‘Oh, thanks,’ she said, smiling and blushing slightly. When she turned to look at me I was struck by how pretty she was. Her eyes were hazel with flecks of green and her pale skin flawless – unlike mine with a few stubborn pimples on my chin – with a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose. She was wearing the ugly green school uniform, just like I was, but she managed to make it look exotic. There was something about her, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but she seemed different from the other girls. She was quiet but she appeared self-assured rather than painfully shy; she didn’t need to flock around in little cliquey groups like I did.

After that I made sure I always sat next to her in art. And even though she still didn’t speak much she would often pass me one of her earphones, the other in her ear, so I could listen, too, to her Walkman (art was the only lesson in which we were allowed to do this). She loved The Cure, and even though I didn’t know much about their music, I soon started to look forward to those art lessons.

One day, towards the end of year seven, we were asked to make something for Father’s Day. She’d turned to me and said, ‘My dad’s dead.’

I’d stared at her, appalled by her forthrightness and not knowing how to answer. She didn’t look embarrassed or worried by my reaction. I paused, then said, ‘And my dad’s done a runner so …’

‘Does that mean we get this lesson off? I’ll ask Miss Simpson.’

She went to put her hand up and we both collapsed, laughing.

After that I asked Gina about Heather but she’d scoffed, professing her ‘weird’. At home time I often saw Heather leave school with an older girl. ‘That’s her sister, Flora,’ said Gina one day, standing beside me and crunching mint Polos in my ear. ‘She’s in year nine. They live up on Tilby Manor. Own the caravan park there. Moved here last year. Think they’re snobs.’

They didn’t seem snobby to me. They were like two pretty black cats. Aloof. Mysterious.