A young woman was standing at the top of the stairs, holding the door open with her foot, ready to retreat at any second. Her hair was bleached white and chopped short. Spikes of pearly floss jutted out from every angle as though she had just fallen out of bed. Her face was petite, its eyes bright and soulful. And she was about as tall as Ben had been back in secondary school before the customary growth spurt. She might have been in her early twenties – a few years younger than Ben – and she wore a black string top and pale skinny jeans. Her olive parka hung open and had a collar like a lion’s mane.

‘I suppose that depends,’ Sparling said, his pasty cheeks pinched into the smallest smile, ‘are you Ms Coogan?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, returning his smile with one ten times its size. ‘At your service.’

‘Please, come and sit by Mr French,’ he said, again pointing to the front row, ‘and I’ll explain why I’ve invited you both here today.’

‘Mr French?’ she repeated, obviously amused by the stiffness of it all.

‘Ben,’ he said, introducing himself, unable to contain his smile as she skipped down the steps. ‘I don’t think anyone except Doctor Sparling, I mean Alec, has ever called me Mr French before.’

‘Chloe,’ she said, sidling towards him between the desks and fold-down seats, ‘or Ms Coogan, if you prefer? I’m not too particular about it. Is it just the three of us or are we expecting more company?’ she asked, looking to Sparling.

‘No, this is everyone,’ he replied, standing tall, striking that familiar lecturer’s stance. ‘I need only the two of you.’

Chloe slid into the seat beside Ben and slipped the jacket from her shoulders. The October sun had awoken the freckles on her cheeks like a light sprinkling of brown sugar. The woman’s eyes were satin grey, moonlight over mist. Her nose was delicate, with a tiny point. Ben stole a lingering glance at her profile and the shape of her lips. They seemed to rest in a half-smile, like a subtle first defence against the world – the refusal to take it too seriously. She laid her bare arms on the desk. Beads adorned both wrists, and her right ring finger wore a small emerald stone.

‘Now then,’ Sparling began, removing his glasses, ‘the university has kindly given me this room so that we may meet today. You see, I am backing a project that interests me a great deal. And you, Mr French and Ms Coogan,’ he said, nodding at them individually, ‘I believe are the perfect candidates. And I have done my research,’ he added with that odd smile of his.