The next was from her mother, reminding her that she needed to ask Greg nicely if he would come and collect her from the train station, and to give him plenty of notice (as if he was ever busy).

The last one was from a number she didn’t recognize. ‘Hey, good to see you last night. Fancy a drink before the end of term? Rav.’

She sat up, wishing someone – wishing Zadie – were here to talk about it. Why had he texted her now? The butterflies over Rav’s message replaced the guilt about her flirtation with Max. She didn’t fancy Max. She fancied Rav. And it seemed like Rav might actually feel the same way – despite the vomit incident. Maybe, in time, it would become a funny story, one they told people. She imagined them both sitting around a long glass table in a house in London, laughing with their friends. Max and Zadie would be married, she and Rav wouldn’t be, but they’d have kids, eventually. She’d be a celebrated playwright, Zadie would be an artist, Max would be whatever people were when they got too old to play rugby. The fantasy teetered in her mind for a moment before reality set in. Rav had had her number for weeks. He hadn’t texted her after the party, hadn’t shown any interest at all until he realized that she was going to some private party he hadn’t been invited to. She’d heard her mum say it enough times to know that if someone is interested in you, they make it clear. She held her finger over the delete button, then forced herself to press it.

12

Now