Charlotte leaned forward to set her drink down on the table, moving to turn round.

‘Dr Ferrante couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. A sudden family matter has come up. He’s had to fly to Barcelona for a few weeks and has asked me to stand in for him,’ the voice behind her said—

‘You’re Charlotte, right? Doc Hall’s tutee?’

Through the blur of her hangover, she saw a melange of green eyes, a clear gaze, bright blonde unbiddable hair, a gappy smile. He smelled of lanolin soap and coal smoke, his handknit jumper anachronistic against the public school cricket sweaters the rest of college was wearing.

‘. . . I’m Dr Marling. Nathan.’

Was he underwater? His voice sounded echoey, distant, as though coming to her in a dream. So many dreams. She turned, her body on autopilot, hand out even though she had no conscious thought of putting it there. Her eyes were swept up by his, like fishing nets scooping her out of the sea, green stars that shone in her sky, day and night, regardless of the rising sun or the waxing moon.

‘Doc left a note in my pigeon hole. He can’t make it. Emergency root canal. He’s asked me to take the tutorial.’

‘Has he?’ she asked in surprise.

‘ Yes.’

‘But you’re far too young.’

A tiny frown puckered his brow. ‘I’m doing a master’s.’

‘Okay. You’re too handsome then,’ she teased, amused by his earnestness.

The frown deepened. He shifted his weight. ‘. . . He wants us to discuss free will.’

Where was he from? She couldn’t place his accent. She’d never met anyone from outside the M25, not properly. ‘Or we could exercise some free will of our own and go to the bar,’ she said, guessing the idea of a midday drink would scandalize him. He looked so . . . innocent, somehow. She hugged her books to her chest and leant her head against the wall, giving him one of her sleepy, sexy smiles and letting her hair fall over one eye. It was one of her favourite games, seeing how quickly she could reel them in. ‘You do drink, don’t you?’

Could he tell she was mocking him? His face betrayed nothing, his gaze open and clear as he took in the sight of her, up close. People always seemed surprised she had freckles, as though they were somehow too bourgeois for a girl like her. ‘Of course.’

‘Yes? What’s your nipple?’

‘Excuse me?’

She’d arched an eyebrow. ‘What’s your tipple?’

‘Oh. I . . .’ Confusion clouded his features but the word was in his head now, the image . . .

She gave another languid smile, feeling like a cat toying with a mouse. ‘What did you think I said?’

He flushed beetroot, his clear-eyed gaze shrouded over now as she swam in circles around him, making him dizzy, tongue-tied. The high colour suited him, though she doubted he had any idea of that, and she watched as a tiny muscle clenched in his jaw. He was getting angry with her and she found she liked it. She liked the idea of pushing someone like him to their limits – someone so opposite to her: always in control, always good, so driven and striving for more. What would it take to break them? To show them how the world looked from her side of the fence?