“Whose idea was it?” he asked, and Nory noted more than a hint of suspicion in his voice.

“Charles suggested it, and I thought it might be a nice idea. You can meet everyone properly.”

“Why do I need to meet them?”

Nory didn’t have an answer for this. She felt suddenly foolish and annoyed with herself.

“I met them this morning at the shoot,” he went on when she didn’t answer. “And if you remember, I knew them before, when you were all at the Pomp.” The Pomp was the local nickname for the private school; a sweeping generalization referring to the supposed air of grandiose pomposity given off by both the building and students who boarded there. “Didn’t think much of them then, if I’m honest,” Isaac went on, “and I’m not sure how much they’ll have changed since. Aside from your friend Jeremy, I saw very little to convince me that they weren’t still the same brats who used to shout offensive remarks at my dad over the garden fence.”

Nory was embarrassed by how rude her friends could be back then, and hindsight also shamed her for her silence in the face of their rudeness. Her friends weren’t bad people, they were just trying to navigate their way through puberty and pushing their boundaries like everyone else. And the kids at the Comp—the state comprehensive school that the local children attended—were no angels! Thom and his mates used to raise merry hell in Hartmead. But local bad behavior and outsiders’ bad behavior were judged by different standards.

Frustration at finding herself in her mid-thirties and still dealing with the same old bullshit sparked her anger.

“Don’t come, then. Forget I asked,” she snapped, and began to stomp back the way she had come.

Lettuce trotted back and forth as the distance grew between them, as if not knowing which of them she ought to side with.

Nory felt Isaac’s hand on her sleeve, but she shook it off and picked up her speed. Annoyingly, Isaac had no trouble matching it. Lettuce trotted happily along beside her, oblivious.

“I’m sorry,” said Isaac.

Nory didn’t answer. She was fuming. If she tried to speak, she might angry-cry, which was just the worst kind of cry because everyone assumed you were upset, when in fact you were so full of rage that if your tear ducts didn’t let out some pressure your head would explode.

“Are you not going to speak to me now?”

Nory held her tongue and her tears in.

“Nory, please. I’m sorry. I would love to have dinner with you. But with your friends . . . old habits die hard. I had a lifetime of dealing with pompous little arseholes from that school. It wasn’t only your friends; every year brought in a fresh wave of rich kids who thought they were better than everyone else.”