“She’s rather dull for someone who fancies herself an artist, isn’t she?” said Derek when Eva left.

“Dull? No, Eva’s not dull,” Faye replied, admitting to herself though, that her friend had seemed subdued that morning. “She has a lot on her mind at the moment. Her class is preparing for an exhibition.”

Derek gave a dismissive wave. “I don’t care. She’s your friend, not mine.”

“What did you think about him?” asked Faye on the phone to her friend that evening.

“He’s handsome,” said Eva.

There was a long pause.

“Eva? Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Is that all you have to say about him? Is he so handsome that you were unable to form any other opinions of him?”

“I guess so!” They laughed and changed the subject.

Some weeks later, Faye convinced Eva to come to a house party with her at the commune shared by Diane, Michelle and several other students. After the introductions, they stood in the kitchen, drinking beer out of plastic cups and chatting. An hour or so later, Faye and Derek were dancing when Eva touched her shoulder. She had a headache, she said, and was going home. She resisted when Faye offered to accompany her, insisting she’d be fine.

When Faye stopped by the next day to see how she was, Eva opened the door without a word.

“Are you still feeling ill?” asked Faye, following her friend into the house.

Eva shook her head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Eva prepared the coffee, still silent. It wasn’t like her to be sullen. They sat opposite one another at the kitchen table.

“Eva?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this without sounding like an insecure, possessive friend,” she said, looking into her cup.

“What?”

“Derek, he’s, well, he isn’t a kind person.”

“What do you mean? What has he done? Did he say something to you?”

Faye thought about Derek’s comment at the coffee shop. Surely he would not have repeated it to Eva. She felt herself redden.

Eva looked at her. “You know it yourself, don’t you?”

“No. I don’t know what you mean. What did he say?”

“You mean aside from the comment that if I smiled more, his friends might be brave enough to ask me to dance?”

“What? Oh, Eva, I’m sorry. He was joking, I’m sure. He doesn’t mean—”

“Sure. It’s not just that. He . . . he’s smug and patronising. And Faye, don’t you see how, well, the way he says things as if they’re jokes, but there’s something deeper to it.”

“Something deeper? Like what?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to care about trampling on people’s feelings. It’s just that I don’t trust him and I—”