To this day, Rav insisted that his mother had no idea what had happened, but the look in her eyes over breakfast the next morning had told Chloe that she did know.

‘Switzerland,’ Rav said now, pulling Chloe’s focus back to the table.

Chloe loved these exchanges. Or rather, she loved how Rav handled himself in them.

‘Oh.’ Verity looked confused. ‘But originally?’

‘I went to school in England, grew up in Switzerland, but my grandparents were from Pakistan. Where’s your family from? Verity is a French name, isn’t it?’

Chloe looked up from her plate. That wasn’t like him. Generally, Rav would say, ‘Ohh, you meant originally. My parents are originally from Zurich,’ and then laugh. He never usually felt the need to explain his skin colour. Back at university, he and Max were occasionally mistaken for brothers or cousins, and he loved the joke. At the time, Chloe had assumed it was because it amused him that people couldn’t tell the difference between Max, Italian and Greek, and him, Swiss-Pakistani. But she wondered now if his reaction might have been more about the delight of being conflated with the coolest person on campus.

Chloe watched a blush creep up Verity’s white neck. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘My mother is French.’

Rav smiled and started to ask her what part of France, whether she had grown up there, if she spoke French, if she was going to teach Max. A pleasant, fluent stream of questions that allowed Verity to talk about herself. She seemed to be unwinding under Rav’s attention. Had she been nervous about this evening? How many of Max’s friends had she been expected to cook for and entertain since they’d got engaged?

Max’s shoulder brushed hers. He smelled expensive and clean. His aftershave had changed, but the real smell of him was just the same. He tipped the rest of the bottle of white wine into her glass. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’ he asked, quietly enough that only she could hear.

‘Sure,’ she said, dropping her gaze as if she had been caught looking at something she shouldn’t have been. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

Max laughed. ‘Beautiful, clever, sweet. That sort of thing?’ Then, seeing her expression, he stopped. ‘She’s really great. You just need to get to know her a bit.’

‘How old is she?’ Chloe looked down into the bottom of her glass.

‘Twenty-three.’

Only a few years older than they had been last time they saw each other.

Chloe said nothing. Max would delight in her disapproval and ignore any advice. She would gain absolutely nothing by opening her mouth. Instead she pulled herself up, correcting her posture and painting a smile across her face.

‘She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,’ Max went on. ‘No drama, no tantrums, no getting drunk and turning into a nightmare.’