I’m so sorry. You poor thing.

Then she held me and let me rest my head on her shoulder. Of course, I froze like a marble statue. There was no way I was going to move for fear of spoiling the moment. Nobody had ever shown me sympathy like that. Especially not people my age. At school his death was a topic to be avoided in case it made me cry or shout or punch a wall.

Eventually she stood up. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’m hungry.’

As I followed her down the stairs the reality of where I was, and how I’d come to be there as an invited guest, made me light-headed. I was so used to being in the house illegally with the constant threat of being discovered hanging over me. Being there legitimately was suddenly a little overwhelming and for a moment I had to pause, grip hold of the banister, and take three deep breaths to steady myself.

We walked through the living room and towards the back door. The windows were open and the gauzy curtains danced like ghosts in the billowing breeze. A wall of late afternoon heat hit me as we stepped outside. I gasped when I saw the table. I hadn’t noticed when I arrived, too intent, I suspected, on following Edie up to her room to listen to music. I’d never seen anything like it. The iron table was laid up as if for a banquet. A white tablecloth had been laid over it and there was a large glass bowl in the centre which was piled high with a rainbow of exotic fruit I’d never even seen before. There was a small dish of butter which had softened in the sun and rolled-up serviettes encircled with silver rings and a silver bucket on a stand which held ice cubes and two bottles. The table had been set for four places and my stomach turned over with the thrill of realising one of them was for me.

‘Typical. Wine but no water,’ Edie said. ‘Wait here. I’ll go and get some.’

As she left a movement caught my eye. I looked across the gleaming surface of the pool and saw Max Davenport. He stood with his back to me in front of the brick barbecue in the far corner of the terrace, poking a pile of smoking charcoal which sent clouds of sparks into the air with each prod.

I decided to try to talk to him. My stomach fizzed as I neared him and I focused on the voice in my head which was telling me to be brave, be brave, be brave.

He must have heard me and turned, face broken in half by a smile, and raised his tongs in greeting. A film of sweat coated his forehead and there were two patches of damp in the armpits of his snow-white shirt, which was open to his stomach revealing white skin with a light thatch of greying chest hair. He wore long red shorts with a crease ironed down the centres of the legs and on his feet the soft blue shoes. I’d seen them a hundred times through the lenses of my dad’s binoculars, but had never noticed the two gold coins slipped into slots in the leather on the tops of the shoes.