‘Eh?’ Georgia said, getting handed an absurdly yellow supermarket-brand alcopop by a tall guy in a V-neck.

He was a year-twelve or thirteen, but she knew him as one of the lifeguards who manned the leisure centre pool when she helped at the Old Ducks Aqua Club. He was Dean. Possibly Dwayne …

‘Lifeguard,’ Georgia said, remembering her mother’s warnings about drinks spiked with date-rape drugs before bravely taking a sip. ‘I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on.’

Dean or Dwayne laughed. ‘You’re great with the old ladies, but I haven’t seen you there for a while.’

Georgia nodded. ‘It used to be me and one other girl. But it’s the kind of activity that looks good on a university application. They’ve got so many volunteers, there’s a rota now.’

‘Dean, you big ponce!’ a guy who looked absolutely trashed said as he stumbled past. ‘Why don’t you …’

Georgia didn’t hear the end of the sentence because the loudmouth tripped on an upturned bread crate that Andre used as a coffee table and sent empty cans and bottles flying.

‘Some people can’t pace themselves,’ Dean said, cracking a big smile. ‘It’s not even half-eight. So, what was I saying?’

Georgia took a gulp of her yellow drink and smiled. ‘Introductory conversation, something about me not being here because I’m too straight …’

Dean laughed.

They talked about the leisure-centre pool being privatised, a physics teacher they both hated and found common ground discussing difficult mothers. As Georgia finished her second yellow drink, she was starting to buzz.

Then Dean made a cheesy comment that he felt he had a connection with Georgia and started touching her hand. And while Dean seemed nice, no part of Georgia wanted anything more than a conversation with him. She babbled something about having to ask Maya a question and bounced.

Georgia found everyone in the kitchen. Stoned people were eating tubes of shoplifted cookie dough, Rolf had no shirt on and Courtney was kissing big Marco, who they’d met on the door.

‘So, Dean-o?’ Maya said, phrasing it like a question.

Georgia shook her head. ‘Not my type.’

Maya shouted. ‘All the cool people are here in this kitchen!’

A Metallica song came on. Georgia talked to Andre, the host, switched from yellow alcopop to sweet cider, got hit on by three guys and chased by Dean, who repeated the line about having a connection, then asked for her number.

Georgia gave her number out of pity and immediately hated the idea of having to deal with his call. He was smart and attractive, but four years older and there was no spark. But as nine o’clock and a second cider passed, Georgia noticed everyone pairing off and felt jealous when she saw Dean on the doorstep with his hand squeezing a buttock.