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Olly lowers me carefully into the bubbling water. Then he climbs into the tub himself and slides me onto his lap, arranging my legs so I’m kneeling around his hips.

‘I need to learn more of your favourites,’ he says, kissing me fiercely, hand moving up and down between my thighs.

Snow falls on the warm water and our bare shoulders.

I moan, but suddenly Olly pulls back.

‘Wait.’ He’s breathless. ‘I don’t want to move too fast.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘You’re sure? Listen, really I can wait. I don’t want this to be some quick thing. You’re more than that to me.’

I must look upset, because Olly says: ‘Hey. It’s okay. Really. I’ll get you a towel and you can have my bed, okay? I’ll take the sofa.’

‘No,’ I insist, gripping his arms. ‘I want this. Honestly, I want this. It’s just … I’ve never felt this way either. I’ve never been … special.’

‘You are special,’ says Olly. ‘The most special girl I’ve ever met.’

He kisses me again and I’m lost.

We make love in the hot tub and then again on Olly’s bed. He’s gentle at times, firm at others. He’s considerate, but sometimes teeters on the brink of losing control.

In the morning, Olly makes me waffles covered in syrup and a sugary hot chocolate. Then we have sex again before I sneak back to my chalet to prepare breakfast for my host family.

While I’m whisking up scrambled eggs, my phone bleeps. It’s a message from Olly:I miss you already.

I feel soft warmth in my chest, but also anxiety.

This is amazing. The most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me. But how can something like this last? Half the things Olly thinks we both ‘love’, I only like a little bit. Like sea bass, tomato ketchup and syrup-covered waffles with sweet hot chocolate. I’ve exaggerated so he’ll think we have things in common, scared that boring little me isn’t good enough.

Oh, what does it matter?

I’m probably just a sexual conquest and Olly will forget all about me in a few days.

This can’t last.

It’s too good to be true.

Lizzie

My chest aches as I run up the stony path. I’ve forgotten Tom’s painkillers. They’re not vital. His migraines are stress-related and he hasn’t had one since we left Olly. But I’d like the school to have tablets to hand just in case.

You’ll never cope alone.

Olly’s voice plays in my head sometimes, no matter how hard I try to drown it out.

Maybe some things you can’t outrun.

Even when you’re running.

I reach the school gates, tan-leather handbag bobbing against my side.

Then I remember the padlock.

There is an intercom by the wrought-iron gates, so I press it.

A woman’s voice crackles: ‘Hello? Do you have an appointment?’