Sarah Bletchley was the clichéd mean girl of Rainham Girls: boobs by the age of eleven, long blonde hair, lip gloss, pink bras under white school shirts with one too many buttons undone. Her father worked in the City and they had a big mock-Tudor house and a Maserati in the driveway. Ellen remembered the time she had tackled Sarah Bletchley at hockey and been told in the changing rooms after the match that her father would sue her. Even as a twelve-year-old, Ellen had known this was an absurd thing to say.

‘I had such a thing for her, obviously.’ Ben rolled his eyes to mark the inevitability of such a statement. ‘We texted for a month and I thought I was in with a chance. And then I went to the Regal one Saturday and she was there getting off with Harry Grahams.’

‘Obviously, I fancied Harry Grahams,’ Ellen replied, guiltily. ‘Although, Jesus – how the mighty have fallen. Last time I checked, his Facebook profile picture was his car.’

‘He was such a fucker.’ Ben shook his head. ‘Proper, brutish bullying. I remember him making another bloke move schools after he stuffed him inside a wheelie bin just outside the school gates.’

Alexa laughed brightly, then stopped when she realized this was not a joke.

‘Christ,’ Ellen exhaled. ‘I had terrible taste in men. Wait, so where exactly did you live?’

‘Gunwharf Close – Mum and Dad are still there. My younger brother was at Rainham too – Oliver?’

Ellen shook her head.

‘Fair enough, he was a maths prodigy and didn’t do a lot of socializing. My sister went to St James’s – Ava Kenny?’

‘Hmm, doesn’t ring a bell,’ she mused. ‘But my brother Tom was at St James’s. Maybe they knew each other. Is she older or younger?’

‘Younger – by two years.’

‘Ah, same as Tom! They were probably in the same year too.’

Jack had shuffled over and joined them all on the floor again, offering a muttered hello. Alexa smiled at him, though Ellen appraised him rather coolly, not forgetting that he’d snapped at her earlier.

‘Wait, wait, wait … so …’ Ben leaned forward. ‘Were you at Amber Outhwaite’s party?’

Ellen’s eyes widened. ‘God, yes!’ She recalled the whole evening with awful clarity. All the mums had talked about Amber Outhwaite’s party for weeks afterwards – as had the attendees. It was one of the first parties in Year 13, a few weeks after the school term had started. Amber’s father, like Sarah Bletchley’s, was something monstrously wealthy in the City. There was a cluster of them in that part of the south-east: flash and showy; houses dressed up to the nines, with extravagances like swimming pools, jacuzzis and wet rooms and, in the case of Amber’s, a hedge maze and four tennis courts. The Outhwaites were a family of three.