You like how smart she is, don’t you, Rob?

Maybe Robin’s next words had been the real turning point. Eyes to the table, he’d mumbled: Yeah, and good at art.

The warmth in her cheeks had deepened. Robin had noticed she was good at art? She’d been pretty sure that hadn’t been part of Andy’s script. But clearly he’d thought, Nice one, Rob, because he’d stood up then and declared he was going to stop playing gooseberry now.

Emma had seen his suggestive wink as he’d left. Could replay it to this day. But at the time, her skin still aglow from Robin’s comment, she’d chosen to ignore it.

An awkward silence had fallen once they were alone. Robin had moved a few inches away, especially when a group of popular girls from school had sauntered in. Emma’s glow had started to die. Memories had returned: The frog on her chair . . . had Robin sourced that for Andy? The ectoplasm: Had Robin been the one holding her still as Andy had mashed it into her scalp, or had it been the other guy, or had she imagined the hand on her arm? Goose bumps drove any last warmth from her skin and she’d come close to fleeing, until Robin had murmured something.

Sorry about him.

Emma hadn’t known what to say. Sorry didn’t cover it, not even a fraction, but still there’d been a power in hearing it that had almost made her burst into tears. She’d felt light and soft and strange, and when he’d asked if she wanted another drink she’d nodded.

Let’s sit outside, he’d said. It’s too hot in here.

They’d perched on a wall in the pub’s deserted garden, chatting quite normally. Then he’d stubbed out his fag and shuffled closer. The kiss had been clumsy at first but he’d seemed to relax into it, and she’d tried to as well, tried to calm the tornado of her thoughts. This is okay. He’s not like Andy. He said he was sorry. He thinks I’m good at art. She’d even giggled as they’d rolled off the wall and lain behind it on the cold concrete, shielded by a row of stinking trash bins.

She’d been so nervous about going back to school the next day. Excited, though, about seeing him. Surely others would be able to tell how last night had changed her. Surely they’d guess she felt both ashamed and alive, that she hadn’t been able to look her mum in the eye, that she’d cried in the shower but hugged her secret close.

In the homeroom, people had started tittering as she’d arrived. Shooting glances her way, grinning behind their hands.