‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ said Carolyn. ‘It’s tough at the moment, I know. But anything worth having involves the odd sacrifice. And you can do it, you know – you just have to put the hours in.’

‘I do, Mum.’ Evie hesitated. ‘I did.’

And the results last year hadn’t been that bad, not by any reasonable measure. Just bad enough for her mother to insist on a meeting with Evie’s head of year. A meeting that had gone on and on, picking apart Evie’s grades and coursework, a meeting that had ended with her mother quietly furious with the teachers, the whole school and Evie herself. Transferring to the sixth form in town had been a relief after that, even if her mother was already beginning to go on about university. She’d settled in, made new friends, until eventually, inevitably, the rumours had caught up with her. Some stupid netball tournament where Marnie and Grace had bumped into Ellie Foster. Evie had counted Ellie as a friend in her old school, but she had clearly lost no time in letting Marnie and Grace know what she, Evie, was really like.

Such a loser.

Such a freak.

They hadn’t actually said anything yet, not to anyone else, but Evie suspected it was only a matter of time; eventually the odd loaded comment wouldn’t be enough.

The thought of it made her sick. Maybe Kym wouldn’t care.

Carolyn sighed. ‘Yes. Well, A levels are different, Evie. You have to take them seriously. Honestly, it doesn’t seem five minutes since we were packing you off to nursery.’ For one awful moment Evie thought her mother might cry. ‘And now look at you. So . . .’ Her voice faded, and Evie was glad; she wasn’t sure, these days, what her mum thought of her, but mostly she suspected she was a disappointment.

Carolyn glanced at her watch. ‘Goodness,’ she said, ‘is that the time? Back to the books, I think, don’t you?’

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to help?’ The bed was still a mess, a riot of discarded sweaters and cardigans and scarves.

‘Absolutely not. Go on. Revision.’ Carolyn stood, gesturing to the door.

One day she would get away, Evie thought suddenly, fiercely, and when she did, she’d stay away.

*

It didn’t take much effort to find Tyler, not at the weekend, anyway.

His uncle’s boat, the Donna Marie, was moored on the quay, just along from the bridge. She had seen better days, her paintwork was patched and spotted with rust, but there was a large sign fixed to the cabin, advertising the rates for a day’s fishing, and there was a group of guys hanging around, boxes of tackle stacked on the pavement, clearly waiting for their turn to board.