LUKE
Two hours later, we’re both sitting in a booth at the back of a London pub.
It’s packed tonight; there’s a football match on, so the place is full of fans watching the game. Layla and I have both had to squeeze onto one tiny bench, pressed close together. Layla has a mojito in front of her and is looking a lot happier. The colour is back in her cheeks, and she’s finally smiling again.
“I still can’t believe you don’t remember me from high school,” she shouts over the clamour of the pub, kicking her heeled feet as she sips at her straw.
“I was such a good student.”
“I’m sure.” I swig at my own beer and try to ignore the feeling of her thigh pressed against mine. After she showered, Layla changed into little black shorts and a skimpy green top. She looks lovely, of course — but it’
