Walden’s career was her life. She was happy with her life, proud of her work, glad to be part of Chetwood School. She was far too busy to make a fool of herself daydreaming about romance. That sort of thing was teenager business.

In fact, while Nikki’s feelings about her academic future seemed to have settled down steadily since the start of the half term—Ebele said that she was finally seeing the school counsellor again, and a good thing too—romance, unfortunately, was in the air for Walden’s Upper Sixth.

It was hard not to laugh—it would have been very unkind to laugh—at the Will and Nikki situation. Obviously, true love was very important to a seventeen-year-old. True love in the background of a sixth form lesson expressed itself mostly through high-stakes eye contact and even more high-stakes rearrangement of the seating plan. On the days when Nikki condescended to sit beside Will, instead of her usual spot next to Mathias, Will was so obviously, smugly elated that it annoyed everyone—including, alas, Nikki herself. On the days when she walked past his desk and went to sit with one of the others, his downcast expression was almost cartoonishly pathetic. Aneeta, now clearly promoted from one of Nikki’s best friends to her very best friend, whispered with her after every lesson. Mathias looked embarrassed for everyone. The funniest part, of course, was that the whole class was obviously convinced that Walden couldn’t read the room—as if there weren’t five whole people in every lesson, all of whom knew each other very well; as if it wasn’t part of Walden’s job to pick up every change and variation in the dynamics of a group of young people; and as if this particular dynamic wasn’t older than the hills.

Of course she pretended not to know. She wasn’t a monster.

Even Mark talked to her about it. Apparently, Will had asked him for advice. “What did you tell him?” Walden asked, interested despite herself.

“I said I couldn’t help,” Mark said. “What does poor old Uncle Mark know about young love? The first time I got serious about a woman, I was twenty-eight. I did say he should probably keep her away from my sister-in-law. Shouldn’t be hard, though.”

“Your sister-in-law?” Walden could just about bring Mrs Daubery’s face to mind; they’d spoken at several Teams-call parents’ evenings. She had an impression of quality knitwear and a nice scarf, gardening gloves on the desk, along with that telltale sign of a genuinely very posh woman: clip-on earrings, not piercings.

“Racist cow,” said Mark cheerfully.