‘Let go of me!’ she yelled, mortified, humiliated, all her rage overflowing now as she saw the pity in his eyes again.

His hand dropped away instantly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Fuck you! I don’t need your sympathy.’

He looked taken aback, startled by her fury. They both knew she wasn’t talking about the fall. ‘Look, what I said back there, I didn’t mean to imply—’

‘Yes you did,’ she spat. ‘You think you know me because of what you’ve read? You think what they’re all saying behind my back is the truth? It’s bullshit. That’s just their version of the past. I saw it all through the prism. So you can take your fucking theories about ennobling yourself and—’

‘I’m sorry about your father—’

‘Don’t mention my father!’ Her hand flew up, slapping him hard.

He stiffened, the instinctive anger flashing through his eyes as the sting spread across his cheek; she saw the muscle ball in the side of his jaw again, the way it had that first time when she had pushed him too far.

‘Oh my God . . .’ she said, aghast, her hands flying to her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean—’

He stepped back, out of her orbit, and she could see the effort it was taking to restrain himself, the struggle to override instinct.

‘Nathan—’

‘Forget it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘It’s fine.’

But it wasn’t. She could see it in his eyes – the disgust at her behaviour, the surprise, the bafflement. Things like this didn’t happen in his world. Girls like her didn’t exist – wild girls, ferals, falling apart . . .

She felt her shoulders hitch as the oh-so- familiar self-loathing rose up; it was a high tide in her today, the memories coming fast and unbidden. She closed her eyes, trying to black them out, tossed her head, trying to shake them out. But they were stuck to her, part of her; they were her history. Evolution wasn’t going to come fast enough to get her out of this mess.

‘Charlotte.’

She looked up to find him staring down at her, seeing her suffering, pained by it.

She jerked her gaze away quickly. Christ, she was a mess. She’d lost it. She was making a fool of herself – yelling, hitting him. What was she going to do now? Cry? She didn’t even cry in front of her own mother.

With visible effort, she pulled herself up to her full height – not that five foot six was any sort of achievement against six two – and forced a fake smile, pushing her hair back with a trembling hand. ‘Well, sorry again,’ she said, falling into the slightly bored tone she had long ago perfected, albeit with a wobble in her voice. ‘Brandy’s never been my drink.’

‘Don’t.’ The word was like a push, forcing her off-balance again, stopping her from saving them both from this. ‘You don’t have to do that. Not with me.’

She swallowed, looking away, feeling the tears rise up in her, higher and higher. Oh God, yes she did. She had to act it was fine to make it fine, to pretend everything was going to be okay . . . She went to turn away but he blocked her, the bulk of him too much to see round, to get round. He was all she could see. He was her landscape now.