It’s odd to see him on his own: he’s always surrounded by acolytes. I crave his confidence. Time to leave, before my envy uncoils into something darker. ‘I’m heading off now.’

‘Don’t be a party-pooper!’ He slaps me on the shoulder. ‘Hey, if you’re sleepy, I might have a little something to perk you up.’ He taps the side of his nose.

We all know Wilcox does cocaine. I’ve never done anything, not even the weed and E the cool kids did in sixth form. I never got offered either.

But now I wonder: could coke make me more like Wilcox? ‘All right.’

His bedroom is tidy, his king-size bed neatly made for when he tires of being the host.

Wilcox opens a drawer in an oak desk. The tin box he takes out used to hold toffees but now contains a bag of powder, which he tips onto the inlaid writing surface of the desk and divides into two lines with a credit card.

‘You first?’

‘No, you,’ I say, because I have no idea what to do.

He sits on the leather chair beside the desk and rolls up a small slip of paper he takes from a pile in the drawer and pokes one end into his nostril. He leans down and snorts, sucking up the line of powder like a hoover.

He sits up, sniffs, blinks, smiles. ‘Woah. Never get bored of that.’

When he passes me a new piece of paper, I think of our introductory course in communicable diseases, wonder if that’s why he doesn’t use bank notes. The paper is hard to roll and he takes it from me. ‘First time, Palmer? Watch.’ He positions it by my nostril so I can push it in, guides my face towards the cocaine. There’s a gentleness about him, the bedside manner in his genes.

As I snort, I feel the powder travel up my nasal cavity, the experience faintly medicinal. All gone. I sit up. Where is the coke now? I picture my anatomy book. Perhaps somewhere between my inferior and superior turbinates.

How long will it take to reach my brain? Perhaps I will feel nothing at all.

But now it’s happening, a rush of something I can’t quite describe. I am still myself but unapologetically so. Not the scared schoolboy who froze on the Lawns this time last year, but a man who can act, can take control. I feel my face breaking into a wide grin.

I glance up at Wilcox, who is also grinning. ‘Good, right?’ he says. ‘There’s more where that came from. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.’

‘Right.’ I don’t know what he means but I don’t care. For now, I feel like his equal.

I go out into the garden and find Laura, and kiss her full on the lips before either of us has the chance to change our minds.