‘Check this out,’ Kris Tring shouts from somewhere in the wings. Coloured laser beams scythe through the white smoke. Even with the main lights switched on, it looks spectacular. ‘Now that’s what I’m talking about!’ He emerges on to the stage, arms outstretched like a classical conductor expecting applause.

‘Lovely work, Kris,’ April says.

‘Solved the smoke issues, then?’ Will asks.

‘Got there eventually,’ Kris says, waving a roll of gaffer tape.

Will looks above the stage, able to make out a taped-up smoke detector above them. Kris’s work this afternoon has been dogged by triggering the fire alarm.

‘Had to cover up all four,’ Kris says, pointing around the hall through the murk.

‘Is that a good idea?’ Will asks with a smile.

‘Covering smoke detectors? If you want a smoke machine, it’s a bloody brilliant idea.’

‘True enough.’

‘Had to wait for Simon and Leavers to clear off, though. Not sure they’d sanction the health and safety breach.’

‘I wonder where they are.’

‘Cleaning cupboard’s my guess,’ Kris says.

‘Darkroom, I reckon,’ April shouts. ‘Which reminds me …’ She retrieves a cool bag from the pile of coats behind the stage. ‘While we’re unsupervised.’ She tears the foil from the neck of the champagne bottle, launching the cork across the hall. ‘Why let the kiddies have all the fun?’

She pours a plastic tumbler for Will and Kris, and for a couple of other sixth-formers nearby. ‘Bottoms up, peeps,’ she says, swigging straight from the bottle. ‘Here’s to a successful evening. Let’s set this place on fire!’

Bubbles singe Will’s nose as he takes a gulp. He’s no fan of champagne, but today it tastes different: ice cold and delicious. ‘Three cheers for this one,’ he shouts, prodding April and giggling as foam trickles off his chin.

He feels a buzzing in his pocket and glances down just long enough to see it’s Danny again. FUCKING CALL ME, the text says. Just reading those three words feels like a perfect song on the radio being interrupted by an advert.

‘No,’ Will mumbles, returning his full attention to this moment.

‘Shit, hide the booze!’ April says over the last of her three cheers.

‘Too late,’ Ms Calloway says, cool perfumed air fanned across the stage by her long skirt as she strides towards them. ‘But worry not – I won’t tell.’

‘Would you like a swig, Miss?’ April asks.

‘Very kind, but no thanks.’

‘You hanging about? You could do a DJ set with Will.’ April makes scratching noises on a turntable. Her voice is unusually loud after necking a third of the bottle.