A few days later Chloe found herself on a train to Zadie’s parents’ house. Or rather, one of Zadie’s parents’ houses – the country pile where the party was going to take place was where they spent weekends and holidays, but there was an apartment in London and a tumble-down cottage in the south of France. Chloe knew this because in the days between Boxing Day and New Year she and Zadie had fallen into the habit of talking on the phone, like teenagers. Every night at nine o’clock, as her parents were thinking about going to bed, the phone would ring. Zadie would be in the bath or smoking on the roof, always something extraordinary, always with a glass of wine in her hand, and they would talk in a way that Chloe hadn’t talked since she was fifteen. About what they wanted to do next week, next month, next decade. About people they disliked, people they admired, books they had read – it was here that Chloe outshone Zadie – and films and plays they had seen, which Zadie knew far more about than Chloe, and current affairs, where they were both cheerfully ill informed.

The train slowed into the station. It was the kind of place they filmed period dramas. Standing on the platform in jeans and a jumper was Max. Chloe’s relief that someone had come to collect her and that she hadn’t been forgotten was swallowed by her nerves. Why had Zadie sent Max? Memories of his finger on her bare arm at the Lounge flickered through her mind.

Max took Chloe’s suitcase and swung it from one hand, even though it had wheels. ‘You’ve packed light.’

‘It’s only one night.’

‘You should see what Zadie takes when we go anywhere. Despite the fact that none of her clothes are more than about an inch big.’

Chloe laughed politely, but then felt disloyal. ‘Where is Zadie?’

Max beeped his keys at an Audi and slung her suitcase in the back. ‘She’s at home, bit of a family drama over lunch. Plus, she can’t drive, so she’s not much use on the station runs.’

‘It’s nice of you to pick me up.’

‘I’m bloody delighted to get out of that house.’

Max drove exactly as Chloe would have imagined – fast but accurate, taking corners with alarming speed and astonishing control. He casually ignored speed restrictions and yet somehow Chloe felt safe. He only slowed down when they reached the brow of a hill, at which point he momentarily flicked the indicator and swung on to a long, cream-pebbled drive. At the bottom of it stood a breathtakingly pretty house made of yellow stone covered in snaky green ivy.

‘Woah,’ she said, under her breath.

Max stuck the car between a battered Land Rover and an even more battered Polo. ‘I know. It’s ridiculous. It’s Hogwarts.’