He wanders over to Alex, who’s standing with Freya, who also looks as though she’d prefer to be on the other team.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks.

‘Izzy,’ Freya calls. ‘Come on. Get over here.’

He can feel how conscious she is of his presence. She’s trying to behave normally, but it’s like she’s suddenly been thrust on to the stage and asked to recite a poem in front of the whole school.

‘Is no one talking to me? Is that it?’

He waits, then shrugs and wanders up to the terrace and sits on the steps, shading his eyes, which he keeps trained hard on Taisie, because he knows this is down to her. He picks at the grass, wondering how long they’re going to keep it up. The ball comes his way, hitting the ground and rolling to within a few feet of him, and Izzy comes running after it. She’s a crap runner, slow with an awkward, rolling gait. When she gets to him, she stoops to pick up the ball.

‘Are you not speaking to me either, then?’ he says.

She looks right at him. It’s an almost physical relief to be looked at and seen. She then turns and runs back. He holds her expression in his head and studies its different facets. Apologetic. Defiant. Embarrassed.

GRACE

Monday, 16 April 2018

THE AFTERNOON IS WARM AND SUNNY, THE MAGNOLIA at the end of the road heavy with pale-cream and pink flowers, some petals already strewn on the pavement. Anna and I walk to the parade and she steers me into the cafe, buys us both a coffee and carries them to a table. I peel off my jacket and hang it over the back of the chair. It feels unnatural, as though the scene has been theatrically staged. Anna pulls her hair behind her shoulders, then rests her elbows on the table and weaves her fingers together.

I study her in a way I haven’t before, as though she’s a potential rival. That she is attractive is beyond argument, but hers is not an easy face to look at; she’s challenging, too sexy, maybe; I don’t know. She has long black glossy hair, smoky eyes and full lips. Her cheekbones are pronounced, her jawline elegant. I find her both alluring and off-putting. I think most men would just find her alluring. Or scary. There is something sensual about her, and I suppose that’s what makes me uneasy. She uses her hair as a flirtation tool, flicking it back with her hand or a toss of her head, leaning forward so that it drapes over her face, winding a lock of it around her finger.

‘Do you think he’s left you?’ she asks, looking at me oddly. She’s probably wondering why I’m confiding in her and not in Cassie.