He hesitated. ‘I’ll drop a message to Troy, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. We were never friends, and after Joe he moved schools. As you’re aware he’s in France now, and I see him doing corporate stuff in French on LinkedIn from time to time. I just added him because he came up as a connection, but I don’t really know much about him. Oh, one thing, though! I think he got married to a Frenchwoman and took her name, the weirdo. His LinkedIn name changed a few years ago.’

‘That’s so cool!’ said Izzy. ‘I love that. Smash the patriarchy.’

‘What’s his new surname?’ I said.

Lucas frowned, then knocked back the rest of his tea. ‘Can’t remember,’ he said. ‘Something French. I’ll find out.’

‘Thanks!’

‘And promise you’ll send me a copy of your magazine?’

‘Sure,’ I said, wondering whether we could mock one up just for him, or maybe start a brand-new magazine.

Izzy asked if she could take some photos for the article and he posed in a self-conscious way.

My emotions were all over the place as we walked away. I was pleased that we’d tracked Lucas down and spoken to him, but the reality was Joe should have been old like that.

Then I looked over at Izzy and saw that she was, in fact, crying, so I let myself do that too. We took each other’s hands and kept walking. By the time we got to the overground train we were smiling at each other. I dried my eyes with my sleeve and we set off into the centre of London to do a few tourist things before we had to go home.

34

I stick with Troy all day. I pretend we’re going on the French exchange this evening and work so hard on it that I find I almost believe it myself. I chat to Mrs Dupont, trying not to think about the fact that she is definitely going to have sex with my dad. Fuck’s sake.

At the end of school I pull Troy across the playground to a point where no one (not even Lucas, who’s lurking nearby) can spy on us.

‘Hey,’ I say. The words stick in my throat. Why is it so hard to do this? ‘I’m really sorry.’ I took your trophy. Those words won’t come. My mouth won’t say them. It’s the strangest feeling: I want to say it, but there’s an invisible cushion in my throat that lets me breathe but doesn’t let me speak. I open my bag and hold it out to show him, but when I try to pick the trophy up it doesn’t move. When he tries, it still doesn’t move.