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spiked shadows, the tall buildings robbing the pedestrians below of the final minutes of sunlight. Almost immediately they found themselves swallowed up by the rush of commuters hurrying towards the gaping mouth of the Tube, while the open doors of bars spewed out laughing, chattering people, before sucking others back in again. From a café somewhere the pounding bass of a drum seemed to shake the ground, and the whole cacophony of the street rose to greet them as if someone had just turned up the volume, raised voices reverberating inside his skull. Crowds eddied around him, their faces looming large as in a telescope, filling the lens. Ahead of him, swept away by the current, Lola had almost reached the street corner. Half turning, she called back: ‘So I guess I’ll see you around school . . .?’
    But already she was disappearing from view, fading into the crowd.
    He took a deep breath. ‘How about you give me your number? My friend’s having a party this weekend . . .’ A lie, but he knew he could count on Hugo.
    A brief moment of hesitation, and then she was elbowing her way back towards him. People swarmed past them like ants round an obstacle. He produced a leaky biro from his pocket and felt the nib tickle and scratch against the palm of his hand. Then she flashed him a smile before once again being engulfed by the human tide. As she was washed away by the mass of seething bodies, he moved back, away from the flow, sagging against the glass of a department store, utterly spent but unable to stop smiling.
    ‘Aargh!’ Lola grabs him by the shoulders and topples him backwards so that he finds himself with his head in her lap, staring up at the sky. ‘What are you day-dreaming about? Winning Olympic gold?’
    He lets out a snort. ‘Yeah, right.’
    ‘Hey, I’m counting on you winning that gold medal next year!’ Lola teases. ‘I mean, why else would I be going out with you?’
    He gives her an evil smile.
    ‘We’d better make a move. It’s Orange Wednesday,’ she reminds him.
    Wednesday evening is movie night for Lola. Every week, without fail, her father takes her to the cinema. Both movie buffs, it’s one of many fun routines they started way back when Lola was still at nursery school and lost her mother to cancer. When she and Mathéo first started going out, she would try and persuade him to come along too, but despite being flattered to be included, he always firmly refused, not wanting to encroach on her time with her father.
    Lola gathers her things, and he levers himself to his feet and slings the strap of his school bag across his chest, shoving his damp feet back into his shoes.
    ‘Hey, guys!’ Hugo calls out from his spot in the sun with Isabel. ‘You off already?’
    ‘Yeah, unlike you lazy sods, we have better things to do,’ Lola shouts back teasingly. ‘See you tomorrow.’
    The kitchen door of the Baumanns’ house is open onto the courtyard, the smell of cooked apples billowing out with the steam, and Lola’s dog, Rocky, scampering around in circles on the grass patch, chasing a leaf into the early evening breeze.
    ‘Come in and say hi to Dad – he’s been asking after you.’
    As they approach the gate, Mathéo can already make out Jerry Baumann at the cooker, his favourite Guns N’ Roses apron tied beneath a slightly sagging stomach, rattling a saucepan with gusto to the blast of Queen on the radio.
    ‘Dad, you’re gonna get in trouble with the neighbours again!’ Lola shouts by way of greeting.
    Jerry sets the pan down on the hob with a clatter, turns round with a broad grin and, in his usual manner, envelops his daughter in a bear hug as soon as she steps through the door.
    ‘Ow, I can’t breathe. Why are you cooking already?’
    Ignoring her protests, Jerry turns to Mathéo and claps him heartily on the back. ‘How’s my favourite diver?’
    ‘The only diver you know,’ Mathéo responds automatically, playfully swatting Jerry away and circling the table to