“I am not!” said Carmen. Then she smiled suddenly. “But you know . . . it’s the bookshop party.”

“I wasn’t going to go. In case Oke was there.”

“He isn’t. But I’ll tell you who is.”

Dahlia looked up, eyes wide. “He isn’t!”

“He is.”

“Seriously?”

“Don’t get mixed up with him!” said Carmen. “But . . . but do enjoy the party.”

Dahlia was already tugging out her braids, her face miraculously transformed as she almost ran up the rest of Victoria Street.

CARMEN STOOD, IRRESOLUTE, at the bottom of the stairs.

He was only in the student halls. She could just go.

Oh God. Although of course he hadn’t turned up to the party . . . but . . .

Buzzing with nerves, she climbed the steps and walked into Patrick Geddes Hall, the ridiculously high building opposite the steps, a gray stone courtyard next to the assembly hall.

She knocked on the huge, ancient studded wooden door and a porter opened it with a serious look.

“Hi! I’m looking for Oke . . .”

No. She couldn’t remember his last name. Had he told her? Skylar had mentioned it surely. She hadn’t . . . Goddamn it. She hadn’t put him in her phone; she hadn’t googled him; she knew nothing about him. His bloody phone number was written down in the order book, she realized suddenly . . . that she’d gotten rid of when she’d brought an old laptop of Sofia’s in to start transforming the admin.

“Oh God,” she said to herself.

“Who?” he said. “Are you on the list?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” said Carmen. “This is a bit of a spur of the moment . . . It’s . . . You’ll know him. Tall. Brazilian. Ties his hair up? Bounces. A lot. Quite bouncy. Serious, but bouncy. Gorgeous. I mean amazing. I mean, just a brilliant guy.”

The porter was completely unimpressed. “Can you call him?” he said.

“I don’t have his number,” said Carmen through gritted teeth. “But you must have seen him around.”

“There’s four hundred students here, miss.”

Carmen sighed. “Oke? Oke? Doesn’t ring a bell?”

“Is that his first name?”

Carmen realized of course that he’d told her it was a nickname. She didn’t even know his real name. “Oh, never mind,” she said, turning around, her exuberance forgotten. What had she been planning on doing anyway? Throwing herself into his arms?

Maybe.

Stop fretting, she told herself, as she trudged against the snow-turning-to-dirty-old-ice of the courtyard, freezing.

She would see him again. She would. She’d track him down. Skylar would know what his surname was. She could find him again at the university. Oh God, Mrs. Marsh could probably do it.

Maybe. And then see if he was . . . if he was interested. Or if it was entirely possible—and at this she sighed—Oke was one of these people who was interested in everything, who found something to like in everyone.