Half the girls in Eva’s year had already been relieved of their virginities, if not more. At least two of her peers had taken the abortion pill. But sex was something that troubled Eva. Some part of her clammed up with fright whenever things got heated. Steve Klein, a guy from the swim team she’d kissed a few times, had snapped at her one night after she’d shoved him back violently, panicked when he’d steered her hand to the button-fly of his jeans: ‘You’re fucking frigid, do you know that, Eva? You strut around like you’re God’s gift, but you’re a fucking icicle.’

Secretly, she worried that there was something wrong with her. A genetic flaw, perhaps. Her aunt Melissa had been forty-four years old when she died, and she’d never even had a boyfriend. Eva was horrified at the thought of being so abnormal. Sex was a burden she was determined to shrug off before university began, and she had made the decision that Callum would be the one.

There was something clean-looking about him – hygienic – his fingernails always spotless, his hair neatly cut. Everything he wore looked box-fresh like it was brand new. She watched him now as he moved about the kitchen, swirling the wine in his glass, her eye following the taut pull of muscle beneath his pink sports-shirt, that particular hue emphasizing his toast-coloured skin. He’d turned his attention to the framed photographs of the Campbells that lined one whole wall of the kitchen. Black and white studio portraits of the family, dressed in jeans and white T-shirts, barefoot and smiling, a collage of stylishly happy family life.

He was peering closely now at a portrait shot of Jo, the Campbells’ three-year-old son. They had adopted him from an orphanage in Vietnam – or maybe it was Thailand, Eva couldn’t remember. His hair was cut into a pudding bowl shape that made his flat little face appear rounder, more cherubic. Jo had Down’s Syndrome and Eva couldn’t imagine any child being more adorable.

‘They sure do think a lot of themselves, these people,’ Callum remarked, bringing his glass to his lips.

Eva said nothing, but a shimmer of disappointment passed through her. She’d wanted more from him than this. Eva loved Jo, his unabashed joy whenever he saw her, his sticky impulsive hugs. Ross was okay in a balding rugby-dad sort of way, but Becca was nice. Smart, glamorous, always immaculately dressed – one time, when Eva was babysitting, she’d spent a full hour going through Becca’s wardrobe, trying on her clothes, her shoes, imagining what it was like to be Becca.