‘Well, if you ever see a grumpy Guyanese dude in a green knitted beanie in there, that’s my dad.’

‘I’ll look out for him the next time I’m in there.’

‘If you say hello and he ignores you, don’t be offended, though,’ I warn as I finish my hot chocolate and put the cup on the patch of grass between us. ‘It’s probably because he has his headphones on. He’s always listening to Radio 4, or the cricket. He loves the cricket.’ I smile when I think of him with a shovel as he wills Guyana to score. ‘It’s his idea of heaven – listening to the radio all day as he digs up weeds.’

‘Sounds pretty sweet apart from the digging thing. I hate worms.’ She pretends to shiver.

‘Same, but he doesn’t mind them.’

‘As long as he’s happy, right?’

I nod. ‘I mean, he’s earning fuck all, but he’s so much happier, which is all I care about.’

‘And you have a sister, right? Rosh? How old is she?’

‘Yep. She’s fourteen and amazing. Don’t tell her I said that, though.’ I hold my finger up to her with a naughty smile. ‘But she is. She reads a book a day and loves chemistry because it’s the closest thing to magic she’s ever seen.’

‘She into boys yet?’

‘Just Ron Weasley.’

‘How about you?’ I ask as she puts her empty cup down between us. ‘Any annoying little sisters?’

‘Nope.’ She shakes her coffee cup to see if there’s anything left then tips her head back, the sunlight catching on her cheekbones as she finishes it. ‘Just me.’

‘What’s that like?’

She presses her lips together as she thinks about it and finally says, ‘Lonely.’

Her honesty takes my breath away. I want to ask her more, but she won’t look at me as she tugs at the grass, plucking a few blades between her fingers and bringing them up to her nose to smell them.

So I wait a beat and when she looks at me again, I ask, ‘You can’t be lonely at Roedean?’

‘Of course not.’ She makes a show of rolling her eyes and flicking her hair. ‘I don’t get a moment’s peace at Roedean. You can’t even turn your pillow over in the night without someone knowing about it.’

I wait for her to laugh, but she doesn’t.

‘What about your parents?’ I ask, trying to change the subject. ‘What do they do?’

‘My mother’s Margot Morgan.’

‘Wait.’ I frown, thinking about it. ‘Where do I know that name from?’

‘Professor Margot Morgan,’ she adds, trying not to smile, but her cheeks are pink with pride.

‘Yes!’ I point at her. ‘She did that documentary on the BBC about dark matter. Rosh made me watch that, like, three times. She’s brilliant.’