Then he saw her. Polly. She was standing there, her red hair tossed back, laughing with those gorgeous white teeth. She was wearing one of her usual scruffy outfits: a Metallica T-shirt, low-cut jeans, Doc Marten boots, cheap Indian-style bangles jangling on her left wrist. She was, he realized, quite staggeringly beautiful. And she looked so happy. Tom stared, mesmerized, as Polly turned her face away from him. He saw she was standing next to Mark Allston, and she kissed him on the cheek.

Rage overtook him. Rage so intense, so thick, he could feel it clogging his throat. He couldn’t speak.

“Oh-ho,” said one of his drinking buddies, nudging another man in their crowd.

They’re amused, Tom thought; they all think this is funny. Thoughts rushed in on him, making him dizzy. Allston’s brawny arm around Polly’s waist now; his hands, pinning her to the bed like Tom had done; his fingers over her soft, warm body; Mark kissing her; Mark . . .

Tom shoved his way through the crowd, sending drinks spilling, ignoring angry shouts of protest. He marched up to Mark Allston.

“Get your hands off her!” he shouted. “She’s mine!”

Allston looked down at him and chuckled. “It’s the Frog Prince,” he said, at which the crowd around him exploded with laughter. Tom did not care for them, or their opinion; he despised them all—peasants.

Polly looked miserable. “Mark—”

Mark Allston looked down at Tom. He was six feet tall and thick, with shoulders like Atlas.

“Or what? You’ll make me?”

“That’s right.” Tom stared at the arm, which had tightened possessively round Polly’s small stomach.

“You and whose army, mate?” Allston said dismissively. He turned back to the bar.

Tom reached out and pulled Allston sharply, viciously, to face him; the Englishman considered him a moment, then shook his head.

“Just fuck off, will you,” he said. “I only fight people my own size.”

Massot coloured. He was five foot ten, but Allston had at least fifty pounds on him.

“Time for a new rule, cochon,” he said, and pulled his hand back to strike. But Polly stepped forward and caught it.

“Stop it, Tom,” she hissed.

“Stay out of it,” he said.

“I will not. I can be with whoever I want. You’re just making a fool of yourself.”

He had to turn and look at her. “And what are you doing? Standing here, draped over this—this monkey?”

Allston said “That’s it,” and started to roll up his sleeves.

“Don’t,” Polly said to him. “Look, Tom, you cheated on me, okay?”

His heart ached. “You’re mine,” he said. He couldn’t believe how much it hurt.

“I’m not yours. Or his. I make my own decisions,” Polly said, and started to cry. Allston stared at her.

“You with me, Poll?” he asked.

She came to herself, threaded her arm through his. “Yeah. I’m with you.”