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I don’t catch all the rules, and blame that on the noise. It’s not like I’m distracted. It’s not likehe’sdistracting me.

Unthinkable. Impossible.

I think he asked me something, because from the corner of my eye I notice that he tilts his head, looking at me as if he’s waiting for my response. I’m biting my lip and staring a bit too hard at the gameplay – seeing none of it.

‘Uh-huh,’ I manage, a non-committal mumble.

The arm isn’taroundme, obviously, he’s just trying to balance himself, that’s all.

Whatever comment or question I’ve just responded to, though, Max chuffs a breath of laughter and faces back to the game again. Did I insult him? Ignore him? I don’t quite have the brain capacity to care.

Someone draws a card and there’s a cacophony, voices hollering and howling, and the boy who drew the card – Alfie, the goalkeeper who flaked on games to be with his on-off girlfriend – buries his head in his hands with a loud curse before lurching to his feet, throwing his card – a king – down on the table, and reaching for the pint from hell.

‘He’s not!’ I gasp.

‘He is,’ Max says.

There are chants around the room – ‘Chug, chug, chug!’ and ‘Weeeee like to drink with Alfie, ’cos Alfie is our mate, and when we drink with Alfie …’ – and I watch in horror as he downs the entire horrible concoction, gagging only a little halfway through, and belching when he slams the empty glass back down on the table.

Grim.

A fresh game of Ring of Fire is set up, with the group playing shifting a bit as some spectators and participants swap places, and the scummy glass is set back on the table for everyone to pour a little of their drinks in anew, laughing and looking excited.

Raf is in the group playing now, and sits cross-legged on the floor opposite us. He notices me, and waves me over with a grin.

‘Wandy’s gal! You wanna join? We can make room for one more.’

I eye the dubious foam floating on the top of the mixed pint, as people who don’t even know me are smiling, calling me over, making space to include me. ‘Er, I don’t think …’

Isn’t this what I wanted, though? Isn’t this whateverybodywants, when they think about going to house parties? Isn’t this the teenage dream, the stuff ofromcoms? This is how I become the cool girl, popular and well-loved and oozing ‘fun’ from every pore, and Jake will wander in and see me getting on with all his new mates, see me being the life and soul, and he will sit down next to me to join in, hating to be left out, and …

If it was all the girls playing, if it was Daphne asking me, would I join in? If it was Jake asking me to play, would I even hesitate?

I can’t even summon up any excitement about being referred to as Jake’s ‘gal’. My stomach is too busy churning.

‘We were just gonna go get some air,’ comes a reply for me, and I’m being steered out of the room to a disappointed chorus that ends before I’m even through the living-room door, and my brain doesn’t catch up until we’re in the hallway.

I twist around, shoving Max’s arm off me.

‘What the hell was that?’

He rolls his eyes, head facing more towards the living room than to me. ‘I know, Raf means well but –’

‘Nothim. You!’

‘What?’ Max turns now, looking at me properly, his eyes searching mine as a frown begins to crumple his forehead.

‘I didn’t need you to step in for me, you know. Thisis real life, Max. I’m not some damsel, and you’renotSir Grayson.’

‘That wasn’t –’

‘And it’s not up to you whether I join in a drinking game or not; I didn’t ask you to interfere. Maybe I wanted to –’

There it is. Thatscoff.

Again.

As if he knows better. As if he’s so high and mighty, and …