‘Find the first beat,’ Will says, short of breath. Her head rests against his. He drags the record backwards and forwards. ‘And drop it in time with the one that’s playing.’

April lays a hand on the record and Will directs her as best he can without holding it.

‘And then we have to keep it in time using the pitch control,’ Will says. Her fingers land gently on his and follow his movements. ‘It adjusts the speed of the turntable.’

‘That simple,’ April says, taking control and displaying what Will can only assume is beginner’s luck by getting a perfect beat-match almost straight away.

‘It’s not usually that simple,’ Will says, keeping to himself the fact that he picked these two records only because he’s well practised at mixing them. ‘And once they’re nicely in sync, we slide the fader into the middle, and we have both records together.’ Will does that, still relishing the wonderfully analogue feeling of two records spinning in front of him, their sound in perfect harmony.

‘So cool,’ April says. ‘What next?’

Will reaches beneath the counter and grabs another vinyl. April leans her head on his shoulder as he passes it to her. They do another mix together, their hands on each other’s, Will’s burning face centimetres from hers as they listen to the headphones. When April speaks over the music, Will can feel her hot breath in his ear.

For twenty minutes they play tune after tune. Will’s assistance is required a little less each time, but still given, never refused.

The vocal intro to Baby D’s ‘Let Me Be Your Fantasy’ fills Will’s bedroom. The air is thicker than ever with his aftershave. The tip of his nose rests in her hair. His heart thumps like it’s in sync with the bassline that shakes the floor beneath them.

She turns, her nose almost touching his. Her eyes fill his vision. ‘So, Will Parks …’ she says.

Will fights his inbuilt urge to take a step back.

‘It looks like –’ April begins to say. She is silenced by a thump from the other side of the room.

For a second time, a palm is slapped hard against the outside of the bedroom door. Their visitor doesn’t wait for an invitation. The door is flung open.

Will instinctively goes for the volume control, turning down the music as if he’s remembered himself, realized that he’s in his room with a girl, listening to loud music. This is not what he does.

‘We were just working on something,’ he says. Immediately he hates himself. His tone so reedy and defensive. His stance so weak, the exact opposite of his brother’s.

‘Hey, kiddies!’ Danny says. ‘Mum thought it was you,’ he says to April, ‘sneaking up here with Will.’

He saunters over to them. Still flushed from a gym session, his singlet is soaked, sweat and exertion radiating off him.