Both of the blonde girls got up, tugging their skirts down over their tanned thighs. Chloe felt suddenly aware of the space between her and Max on the sofa. He slid towards her, offering to top up her drink, though she had only taken a couple of sips. ‘Thanks,’ she said, too quietly for it to travel over the thumping music.

‘So,’ Max said. ‘Long time no see.’

‘I’ve been revising. I’ve got exams before the holidays.’

‘What are you reading?’

‘English Literature.’

‘Cute. I’m glad you came. I thought Zadie and I had scared you off.’

Was Chloe imagining it, or was Max flirting with her? Not for the first time, she cursed the fact that she’d been to an all-girls school. Other people seemed to know the difference between boys being friendly and trying it on, but her mother was so obsessed with her avoiding teen pregnancy that Chloe had barely spoken to a boy until sixth form, and even then it was nothing significant. Surely he wouldn’t be flirting with her? He was Zadie’s boyfriend. No one who was going out with Zadie could fancy someone else. Only, he was leaning forward and his eyelashes kept dipping, touching his cheeks, as his eyes sought her chest.

‘I’ve seen Zadie recently,’ she said, testing the waters. ‘She stayed at our room the other night.’

Max raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, so that’s where she went. Interesting.’

‘We had fun.’

‘I think she wanted me to think she’d gone somewhere far more scandalous.’ She must have looked worried because he added, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep our little secret. I’m good at doing that.’

He wasn’t touching her. No part of his body was in any contact with hers. And yet the warmth of him, the smell of his jumper, his hair, his skin. The way his eyes were so unashamedly resting on her face, her neck, her chest, her legs. All of it felt wrong. Wrong, and delicious in a way that was beyond confusing.

‘Did you bring anyone?’ he asked. Chloe shook her head.

‘No boyfriend? I presume there’s a bloke back at home crying into a pint because he let you get away.’

‘No, no boyfriend.’

Max smiled. His hand brushed her arm, his skin olive against her whiteness. ‘Why not? You’re fucking beautiful.’

A flock of questions swirled in Chloe’s mind. Was this how people like Max and Zadie spoke to each other? All the books she had read about rich people seemed to involve a certain amount of bed-hopping and loose morals, but did that mean this was okay? And the loudest question of all: why didn’t she want Max to stop looking at her like that?