The Number One Rule for Girls. Rachel McIntyre

me now, I didn’t want to hear it.

      I hit delete.

      Next morning I didn’t feel much more cheerful as I heaved my lazy carcass out of bed at far too early o’clock for brekkie, bathroom, bus. Matt’s absence was providing the usual downbeat backing track to my daily routine, but the email had turned the volume up. Texted Beth to check she was OK (no reply) and there it was: another crap day had begun.

      Or so I thought.

      Walking through reception, I felt a random tap on my shoulder. When I’d peeled myself off the ceiling tiles, I took my headphones out and turned round.

      ‘Sorry,’ the tapper said. ‘Didn’t mean to make you jump. You OK?’

      ‘Er, yes thanks, Toby. You?’

      He yawned. ‘Yeah, not bad. Got some IT homework to do, but I’m not in the zone. What time’s your first class?’

      ‘Ten, but my bus always gets in for nine.’

      ‘Come for a drink with me?’

      And there it was: a coffee with Toby. An event registering an impressive eight on the what-the-heckograph. Not because I felt unworthy of his attention. To use a housing metaphor, I considered myself ‘prime real estate’, highly desirable to the right buyer. But while I was a quirky holiday cottage with honeysuckle round the door, he was Mr Loft in Manhattan. Slate and steel.

      In other words, we weren’t exactly matchmadeinheaven.com.

      But what harm could a brew do? ‘Sure,’ I replied, automatically turning canteenwards.

      ‘Not here,’ he said, steering me towards the exit. ‘I’ve got a car. Let’s go somewhere decent.’

      Without even a fleeting flash of stranger danger I followed him to where, hidden among the teachers’ knackered heaps, was his freshly minted mini convertible. A gleaming black diamond in a scrapyard.

      ‘Nice car,’ I said imaginatively.

      ‘Present from my mum,’ he said. ‘You OK with The Mean Bean?’

      I nodded, put my seat belt on and, roof down in the almost sunshine, we sped out of the college grounds. Just like that. One minute, I was Nelly No-mates on a bus that smelled of socks; the next, in a flash car with a man so perfect he probably sweated aftershave.

      Oh, how the other half lives, I thought.

      ‘Skinny latte and an Americano. Black.’ Boy Gorgeous told the barista five minutes later, then turned to me. ‘Skinny OK?’

      ‘Er, yes, that’s fine,’ I answered, although truthfully I was craving hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and a marshmallow mountain of Everest proportions.

      ‘Nothing to eat, no?’

      ‘Er, no thanks.’

      He ordered himself a croissant and we sat down on a squashy corner sofa.

      ‘Do you fancy a nibble?’ he said with a cheeky eyebrow flex.

      The born-again Icicle Knickerist in me smiled back. ‘Not hungry, thanks.’

      It was strange. I could flirt with aplomb when I had a boyfriend. Suddenly single and bang, my aplomb was gone.

      A couple of tables down, a group of girls a bit older than us were peering over the rims of their mugs. Obviously it wasn’t li’l ol’ me they were ogling, but Toby didn’t even seem to notice. Instead, he leaned forward to spoon a pile of sugar into his mug. Wow. So fit, he’d developed an immunity to being leched at. He was perv-resistant.

      ‘So,’ I said, ‘how you finding college?’

      ‘OK, I guess. It’s my second time round though. Dropped out last year.’ He looked at me. ‘Long story.’

      ‘Where were you before?’

      He stirred the coffee slowly. ‘Down south. How about you?’

      ‘College? Not what I was expecting.’ I shrugged.

      ‘What were you expecting?’

      I took a sip of my latte and grew a sexy foam tache. Nice. ‘I dunno, different from school, I suppose. Maybe the people to be more . . .’

      ‘Studenty?’

      ‘Yeah, I guess. Less cliquey maybe. Or at least less like Brit–’ I stopped mid-name, remembering their chummy chatting in form yesterday.

      ‘Brittany? Dumb slut,’ he said, casually dunking a piece of croissant.

      Whatever the opposite of a poker face is called, I must’ve pulled one. I hated that word, just hated it, no matter who it was applied to. OK, so I wouldn’t be waving my cheerleader’s pompoms for Brittany Bentley any time soon, but throwing an S-grenade at her?

      Toby must’ve guessed exactly what I was thinking. He back-pedalled so fast, his tongue practically started spinning.

      ‘Oops, that came out harsher than I intended. But she was a bitch for laughing at you and that weird kid, whatshisname, Bodger?’

      ‘Badger.’

      ‘Yeah, yeah. Him. I mean, he can’t help being a geek, can he?’

      I was losing the thread here. Was he being kind about Badger? Mean about Brittany? Did he slip in a compliment about me somewhere?

      Meanwhile, the girls at the other table were now indulging in some blatant gawpage. Brazen. So very rude, in fact, that if I was his girlfriend, I’d’ve gone a whole bunch of bananas over it.

      I was on extremely unfamiliar ground here; strangers never openly phwoooared at Matt when we were out together. Not that he needed a paper bag over his head in public or anything, but he was no lady dazzler. Unlike Toby.

      ‘So, you’re from down south?’ I asked.

      ‘Yep.’

      ‘Have you still got family there?’

      ‘What’s this? An interrogation?’ He sat back in his chair and cracked his knuckles.

      ‘Erm, no, just asking.’

      Like flicking a switch, he grinned again. ‘Only kidding. Yes, some. Near London. We moved up here at the beginning of last year.’

      ‘And where are you living now?’ I said it hesitantly.

      ‘Near college.’

      ‘With your mum and dad?’

      ‘Mum and her boyfriend.’

      Flip. His smile vanished before the question was out of my mouth. I was sensing mucho history behind those not-elaborating vibes. Toby continued sipping his coffee in silence as an awkward pause hopped up on to my chair to join us.

      ‘But that’s enough about me,’ he said after what felt like a decade. ‘Tell me about you.’

      That did it. Tongue untied, my mouth jumped at the invitation. Oh ye gods of soul-curling embarrassment, how I talked over the next twenty minutes. And talked. And talked. Something Borrowed and the weddings. Mum singing with Something Blue. Dad’s photography and cakes. River. Ayesha and Tom. Beth and Shaney. Even old Mr Fox got a mention.

      Did Toby need to know I once got a dried chickpea stuck up my nose? That I was borderline phobic about Babybels (‘It’s the way they squeak!’)? That I was conceived on (or possibly under) a pile of coats?

      NO!

      What was I thinking? I’d managed to turn a perfectly innocent hot-beverage break into a confessional cringeathon. Even