can see how it might look... so, honestly, forget I said that.’

He smiles apologetically as he clutches the handle of his own shopping bag with one hand and brushes his hair back from his face again with the other. He’s actually blushing – and stuttering – and his diffidence makes me smile too. He reminds me of Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral. He’s far too awkward to be a rapist.

‘I live just round the corner,’ I say. I lift the two bags of shopping from the handles of the Maclaren Major and hand them back to him. ‘And, actually, it would be a real help if you could take these. Shopping weighs the buggy down. Well, you know that.’ I grin. ‘It’ll make it much easier to push.’

‘Of course.’

I swivel Ben round and we walk up past Wetherspoons and the Coronet, before turning the corner into the side road which leads down to the street where I live.

‘I’m Sarah, by the way,’ I tell him. ‘And this is Ben.’

He looks at me for a moment, as if he’s forgotten what his name is. I laugh.

‘Alex,’ he says, and attempts to hold out his hand, but it has a bag of shopping in it, and I laugh again.

‘So, do you live on your own?’ he asks, and then says, immediately, ‘No! Don’t answer that! God, every time I open my mouth, I sound more and more like some crazy stalker.’

I smile. He’s actually reassuring me. Stalkers don’t usually give you a heads up that they’re stalkers.

‘Yes, I live alone,’ I tell him. ‘Ben’s dad is Australian. He went back to Perth. He found it really hard, with Ben... he couldn’t cope with the situation. That’s the bottom line.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Just over a year. So, it’s been just me and Ben ever since.’

‘Do you mind me asking what’s wrong?’

‘With Ben?’

‘I’m sorry. If you don’t want to talk about it...’

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you asked. When people just ignore it, it feels as though they’re ignoring him, and me. It can make you feel very cut off.’

He nods. ‘I’ll bet it does.’

‘Global developmental delay is the diagnosis he was given,’ I say. ‘Which isn’t actually a diagnosis, in fact. It just means that he’s – well, to use the term that most people understand – retarded. They don’t know why. All they know is that his brain doesn’t work properly. He just didn’t develop the way he should.’

‘Did you notice it straight away?’

I shake my head. ‘No. Everything seemed fine at first. The pregnancy was normal. His birth was a bit traumatic: an emergency caesarean. But everything seemed fine afterwards. It was a few months before we found out that anything was wrong.’

‘It must have been a shock.’

‘It was. Although, there were a few signs there, if I’m honest, and we did have some concerns. He was slow to bat toys with his hands and pick them up, for instance, and he wasn’t able to sit up, even at around seven or eight months old. We mentioned it to the health visitor but she didn’t seem too concerned. She just said that he was lazy, a typical boy.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Her words, not mine,’ I add, smiling.

‘It’s all true.’ Alex smiles back.

‘Do you have children?’ I ask.

He glances at me and pushes his hair back from his eyes with his upper arm. ‘No. I’m... I’m not with anyone.’ He pulls a face. ‘There I go, sounding like a stalker again.’

I laugh. ‘I’ve met quite a few stalkers. You’re nothing like any of them.’

He raises his eyebrows.

‘Through my work,’ I add, quickly. ‘Not through my personal life.’

He nods. ‘That’s good. To have one stalker would be unfortunate. To have more than one would be...’

‘Careless?’ I suggest.

‘I was going to say “very bad luck”. Although perhaps, then, you could encourage them to stalk each other instead of you.’

I laugh. As we reach the end of the street, I slow down. ‘This is where I live.’ I point towards the house and Ben kicks the buggy in anticipation.

Alex and I turn to face each other. He nods towards Ben. ‘He seems to have settled now.’

‘Thanks for everything,’ I say, at the same time.

Our eyes meet and we laugh again, and I tell myself that even if he hadn’t just come to my rescue, stuck up for me, acknowledged Ben and the reality of my existence and exposed it to the world (well, four people in a shopping queue), and even if he hadn’t then paid for and helped me home with my shopping – I would still really, really like this man. ‘Look, would you like to come in?’ I find myself saying. ‘For a cup of tea?’

Alex frowns and shakes his head. ‘No. Honestly. Don’t feel you have to... I really only wanted to see that you were OK. And you are. So there.’

I look him in the eye again. ‘Please. I’d like you to. And besides, I need to give you some money.’

He nods, decisively. ‘Thank you. A cup of tea would be very nice.’

Ben’s feet land heavily against the buggy again and he lets out a wail. I push him down the path and Alex follows. I turn the key in the lock and bend down to unstrap Ben and lift him out. Alex puts the shopping down in the doorway. ‘Want me to fold this up?’ he asks.

‘Yes please.’ I nod. ‘The hallway’s pretty narrow. There’s not enough room to leave it up.’ I indicate the levers on the sides. ‘You have to pull those up and then fold it in at the same time. There’s a bit of a knack to it.’

But Alex releases the levers, squeezes the handles together and snaps the back down in one swift movement. He places the folded buggy behind the door and follows me into the kitchen with the shopping. ‘Why don’t I make the tea?’ he suggests. ‘I expect you need to see to your little man.’

I nod. ‘That would be a help. Cups are up there.’ I point to a cupboard above the microwave. ‘And tea is in the tin just there. Unless you want coffee. You know where the coffee is.’

We both laugh.

Alex fills the kettle and finds the mugs, milk and teabags, while I seat Ben in his chair, locate his sippy cup (on the floor) and give him a piece of bread, which he shoves into his mouth and gobbles down, his cheeks bulging.

Alex smiles. ‘You liked that, didn’t you, buddy?’ He picks up the pack of bread. ‘Shall I give him some more?’

‘Yes please.’

I watch him for a moment as he opens the plastic bag, takes out a slice of bread and hands it to Ben. He then turns and taps the teaspoon against the mugs, making a tinkling sound. He looks at Ben, who laughs. ‘Huh?’ he says to Ben. ‘Nice noise, huh?’

I finish unpacking the shopping and put a pan of eggs on the stove to boil. Behind me, Alex places two mugs of tea onto the table and sits down. He loosens his tie and removes his suit jacket to reveal a white shirt, which is now open at the neck. I realise, suddenly, how handsome he is. His eyes are deep-set, navy blue and are smiling at me, creasing up attractively at the corners.

‘Thank you,’ I say, picking up my tea.

‘Bah bah,’ says Ben from his chair.

I look from Ben to Alex in shock. ‘Did you hear that?’ I ask.

Alex smiles. ‘He was copying you.’

I go over to Ben and crouch down to his eye level. ‘Good talking, Ben!’ I tell him. ‘Clever boy!’ I turn to Alex. ‘He’s never done that before,’ I say. ‘He’s always babbled. But never meaningfully. I know it doesn’t seem much, but...’

‘Of course it is,’ Alex says. ‘It’s huge. He’s talking to you. Maybe not in our language. But he’s communicating with you, all the same.’

‘You’re right.’ I feel uplifted as I stand back up and wash my hands at the sink. Ben’s progress has been so slow, that any new thing he does, no matter how small, can make me feel as though I’ve won the lottery. Well, maybe not the lottery, but a scratch card. This is definitely a scratch card.

I chop up chunks of cheese and banana, which I place onto Ben’s tray. I sit down opposite Alex at the table and we watch as Ben swipes up the food into his fist and shovels it into his mouth.

Alex takes a sip of his tea. ‘So how did you find out that there was a problem? With Ben, I mean.’

‘Well, we started to notice that he was drifting off a bit when he was awake. It was hard to tell at first, whether he was just getting sleepy, needing a nap. But it was happening more and more. His eyes would go blank and we’d wave at him, but it was as though he was looking straight through us. Then he’d jump, suddenly, as if we’d startled him.’

‘He was having absence seizures, right?’

I look up at him. ‘Yes. How did you know? You know about seizures?’

He nods and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but then says, ‘Go on.’

‘Well, then, when he was nine months old, he had a proper fit. I mean, a full-blown seizure. It went on for a long time, for a good ten minutes, and afterwards he was really still. His eyes had rolled right back in his head and he wasn’t moving at all. Andy called an ambulance and he was rushed into hospital. I really thought he was going to die.’

‘You must have been very scared.’

‘It was the most frightening experience of my life.’

Alex puts his cup down and we look at each other in silence for a moment across the table.

‘They did all the tests,’ I continue. ‘They ruled out all the usual things. But then, the neurologist called us into his room and told us that there was something seriously wrong with Ben, that he wasn’t developing normally, that he should be sitting up, crawling, into everything by now. They said that he had a significant, global – as in, across the board, all areas, speech, language, everything – developmental delay. When we asked if he’d ever walk or talk, the doctors couldn’t say. We didn’t know at that stage if he would develop at all, whether he would catch up at some stage – or whether he would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair needing round-the-clock care. They just didn’t know. No one could tell us. As time’s gone on, of course, I’ve learned that it’s likely to be something in between. But it’s not just that. He’s also autistic. He’s just been diagnosed. The fear of crowds and busy places, the comfort he finds in repetition, his intolerance of change or new situations. Things like that – they all make life a bit of a challenge.’

‘It must be unbelievably tough. And you’re doing this alone?’

I get up and take the pan from the stove. I fetch two egg cups from the cupboard, sit the eggs inside them and slice the tops off with a knife. ‘I don’t know if it was any easier when Andy was still here, to be honest.’

I sit down next to Ben and feed him the soft-boiled eggs with a spoon. Ben opens his mouth obligingly, like a little bird.

‘He was great at first,’ I continue. ‘When the doctors first told us, Andy seemed to take it better than I did. But then after a few weeks, I realised he was drinking too much and hiding the bottles in the bin outside. He’d stay up late, long after Ben and I had gone to bed, and I’d wake to hear him crying through the bedroom wall.’

‘Understandable,’ says Alex.

I look up in surprise. I’m glad that he doesn’t attack Andy, judge him, or suggest that he’d have been any different. Because it’s actually quite hard to imagine how any other man would have dealt differently with this sudden, devastating blow. Ben wasn’t an accident; he was planned. This was Andy’s first-born son, the boy he’d wanted to play football and rugby with, the son he’d wanted to take on fishing trips and to cricket matches, the son who would one day graduate with honours and become an astronaut or a doctor, his pride and joy. He’d taken it hard; anyone would. And, in the end, he couldn’t take it any more. I could understand that. I’d felt that way myself. And after he’d gone, there was an element of relief that I no longer had to take care of his feelings as well as my own.

‘On a practical level, of course, it was easier to have another adult around. I can’t deny that,’ I tell him. ‘And Andy did his share. But on an emotional level, it was hard work for me. I tried, of course, to help him, to reassure him, to promise we’d get through it together. But in the end, it wasn’t enough. He needed to go back to his family in Perth, and I needed to focus on Ben.’

‘But you must be tired. You need a break.’

‘I manage.’

‘Do you get much help? From family?’

I shake my head. ‘My mum died a few years ago and my dad’s in Devon. We don’t get on too well. I have a brother, but he lives in Maidenhead and has his own family. I don’t think he actually realises the extent of Ben’s problems and I’m not that sure that he cares enough to find out. So that’s it.’

‘What about friends?’

‘They offer, sometimes. But it never quite works out. Everyone has busy lives, don’t they? The ones who have kids of their own have got their hands full, and the ones who haven’t are working way too hard. Plus, I don’t like to ask them to... well, you’ve seen what Ben can be like. It’s tough to deal with. And, besides... Ben’s not toilet trained.’

Alex shrugs. ‘That’s what friends are for.’

‘No,’ I correct him. ‘You borrow clothes and money from friends. You phone them up and moan about your problems. You don’t ask them to clean up a five-year-old’s... well, you know.’

‘I don’t see why not.’

I smile. ‘So if I asked you to change his nappy?’

‘Yeah, I’d do it.’

Oh my God, I think to myself. Is this guy for real?

He stands up. ‘But, not right now, if you don’t mind, because I need to make a move.’

He pulls his jacket from the chair. Here we go, I tell myself. He’s done the right thing. He’s helped out a damsel in distress. Now, here’s the great escape.

But then Alex looks me in the eye and says, ‘Could I take you both out on Saturday, for lunch maybe?’

My heart leaps. Did he really just say that? I don’t get it. He’s had all these chances to walk away and he hasn’t taken a single one. For a moment, I’m too stunned to speak. Then, ‘That would be really nice,’ I say. ‘But it’s a bit limiting, with Ben. He isn’t really very good with bright lights and crowded places, hence the supermarket fiasco today... I’ve never been able to eat out in a restaurant with him.’

I’m aware that this might sound as though I’m making excuses not to see him, but Alex is unshaken. ‘Well, what does he like to do?’

I consider this for a moment. ‘He likes the park. He loves to feed the ducks.’

Alex nods, slowly. ‘Sounds good. Isn’t Finsbury Park just round the corner? We could have a picnic.’

‘Really?’ I look him in the eye, dubiously. This is the kind of date that most men would cancel as soon as they’d got away and had a chance to cool off. But I can’t think of anything else to offer him, nothing that comes with such good odds that there won’t be a repetition of the meltdown that Alex witnessed today.

‘Why not?’ He shrugs. ‘It’ll be fun.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘The duck pond it is.’

‘Great!’ Alex shoves his hands into his pockets and grins at me. He pulls out his phone. I give him my number and watch as he taps it in.

Then he picks up his shopping bag, leans over and ruffles Ben’s hair. ‘See you Saturday, buddy.’

‘Bah bah,’ says Ben.

‘Quite,’ says Alex, and I clap my hands together. Ben’s talking! He’s really talking! Well, he’s not, obviously. But, then again, he is.