‘Look, my mum’s a secondary English teacher. It takes a lot more than liking books to be good at it. My mum had me reading Wordsworth in primary school. Can you believe that? I used to perform poetry at family barbecues.’ There’s a dimple on the right side of his cheek, it gives him a warmth she couldn’t see before, almost boyish.

‘Why are you telling me this? I’m not interested.’ But she can see him, as a child, up on a stool in front of his whole family.

‘She was a phantom of delight, when first she gleamed upon my sight. A lovely apparition sent. Why are you laughing?’

Her mouth needs to do something other than encourage him, so she takes several mouthfuls of her drink. ‘I don’t want to insult your mum so I can only assume you were a horrible student.’

He straightens up, ‘I can’t be good at everything, can I?’

‘You’re unbelievable.’

‘You said it. What’s that you’re drinking?’ he nods to her cup.

‘Snakebite,’ she answers shortly, wondering how much longer she needs to keep up the farce of talking to him before she can go back to the table, back home even.

‘What? You’re drinking something called snakebite? Can I try it? It’s always good to be reminded of why I don’t drink beer.’ He takes the cup from her hand and slowly raises it to his lips, watching her sceptically as he has a sip. His face snaps into a wince.

‘Not to your taste?’

‘No,’ he chases it with his drink, ‘that’s foul.’

‘How much longer do I need to pretend I’m enjoying talking to you?’

‘That all depends, doesn’t it?’

‘On what?’

He sidles closer, his arm hot against hers. ‘How much longer will it take me to get back into your good books?’

Chapter Three

Jump? How High?

September 2020

Yvonne

The phone on her desk rings and Yvonne stares through the glass of her office at her new intern, a tall dumb girl with an unpronounceable name. Yvonne thought her instructions this morning were quite clear, that she didn’t want to be disturbed unless it was really important. But maybe it’s her mum. Again. Since she retired every little thing has become something important enough to disturb Yvonne’s work for. Or maybe it’s her brother Claude, maybe his divorce has finally come through, she told him to call her straight away.

She tuts and picks up, ‘Yvonne Olsson.’

There’s a pause at the other end and then he speaks. The sound of his voice throws her back two decades, to being that twenty-one-year-old girl blinded by hormones.

‘Lewis? How did you get my number?’

‘I looked in Kiama’s phone.’

‘I can’t believe they put you through.’

‘I just told them I was one of your brothers.’

‘What do you want?’