I wake up with a headache. 

Not a normal headache. A pounding one. An 'I-drank-too-much-fireball-whisky-and-vomited-in-a-flower-pot' sort of headache. With a groan, I shuffle towards the kitchen, seeking water and pain meds.

Poppy and Emma are already sitting at the table. Emma is holding a mug of tea, her blonde hair pulled into a messy bun, and her cat slippers are up on a chair. Poppy has dark smudges under her eyes. She stops talking when I enter, and I can tell by the way that she tugs at the sleeves of her flower kimono that she's nervous.

"Livvy," she says. "I'm so—"

"Wait." I hold up a hand. "Headache."

Poppy blinks. "Pardon?"

That's a very Poppy thing to say. Not what. Not say again. Pardon. It's like she's living in a Victorian romance novel.

"Drugs first," I say. "Then talk."

I'm vaguely aware that I sound like a caveman, but to be honest, I no longer care. My head is pounding, and my lungs feel like deflated balloons that have been forced back into their plastic packaging. I rummage in the cupboard, pulling out pills at random. The girls watch, dumbstruck, as I pop a handful into my mouth and then stick my face under the sink, swallowing water from the tap.

"Okay." I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Go."

Emma whistles. "I've never seen you take pain medication. Not even when Rachel Keller gave you a black eye at your boxing class last year."

"My head hurts."

"You see?" Poppy rounds on Emma. "I told you we should bring her to A&E." She's already halfway out of her seat. "I'll get the keys. Emma, you—"

"Woah." I hold up a hand. "Nobody's going to A&E, okay? I have a headache, not an arm that's been sawed off with a breadknife."

Emma wrinkles her nose. "Gross."

"I try."

"Livvy." Poppy's lip quivers. "I'm so sorry. Last night—"

I shake my head. "It's okay. I'm glad you called me." She looks unconvinced, and I school my features into a smile, trying not to wince as my ribs twinge when I reach for the cereal. "And I feel good. Normal."

"Well," Emma says, eyeing my protein crispies with disgust, "you're definitely not normal. But I'm happy that you're not dead, Liv."

I'm almost touched.

That's probably the nicest thing that Emma has ever said to me.

"How's Theo?" I ask.

"Hungover." Poppy rolls her eyes. "I went by his place this morning. He doesn't remember anything from last night." She sniffs, flicking the kettle on. "I got him stationary so he can write you a thank-you card."

I bite back a smile. "You did not."

"I did," she says. "It's pink."

"And Bates?" I pour milk into my cereal. "Don't tell me that he's dead and my heroic rescue was for nothing."

"He's also fine," Poppy says. "And also writing you a thank-you card."

This time, I grin for real. "Okay, I know that's a lie."

Poppy frowns as I wolf down cereal, dribbling milk down my chin. "Where are you off to in such a rush? It's Saturday morning."

"The gym." I swallow. "Before it gets busy."

Poppy stares at me like I've lost my mind. "But you're injured."

"I've had worse." I shove the last of the cereal into my mouth. "Remember the time I went cliff-jumping in Canada and broke my collarbone?" I place the bowl in the sink. "This is nothing. Practically a scratch."

Then, before Poppy can protest, I race out of the room.

By the time I leave the gym, I look like I've been dragged through the wrong end of a leaf blower. Blonde wisps of hair stick to my damp face, and I can feel sweat pooling in places that I didn't even know I could sweat.

I yank open my car door, wincing as my right shoulder twinges. Poppy was right: I definitely shouldn't have been doing hammer curls and pull-ups after last night's midnight swim.

Not that I would ever admit that to her.

My phone dings as I buckle my seatbelt. I glance at the screen, and then freeze. An email has popped up on the phone. But it's not just any email; it's the email that I've been waiting for since July.

And it's a yes.

Immediately, I speed dial my mother. She answers on the second ring, and I can hear the buzz and bustle of the coffee shop in the background. A barista calls out a flat white. Somewhere nearby, a cash register dings, and I smile.

For a split-second, it's like I'm back in my family's shop, studying microcellular division in the back of the café. My family lives in the village of Crail, but our shop — The Tea Cosy — is a twenty-minute drive away in St Andrews. I used to wait every day after school for Mum or Dad to close up for the day so I could drive home with them.

I kind of miss it, actually.

"Liv?" Mum sounds worried. "What is it, sweetheart?"

I frown. "Why do you always assume that it's an emergency?"

"Isn't it?"

"No." I hesitate. "Yes. Well, kind of. But a good emergency."

"Olivia," she sighs. "In English, please."

I can just picture Mum rolling her eyes. She's probably wearing her floral apron, a rolling pin in one hand and the phone in the other. Mum makes all of the cakes in the shop herself. She claims it's because she enjoys baking, but I suspect it's because she won't trust anyone else with her famous lemon drizzle recipe.

I take a breath. "I got in."

"To what?" Mum asks. "Drugs?"

"Yeah." I roll my eyes. "I'm ringing you because I've started doing ketamine."

"Don't be silly, darling," she says. "Nobody calls it ketamine anymore." She clucks her tongue in disapproval. "Unless you're visiting a retirement home, call it ket."

Typical Scottish parenting. I shake my head in exasperation, jamming the keys into the ignition. I put my phone on speaker, tossing it on to the seat next to me as I reverse out of the car park. "You remember that thing I applied for in July?" I flick on my turn signal. "The martial arts championship in London?"

"The boxing one?"

"Kind of." I follow the twisting road, passing pubs and shops with tweed jackets in the window display. "Part of the tournament is boxing. The other parts are weight lifting and sprinting."

"Wait." I can hear the cogs in Mum's brain turning. "Liv, you didn't—"

"I did."

Mum lets out an excited squeal, and I'm suddenly glad that I'm fifty miles away so she can't see me grinning stupidly to myself in the car. I don't want her to get too excited. If Mum gets too excited, she'll invite all of my extended family to watch me compete. And she'll probably send me a homemade lemon cake in the post, which I won't be able to eat while I'm training, anyways.

No.

I have to play this cool.

"It's no big deal," I say. "Just a weekend in London."

"When?"

"End of this month."

"Your father and I will look into trains," Mum says, although I haven't invited her. I don't think Mum believes in invites, really. "And your brother—"

I groan. "Please don't tell Doug."

I love my twin brother; I really, really do. But Doug is at the University of St Andrews, and most of his time is spent attending polo tournaments and deciding what cravat to wear to his next fashion show. Our birthday is the only thing that we have in common.

To put it into perspective, for Christmas last year, I asked for a lacrosse stick and a new pair of socks; Doug asked for a first edition copy of Oscar Wilde's Salome.

Doug might die of shock if he had to go near a boxing ring.

"Mum." I pull up outside of my house. "Don't invite him. I'm serious."

"Alright, Livvy," Mum sighs. "If that's what you want."

I blink, switching off the ignition. I was already compiling a list of reasons why Doug would hate London, starting with how the pollution would affect his asthma. That was a lot easier than I thought it would be. "Really?"

"No," Mum says. "I'm inviting your brother." She pauses, and I hear coins rattle on the countertop. Somewhere in the background, a customer is complaining that the café doesn't have oat milk. Mum sighs. "Look, sweetheart, I've got to run, but I'll see you next week. You won't forget it's Doug's birthday, will you?"

"We're twins, Mum." I roll my eyes. "So, no. Not likely."

"Get him a gift," she tells me. "A nice one. Not that ugly scarf you got him last year. Doug gave it to your father, and I had to put it in the bin when he wasn't looking."

Then she hangs up the phone.