‘They’re in here.’ Zadie opened the bottom drawer and pulled some out. They were neatly ironed, probably by Max’s precious mother, who’d ironed his clothes before packing them, with more enjoyment than Zadie considered normal. His family had a housekeeper, but his mother still liked doing things for her little prince.

‘Thanks,’ said the boy. ‘How did you know that?’

‘I live here.’

The boy seemed even more embarrassed now. Zadie sat on the bed, enjoying his sweet bashfulness. ‘Why was this girl sick on you?’

‘She was smoking a spliff. It was really strong. She kind of whiteyed.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘Not sure. I sort of legged it to wash myself off.’

‘What a gentleman. I’m assuming she’s not a girlfriend?’

‘No, no. I don’t have a girlfriend. I just met her tonight.’

‘Poor girl.’

A pause settled between them, and the boy seemed to realize all over again that he wasn’t wearing any trousers. He coughed. ‘I should probably …’ He trailed off and started pulling the jeans on. Zadie turned away obligingly, but not before she caught a glimpse of his tanned, toned thighs.

‘Okay, I’m decent,’ he said a few seconds later, awkwardly wiping his palms on the denim.

She looked over her shoulder. ‘Shall we go back to the party?’

So they did. And when they reached the bottom of the stairs they turned in different directions. She watched as the boy walked through the party and stood on the edge of a conversation, listening to someone else speak. Then a pair of arms came from behind, twisting around her waist. ‘Hello, gorgeous.’

‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’

‘I certainly bloody hope so,’ Max replied. ‘Shall we go upstairs and fuck? I’m bored of everyone who isn’t you.’

‘Absolutely.’

8

Now

Verity could cook, Chloe had to give her that. She’d served them bruschetta, which Max had proudly announced was home-made. He said it like he was telling everyone that she’d won a Nobel Prize. But then, Chloe supposed, to Max, splitting the atom and making bread were probably equally miraculous. He’d never been able to cook. She had vague memories of him drinking pints of protein shake or loading up on plain chicken breasts when they were younger, determined to become bigger and bigger. He’d told her once that he took after his father, who had owned – perhaps still owned – a chain of Italian restaurants but didn’t really like food.