‘It’s worth it for Verity.’

Chloe felt stung. Was he trying to antagonize her? For a moment she had allowed herself to slip back into friendship, forgetting why she hated him.

He had tried to get in touch before. Not many times. A text after their fight, the day after his birthday. Chloe had saved it for years, transferring it from new phone to new phone. ‘Call me. Let’s chat. I don’t want to fight. M x.’

Weeks later, another text, this time angrier. ‘If you know where she is, you have to tell me. This isn’t funny any more.’

A year later there was an email from Australia. Long and unwieldy, clearly written while he was drunk. It had started calmly, telling her that he missed what the three of them had had, detailing his life in Melbourne. But it had descended into accusations and anger, ranting about how selfish Zadie had been. Chloe had printed it out, put it in her diary and hadn’t replied. Creating a wall of silence between herself and Max felt like a scrap of control, like she was subjecting him to the same punishment to which Zadie had sentenced Chloe.

Chloe stood up. ‘We should get going. It’ll take us ages to get back.’

‘It’s late. I’ll call you a car.’

‘That’s not necessary. We’ll get the Tube.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He stood up and gazed down at her. He was uncomfortably close. ‘You know, I was really hoping that we could start again. We were such good mates.’

Chloe picked up the water jug to pour herself a glass. ‘I was Zadie’s friend, really.’

‘Maybe. But I was the one who told her to keep you around, to have you over when she wanted someone to play with. Because I fancied you so much.’

Chloe froze, giving Max enough time to catch up to her. There were beads of condensation sliding down the outside of the jug, because their ‘drinking water’ tap was so perfectly cold. What a Max thing to have.

‘You didn’t,’ she breathed, hating herself for not telling him to fuck off.

‘Still do,’ he whispered, his breath on her neck. The strap of Chloe’s dress slipped off her shoulder, on to her arm. She watched as Max reached out, picked it up, slipped it back on to her shoulder, then paused for a quarter of a second, looking into her eyes. He cocked his head and moved towards her another tiny fraction of an inch. She felt the jug slip from between her hands, slick with the moisturizer she had slid over her arms and legs earlier that evening. She watched almost in slow motion as it slammed into the ground, shattering on the stone floor, flooding her shoes.

‘Oh dear, Coco,’ Max smirked.