George appeared at the door to the front room. Fresh. Smart. Smiling.

They blustered in.

“So sorry,” breathed Sarah, removing her coat. “The children’s bedtime ran on, and the babysitter was late, and there was traffic on the Finchley Road.”

“But we’re here at last,” smiled David, placing a hand softly on Sarah’s arm.

Smiling back at him, George reached out for David’s other hand and shook it with practised confidence, a brand of which, Veronica had noticed, often made other men shrink a little. Not David. He accepted his palm with quieter conviction, but manifest warmth, and on the back of a comment she couldn’t quite hear, both he and George set about giggling like old chums. Without Amelia and the boy littered around his legs, David gathered about him a charisma Veronica hadn’t noticed before. Sarah remained close to him, her legs wrapped in pale, loose trousers, a silk top tucked in at the waist, a single necklace adorning her freckled décolletage. She was the kind of pretty that didn’t jump at you across a room – not stunning, her hair neither blonde nor brown, too hawkish a nose, and a little short; but when you looked closely, she was nevertheless lovely. They hugged in an awkward embrace, the men watching.

The more Veronica thought about it, she realised that it had been such a fleeting year of friendship, and she wondered if this was why Sarah had seemed reluctant about reconnecting. Perhaps it had simply not mattered to her. Veronica herself could barely remember the names of any of the other girls from that year, with whom she was sure she had equally shared maths and science and PE; but the solidity of Sarah had rooted. The solidity of that summer. She loved the way that in Sarah’s ordinary house, amongst her ordinary family, there never seemed to be a concern about saying the wrong thing, or being rude, or not being interesting enough to deserve attention. Veronica had been fascinated by that, noticing how it gave Sarah an inner, easy confidence, which although she exuded blindly, exploded out of her – a deep, inalienable sense of self-worth directing her effortlessly through the pitfalls of Year 7. Externally, Veronica mirrored this confidence with exaggerated vim. She had the money, and the looks, and she knew this. People thought her bold and assured, more so than Sarah; but next to her friend, she always knew she was lacking.

Veronica took the coats and found herself covertly mimicking Sarah’s grateful smile as she put them away. Why had she done that?

“Can I help you with anything?” Sarah called from behind her, and Veronica swivelled back around.

“Not in the slightest.” She smiled broadly as she noticed David’s arm around Sarah’s waist, but behind Sarah’s back she made yet another face, and it began to occur to Veronica how incredibly jealous she had been of Sarah back then – of her proper family unit, proper love. Everything she longed for. Veronica wondered why, in the light of that, she was so keen on reviving the friendship, tormenting herself. But she knew why. It was for the flicker of remembered contentment. It was for the younger, bolder girl itching gently beneath her skin.