The last time the trio had ventured to this bar had been during their first week of term in September. The sagging sofas had been pushed to the sides to create a makeshift dance floor, and the jukebox had surrendered the airwaves to a third-year student in possession of a laptop and a Spotify subscription. It had been here that things came to a head with a group of glossy-haired, entitled residents of J-block, plummy-voiced witches who’d been feasting on Daisy’s food in the communal kitchen and trying to subsume Esther into their posh-girl clique. Words were thrown, hair was tossed, and lines were drawn, with Esther, Daisy, and Susan united on one side and the ex-private-school girls on the other.

It was the night that had forged their friendship.

“Do you think we’ll be asked to leave?” Daisy attempted to hide behind Susan, which was tricky since Daisy was a head taller—and that head was topped with a voluminous cloud of blond curls.

“I do not.” Susan dropped into a sagging leather chair. “Speaking as the embodiment of human rage, no one, not even me, can possibly stay cross with you for that long, and this one”—she jerked a thumb at Esther—“is too sexy for anyone to resist.”

Before Esther could puff up too much at the compliment, Susan shooed her in the direction of the bar.

“Put that sexiness into action. A medicinal whisky for me and a hot chocolate for the evergreen floof.”

It didn’t take long for Esther to return.

“One of you needs to go. I don’t have any money.” Esther waved at her pajamas before folding herself onto the sofa next to Daisy, who exchanged a shocked glance with Susan. Esther might have been low on cash, but there were other currencies in which she could—and frequently did—trade. Her body struck the perfect midpoint between Daisy’s straight lines and Susan’s curves, and her face was half big gray eyes and half infectious grin.

When Daisy first met her, she wasn’t sure whether Esther was so confident because she was so pretty or so pretty because she was so confident. Either way, Daisy would have laid her savings on Esther being able to sweet-talk a round of drinks from the bar on a suggestive smile and a promise to pay later.

“Can’t you flirt the drinks out of him?” Susan suggested baldly.

“I can’t believe a feminist like you would entertain the idea of pimping me out for alcoholic gain.” Esther feigned affront for as long as she could (two seconds) before conceding. “I tried. Apparently even this”—she gestured in disbelief at her ensemble—“wasn’t sufficiently persuasive. All I got was a lecture about the gig economy, something about the price of avocados, and a suggestion that I quit my degree and start an Etsy business.”