‘If you ever get a bar job, tell me, so I can bring everyone I know,’ said a voice close to her ear. Without looking up, she knew who it was going to be.

‘Happy New Year,’ she said, before putting the cold glass to her lips, numbing them.

‘And to you. You didn’t text me back.’ Rav pouted.

‘I was busy.’

‘I see.’

Chloe looked him up and down. It irritated her how attractive he was. ‘You’re not on rugby camp?’

He shook his head. ‘Didn’t make the cut. Only the first six go on camp. The rest of us stay here and hope someone breaks a leg so we get to play at some point.’

Chloe must have looked horrified because he added, ‘Or sprains an ankle, at least. You look great, by the way. Different.’

‘Different?’

‘Not that you didn’t look good before. You did. You just look – I’m not sure. Is something different? Should I stop talking? Or maybe just top myself?’

‘I’m not wearing any of Zadie’s clothes, for a change. That might be it.’

‘You usually wear her stuff?’

‘She’s got the kind of wardrobe that most Hollywood starlets would kill for.’

‘Really? I’m not sure Max notices what anyone’s wearing unless it’s a rugby shirt.’

‘They’re quite different from each other. I guess that’s part of what makes them work. It’s so loud in here. Do you want to go upstairs?’ she suggested. As they climbed the stairs and opened doors, looking for an empty room, she listened to herself talking about how Zadie bought vintage and borrowed things from her grandmother and great-grandmother’s old clothing collections, and, while she had seen her own mother getting bored of the topic, waiting for a chance to change the subject, Rav seemed genuinely interested. It was as if he wanted to hear the things Chloe was thinking about and wondering about. She’d spent the last three weeks trying to steer the conversation back to Max or Zadie, without meaning to, hating herself for it, wanting to talk about them and wanting to not want to talk to them. By the time she finished her monologue she found that they were sitting either side of each other on the bed of the spare room.

‘You’re very, very pretty.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No, really. The longer I look at you, the more I see it.’