Page 101 of Little Miss Fortune

We shower together, followed by another steamy make out. Maybe we went further than that; a lady doesn’t kiss and tell. But we leave his house when the clock strikes 3:28 p.m. The journey back is mostly silent, with Toby holding onto my hand, only letting go to tap his Oyster card, which I bullied him into getting.

‘You can link your rail card onto it. It saves you some money during off-peak times.’

He hasn’t linked it yet, so he basically wasted £5.

About an hour later, I catch Hannah loitering outside our street.

‘Hanako, oi, daijoubu?’

‘Went for a walk, locked myself out. Dad’s at the pub with his team. Is that the boy?’ She points at Toby next to me. ‘Kakkoii!’

‘Why didn’t you text me?’ I ignore her question and her approval.

Toby waves at her and she waves back, giving me an approving nod.

‘You don’t go out of the house much. Didn’t want to hurry you.’

‘You snuck out to see your girlfriend, didn’t you?’

She kisses her teeth. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

I open the door, take my shoes off, and let Toby through. ‘You can drop the bags in the kitchen.’

‘Or,’ Hannah stretches her o, ‘you can stay for dinner.’

‘He has something at...’

‘Seven.’ He pouts.

‘He has something at seven.’ I pout back.

‘Well, it’s half past four. We could have an early dinner.’

‘Huh, I suppose. Only if you want?’ I ask him, hoping that he stays.

‘Sounds great.’

We stand in the kitchen, dated honey-oak counters and drawers creak every time I get something out of them. The fridge is covered in magnets, which Toby studies with great interest. Hannah glares at me from the living room couch, as if calling me a silly goose.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Do you guys want to cook together?’ She enunciates every word with the force of a parent who is telling her child that there are snacks back home. ‘You know, a fun activity for people who are getting to know each other.’

‘Oh, but I owe you a dinner,’ I say, turning back to Toby.

Toby puts his hand up to stop me from talking and to volunteer. ‘I would like to help.’

Toby is great at everything. He is lucky, sporty, a great supervisor (don’t tell him I said that). But my goodness, is he bad at cooking.

‘Stop hovering,’ he snaps, when another involuntary eek comes out of me after he chopped another elongated vegetable into sizes too varied for tempura.

‘They have to be the same width. This one ringlet is fatter than this one.’

‘All right, Paul Hollywood.’

‘Who?’

‘Paul Hollywood. The Great British Bake Off?’ he says, taken aback. ‘You’ve never seen The Great British Bake Off?’