Matt looked at the time and accelerated into the corner, then braked hard as the road narrowed to a single lane again. He hated this village. It was claustrophobic. He wanted the excitement of a city, the vibe of a normal teenage social life. What he wouldn’t give to live in Brighton with its thriving local art scene. He could move in with his mother, ditch college and start living his life. But his father wouldn’t have it.

The art college he attended was a half-hour drive inland from the village and the only good thing about it was that she went there too. He had to force himself to slow down though as his foot itched to press harder on the accelerator and get him there as quickly as possible.

So that he could see her.

Diana.

He didn’t want to be late. This was the first time she had accepted his offer of a lift.

She was all he could think about. At school a few years back she was just someone he had watched from afar. She had been way too cool to even acknowledge someone like him, the typical sporty one, rugby team captain, hiding behind testosterone and arrogance. But now that she had turned up at his art college, they were in class together every day. A few days ago she had actually started a conversation with him.

Her voice was throaty and almost masculine, like she had smoked too many cigarettes, and her hair smelled like cherries from her vape. She was tall, so that they stood eye to eye, and Matt found himself wanting to reach out and stroke her auburn hair. He imagined it felt like a length of silk under his fingers.

What the fuck was the matter with him?

He opened the car window and let a blast of cold air hit his face and cool his flaring cheeks. Until now she had been polite, interested, happy to engage in long conversations about art, books, music. But she still had Matt firmly in the friend zone.

He needed to change that.

8

THEN

I cross my ankles underneath the desk and sigh. Mrs Aldridge is droning on and on about chemical formulae. I revised all of this last night and could probably recite what she is saying in my sleep. I look across at Eloise, who is chewing on her pencil and trying to catch Brian’s attention. She is crossing and uncrossing her legs, aiming for seductive but looking more like she needs the toilet. Oblivious, Brian is staring at the teacher, confusion written all over his face. He’s not the brightest, but he can kick a ball, so I suppose that’s something.