She remembered the day he’d followed her home from school. The thrum of her heart as she’d sensed him on her heels, the shock and relief as he’d caught up with her and behaved like they were buddies. When he’d offered to carry her bag she’d been sure he would bowl it into the river; when he’d flirtatiously poked her ribs she’d waited for some comment about her figure.

She’d been spellbound with fear and fascination. That knife edge of pride and dread as she’d gone into a pub with him, as he’d managed to get served, as cheap vodka had bubbled through her veins and he’d asked if she’d got a boyfriend.

Uh . . . no. I haven’t. She had to admit, it had flattered her that he’d even thought she might.

A slow smile had spread across his face. Good.

Her heart had started to pound, the vodka setting off stars in her head.

Good, he’d said again. Because Robin really likes you.

She hadn’t understood at first. The tipsiness had slowed her brain. Her bully, Andy, had nodded toward the corner of the pub and she’d followed his gaze to notice his two loyal followers sitting there. When had they come in? Emma had often thought of them as one entity: Andy’s audience who validated his bullying with their devoted attention, their emotionless laughter.

For the first time, across the pub, she’d contemplated them separately. Robin was the quieter of the two, with brown hair and freckles, not the redhead whose gormless grin exposed the fillings in his back teeth.

Emma had returned her gaze to her lap. Yeah, right.

I mean it, Andy had insisted. He thinks you’re really fit. And he likes how clever you are at school.

She’d wanted to believe that part. Often she’d fantasized about a boyfriend who would admire her intelligence instead of mocking it, but who would fancy her, too, be proud to be seen with her. Nervously, she’d considered Robin again. He’d been looking at Andy but he’d glanced at her and their eyes had met. She remembered how he’d shuffled, seemed awkward; she’d recognized that awkwardness and, somewhere in her woozy head, had convinced herself they had things in common.

Andy had beckoned Robin over. He’d hesitated, and Emma had considered bolting, to save herself from any possibility of humiliation. But she’d felt glued to her sweaty seat as Robin had approached and Andy had urged them to sit next to one another, widening his legs on their shared bench to force them closer together. Of course, looking back now, she could see that Andy had been reveling in yet another game of control. But she’d lapped up the attention, blushing as Robin had paid her compliments under Andy’s instruction.