The Number One Rule for Girls. Rachel McIntyre

      Unclench entire body.

      Aaaand relax.

      Matt was easier to read than a Mr Men book, but Toby . . . When I was nervous, I could talk the hind leg off a Gigantosaurus. A whole herd of them in fact. Sentences waffled out of my mouth while I listened, helplessly.

      I learned Toby once lived near London. He got The Complete Works of Daisy Green, every detail minus pin number, bra size and . . .

      ‘Boyfriend?’

      I shook my head. ‘We broke up in June.’

      ‘Sorry to hear that.’

      ‘It’s all right.’ I shrugged slightly. ‘You know, it wasn’t great at the time but . . .’

      Then it was my turn to give off the I don’t wanna talk about it vibes. Toby just carried on watching me as I peeped back under lowered eyelids, his very obvious scrutiny making me a nervy jumble of thrilled and on edge. Then he shifted us on to neutral ground and, by the time I’d reached the dregs of my coffee, we’d traded comedy box set quotes and discovered a shared infatuation with nineties indie rock and horror flicks.

      First impressions? There was a quality to him that I couldn’t put my finger on. Yes, his handsomeness flew off the scale. Yes, he’d be a dead cert for gold in the Charm Olympics. But there was something else, this Tobyness, as if he lived more intensely in the moment. Like the whole time I was wittering my nonsense, he never once took his eyes away; I don’t think he even blinked.

      Then, because time certainly flies when you’re a burbling, bean-spilling fool, it was nearly ten and our cue to rush back to college. And as Toby strode to the café exit, the gawping girls turned their heads in a synchronised wave of phwoooar.

      We made it back to the foyer with literally seconds for me to get up four flights of stairs. Quick bye-thanks-for-the-coffee, and I turned to go, but he caught my arm.

      ‘I’m not sorry,” he said.

      My face must have replied, ‘confused’.

      ‘I mean I’m not sorry you split up with your boyfriend.’

      Then he vanished into the throng.

      I sprinted to Spanish where I swear I tried to focus on the pluperfect-whatevers, but my concentration was fried.

      Not entirely sure how it happened, but it appeared I’d gained a head-squatter. Somehow, despite my Icicle Knicker intentions, Toby had wormed his way into my subconscious and was holding my brain hostage.

      Luckily Ayesha came round after school for me to do her nails and I knew I could rely on her to give me some good advice of the Forget the guy. He sounds like a player. You need some single-girl recovery time variety.

      Two coats of Freshly Bleeding Corpse later and she was up to speed with events at The Mean Bean. Finally, I’d have the words to evict Toby from my head.

      Or not . . .

      ‘It might do you good, you know, having a flirt buddy. Stop you pining over Matt.’

      What? ‘I am not pining over him! In fact, I –’

      ‘Daisy, you’re not fooling anyone, least of all me.’ Her words cut my denialogue off at the knees. ‘Say Tom was Matt, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to show my feelings because it’s normal to be upset when you break up with someone, especially after three years. Remember Beth with whatshisname?’

      ‘Stinky Pete?’ I said. She shook her head. ‘Mad Max?’ I went on, ‘Manhobbit?’ Shake. ‘Not-Very-Big Ben? Wonky –’

      ‘Will,’ she finished triumphantly, nodding. ‘Wonky Will, that’s it. She was in bits and that only lasted four weeks. I guess what I’m saying is, you don’t have to act as if it’s no big deal when it bloody is. There are no medals for being brave, you know.’

      ‘Yes there are.’

      ‘You know what I mean. Outside wartime.’

      ‘But Toby never asked me on a date or anything. You’re getting all “flirt buddy” over nothing.’

      She blew on her newly crimsoned fingertips then waggled them in my face. ‘Daisy, listen to your Auntie Ayesha. If it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, chances are it’s not a giraffe.’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘I mean, numbskull, that this morning was a date. He didn’t need to ask you out because you were already out.’

      ‘Going for coffee in college time is not a date,’ I insisted.

      She tutted, exasperated. ‘If you say so. How’d you get talking to him anyway?’

      ‘Tutorial. Then he threw some Jelly Babies at me.’

      She looked smug. ‘See? Lads don’t do stuff like that if they’re not interested. Honestly, I think you should go for it.’

      The conversation was veering completely off-script here.

      ‘I don’t need a boyfriend, thanks,’ I told her.

      ‘No one needs a boyfriend,’ said Ayesha. ‘Like no one needs chocolate fudge cake or vintage handbags or . . .’ She looked round my room, ending on my pillow. ‘A Hello Kitty pyjama case.’

      ‘Matt bought me that,’ I protested, hugging it tightly to my chest. ‘It’s got sentimental value.’

      ‘Exactly. You don’t need it, but you like it and having it around sparklifies your life.’

      ‘Is that even a word?’

      ‘I’m not saying you have to marry this Toby guy,’ she continued, ‘but I don’t think one date would be a bad idea.’

      I smoothed the pyjama case and placed it carefully back on my pillow. ‘You’re getting way ahead of yourself; he hasn’t even asked for my phone number.’

      She smirked. ‘Yet. Bet you anything he asks you out properly before the weekend.’

      ‘Ayesha,’ I said, sarcastically, ‘you are wiser than the owl offspring of Yoda and the Dalai Lama. You are sager than –’

      ‘Shut up!’ she said and threw the pyjama case at me.

      Now I knew she meant well, but no way was I ready for dating again.

      Meaning that even though Toby Smith had the OMG-factor; even though he was Prince Fittie of Fitlandia and even though he had charmed the Icicle Knickers right off me that morning, it was irrelevant.

      This little piggy was OFF the market.

      After Ayesha left, I went with Dad and River to Something Blue’s rehearsal for the wedding gig on Saturday. Firmly pushing away the thought that I’d (possibly) been conceived on top of his coat, (eew) I greeted my godfather Harvey with a kiss on the cheek while Marvin, his husband, gave us a cheery wave from behind the drum kit.

      Then one, two, three, he counted them in and wow.

      Yes, of course I was biased, but when Mum sang she could put a new spin on love songs you’d heard a million times. And the sweetest thing was every word was sung for Dad.

       Aww.

      Forget dragons and castles and knights on white horses and all that fairy-tale balls. This was true love. OK, maybe most sixteen-year-olds wouldn’t want to follow in their parents’ romantic footsteps, but I did. Their once-in-a-lifetime love was what I thought I’d found with Matt.

      Even after seventeen years together, Dad’s default expression was, I can’t believe my luck. Mum’s was, Me neither.

      Thanks to Matt the Rat, mine went, How did I get it so wrong?

      Anyway, me, Dad and River started clapping as