‘Limo,’ Tall Kid said, less hard, practically smiling. Except he couldn’t quite do it, could only manage a sneer.

‘Huh?’

‘My name. Limo.’

‘Oh cool. I’m Aaron.’

They connected knuckles, Aaron wincing at the force of contact as always, teeth clenched trying to hide it. He never understood why they couldn’t just shake hands, or at least slap fingers.

‘Christie.’

Damn, bruv. She was even hotter close up. Teardrop hazel eyes, long dark lashes, brown skin underlit with red infusion, cute dimples on both cheeks. She smelt of something sweet, consistent. He smiled as much as he dared without foiling his cool, and didn’t know how to greet her so he settled for doing nothing, disappointing himself. It speared him deep inside to think she might have felt the same way. He fought against his insecurities again.

‘She’s not even that much older than us.’

All nodded, conceding defeat. Old Girl’s view had won, right or wrong. She’d left them feeling like the kids she claimed they were.

‘So what now?’ Christie said.

Aaron didn’t even have to think about it. He’d been doing enough of that last night, nursing that very topic like a sore muscle. His first troublesome thought was their obvious opening question.

‘Show us.’ Aaron pointed at the railings. ‘Down there.’

They walked that way. Bodies bent, they looked at the streets below. The nearest were the hordes waiting by the lights for traffic to slow to a stop so they could cross. Christie went first, seeing as she’d asked. He tried not to snatch a peek at the blue jeans stretched taut against her bum and thighs, to keep his eyes on the road, but it was tough.

‘Which one?’ Limo propped on his elbows, searching the crowds.

‘Him,’ she said. ‘Bald guy, blue suit.’

‘Don’t point,’ Aaron heard himself, bit his lip. Granddad.

‘Sorry,’ she said, lowering her hand, shooting him a look that he felt, didn’t see. Not malice, regret. It made him like her just that little bit more. She understood he wasn’t being an arse, only cautious.

‘Just so they don’t see us,’ he told her, still feeling bad.

‘Sure.’

‘He’s crossing,’ Limo warned, and then her attention was back. Her threaded eyebrows lowered.

‘No he’s not,’ she muttered.