Willem and Daniel tie for top marks in all the science subjects in their year. Willem is also doing Dutch in European Languages, which he admits is a bit of a fudge, but hey – it’s an easy A-level for him.
‘Why do you not take French as an extra subject?’ Willem asks him. ‘Think how good that will look on your CV. All the sciences and French.’
Daniel’s stepfather is French but he so rarely speaks to Daniel that there’s no way they could manage the conversation to precede actual French lessons.
‘Don’t want to,’ he says to Willem.
He doesn’t bother to explain that his actual father lives in Switzerland, with a Belgian girlfriend. Willem doesn’t ask anything else about the French thing – he’s a very easy friend. Willem’s family also move around the world a lot, so he’s used to the life Daniel leads: where endlessly ex-pat families, new half-siblings and lots of step-everythings translate into a person becoming very self-sufficient.
‘What do you think of the new girls?’ Willem asks Daniel.
They’re walking across the square to the magnificently appointed science wing, which is certainly one of the reasons why St Anselm’s is one of the top-rated public schools in the UK.
The school famously takes a cohort of girl students for A-levels, meaning an influx of girls into lower sixth in a way that focuses the minds of the male students in both the upper and lower sixths. The school is also excellent at preparing students for the Oxbridge exams.
‘Haven’t noticed the new girls,’ Daniel jokes.
Willem laughs and gently punches his friend in the arm.
‘Liar. That tall blonde one likes you. The one with the legs, the lips and the Essex-girl accent. You should ask her out.’
‘Rubbish, Willem, none of them are looking at me,’ says Daniel, which isn’t entirely true.
He knows exactly which girl Willem means. Julia.
He’s heard her name being called, the way popular people are always being called.
‘Julia, look over here, Julia, Julia …’
She’s their age, almost as tall and has spectacular long legs. She doesn’t attempt to hide them in her first weekend outfit of appallingly sexy black leggings worn with a long grey and pink striped cardigan and knee-high suede boots. Pupils can wear non-uniform clothes on Saturdays and Sundays.
The boys wear sweatshirts and chinos. Few boys notice what their male friends are wearing. But at least ninety per cent of St Anselm’s boys notice the girls’ clothes: hip-hugging jeans, swinging skirts, sweaters that cling to narrow waists and pert breasts.
Daniel has stared at Julia surreptitiously many times: her face is oval and her eyes are widely spaced like a fawn’s, only fawns don’t use eyeliner and mascara to emphasise eyes the violet blue of a precious gem.
The colour of tanzanite, Daniel thinks. He loves geology.
On Monday, Julia turns up in biology class with her grey uniform skirt turned up to mini-skirt level, a lesson in ingenuity given that it has many pleats.
Looking carefully, Daniel thinks she might have stapled the hem.
‘You’re a distraction, Miss Chance,’ announces Mr Carter, who is known for preferring girl students in the blue-stocking dress of eighty years ago. In other words: glasses, an earnest manner and a traditional uniform that would not shock his mother. ‘Kindly leave and come back to us when you are wearing garments in a manner fitting this laboratory.’
Julia smiles minxily, says nothing and collects her things.
The entire biology class is watching her, hips swaying as she leaves the classroom.
One eye, flicked up with painted-on liner and half hidden by strands of silky pale-gold hair, winks at Daniel as she leaves.
‘Sir?’ Daniel stands up.
This is code for heading to the lavatory.
Mr Carter nods and goes back to his slides about cell structure.
Daniel slides his books from his desk and into his rucksack, leaves the room and heads right, following Julia.
He breaks into a half-run and catches up with her.
