"Are you well enough to leave the house?"
Do you want to know the best thing about the food poisoning excuse? It gave me a legit reason for skipping breakfast and lunch. No need to dirty plates, chuck away food and pretend I'd gotten up hours before everyone else and eaten breakfast.
Still feeling queasy, I murmured, rubbing my stomach. Dunno if I can manage anything.
The Great British Baker eyed me beadily at that. She thinks any human who doesn't eat once every four hours is in danger of... death or something. Which is why, I often mutter to myself, I'm hampered by this role model who stands in front of me, arms folded and delivering lectures about the importance of breakfast.
Thanks for the skinny genes, ma. Not.
I jumped on the scales this morning and watched the numbers flicker up and then down. Another three pounds off. When I lifted up my tee shirt, I said 'hello' to my belly, pleased that today it doesn't make me grimace. When it tries to talk back—Savvy, I'm starving—I don't bother listening. This is a one-way conversation only.
And yes of course I'm well enough to leave the house because I have a date, and a proper one this time.
The prep takes me hours. Bits of my body that never see the light of day might be seen. The mirror isn't kind. I scrolled through Instagram this morning and saw 999 (felt like) girls I should look like. Everyone on there has straight white teeth, brown skin, straight, glossy hair and the kind of body that makes me weep with jealousy—the big boobs, thin legs and tiny waist combo.
Every bit of clothing I own went on and then off again until I found something that I thought scored five out of ten instead of one. Culottes, pleated, green rayon and because they finish above my ankles as they are slim unlike the rest of me. My black denim jacket over the top of a white cotton camisole—the tiny holes through which you can see a lacy bra.
Make-up, naturally, and a lot of it seeing as I have a grey-white face to cover. And I remember Silver Ang's tip—lip gloss, ladies, not lipstick. You don't want the poor guy terrified he's going to end up with a face full of gloopy red waxy stuff. Lips need to be soft, pink and inviting.
Jonathan sent me a message to say we should meet at Harrow on the Hill Tube Station. I'm ten minutes early and bouncing from foot to foot when he arrives, a huge smile on his face.
"Thank you! I'm sorry you had to traipse all the way across London. Can I buy you a coffee or what about a pizza?"
I nod, and then shake my head, yes to one and a definite no to the other. Who wants to eat? The place he takes me to is small but crowded. Coffees ordered, he sits opposite me and takes both my hands. Bliss is holding hands in public, I decide. Nicer than anything.
What do I say? What do I do?
"I'm taking so many risks," he says. I bluster sorries but he shushes me.
"I can't help it, Savvy," the eyes search my face. "I don't make a habit of seducing school girls, but I noticed you right from the start. You stood out."
Would it be vain of me to demand details? I want to. What was it that made me special, and what did you see that others don't? Mum throws that line, "God, teenagers! Always think they are the only ones in the world to suffer!" at me all the time. Has he looked past my messy, broken surface, the layers of fat, ordinariness and hurt, and worked me out?
The foamy coffee leaves a white line above his top lip, and I long to lean over and wipe it off. If this was a French film, I could do that, letting my fingers linger there, and then his tongue would flick out and...
He reaches across to hold my hand, the warmth of it takes me by surprise and sends a tingle through the whole of my body.
"I've always had a thing about clever women," he says, and I split in two—one bit thrilled by the compliment; the other worried that 'clever' means in spite of my looks. Behind the counter, the waitress stares. Jealous? I taunt her in my head. Who wouldn't be?
The fingers move against mine.
"What do you want to do when you leave school?" he asks.
Marry you, I think to myself, but I guess that's not what he wants to hear.
"I dunno," I say. "I kind of stopped thinking about it a while ago. What do you think I should do?"
"Go to university of course," he says. "And don't go into acting or teaching—especially if you're not any good at it."
I watch his face and the sadness I see there.
"But you were good at it—good at both of them!" I burst out. I tell him about watching old episodes of that series me and Cheryl found on YouTube—the five young people working in the city and doing drugs and sex and all that.
He winces. "You actually watched that?" he asks, and I can tell he is thinking about the naked bum scene; the scene I watched by myself too many times.
I nod, embarrassed yet again. "Yeah. I enjoyed the programme, and I liked your character. Even though he was doing all those drugs and sleeping around, I thought you made him seem like a good guy—just mixed up."
"It was a long time ago. I was young, and I look completely different."
"I don't think you do," I say, wondering about the bum. Does that look different? Not when it's clothed, that's for sure. Will I get the chance to find out? And what about my bum? I think of the actresses in that programme. They were all skinny as hell with tiny arses, and I shrivel a bit inside.
"You look the same to me," I pipe up, wanting him to continue with what he is doing to the palm of my hand, and then I do something I've wanted to do for ages. I reach out with my other hand and I run it through the hair on the side of his head. He wears his dark hair quite long, and it feels soft and silky between my fingers. As my hand slips from hair to the side of his face, he turns his head slightly and presses his mouth to my palm.
"I don't know if the young appreciate how beautiful they are," and he looks straight at me as he says it. It's difficult to hold his gaze and I find myself flushing.
Me? Do you mean me..?
"So beautiful..."
Under the table, his legs have stretched forward so that my feet are caught between his. I'm pressed tight against the table between us and I suspect that if I pushed any harder, the table would start to smoulder and burn.
"Let's get out of here," he whispers, even though there is no one around us to hear, and I push up from the table so quickly I bang my knees.
He takes my hand and we hurry out of the café. I spot the waitress looking after us, her mouth pursed tight, and I'm tempted to flick her the vees, but I resist.
"Where are we going?" I ask as I'm pulled along with him, hurrying along the street. He mutters something about a place he knows, and I follow, trusting him completely.
We rush past shops and houses until we eventually come to a cobbled close, and he drags me down it, past old brickwork cottages with tiny gardens. We come to the end of the street and a tiny little park with benches and an old swing set and he pulls me down onto one of the benches.
"This is nice," I say. "How did you know about this place?"
"I used to come here when my mum was ill," he says, and I feel a warm glow that he should have brought me here—his special place.
We're sitting next to each other and he pats his lap. I get on top of him, straddling him and forgetting to worry about how much I weigh and if I'll be too heavy. He tilts his face up to meet mine and then kisses me.
It is so, so exciting. Better than the last time when I wasn't sure of what I was doing. There are so many thoughts in my head I don't know which ones to concentrate on. One, though, is that I would choose this any day over being alone in my house and stuffing myself with chocolate. Perhaps this is the cure and I'll wake up tomorrow, never wanting to eat chocolate again because this man tastes so much better, and the thrills that jolt all over my body are proof positive.
We're still kissing, and his hands have slipped inside my hoodie and then under my vest. They move slowly and firmly, stroking my back and then the sides of my body and round to the front, hovering at the bottom of my ribcage before moving upwards.
Oh wow.
I can't believe this. I can't believe how wonderful this is and how I just want him to keep going. We are all alone. We have lots of time and anything could happen.
Anything at all.