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that they’d being hanging out after theater workshop for the past few weeks, he hadn’t kissed her or even held her hand. All they’d done was talk.
    Since Ollie had joined a couple of months ago, Hannah had found herself becoming ridiculously excited about Mondays. On Sunday nights she’d lie awake with her belly fizzling and her brain swishing with lurid thoughts. How could he possibly not know that she’d been thinking those things about his lips and his skin? In an effort to compose herself, Hannah fixed her gaze on a lone duck that was pecking at a floating milk carton on the canal.
    â€œWhat I think,” Ollie continued as they climbed the steps to the bridge, “is that the classes should be more structured, don’t you think?”
    â€œUm, yeah,” Hannah said, even though the lack of structure was precisely what she enjoyed. Why did she feel the need to be so agreeable? “It helps though,” she added, “because you feel more comfortable with yourself and get to know the others in the group. There are enough rules at school—‘Do this, stop that, is that eyeliner you’re wearing, Hannah Deakin?’”
    â€œIs that eyeliner you’re wearing?” Ollie asked, making her laugh.
    â€œNo, I was born with these incredibly dark, smoky eyes….”
    â€œWell,” Ollie offered casually, “you look good to me.” Hannah’s earlobes singed. He’d never complimented her before. “And freezing,” he added quickly, pulling off his coat and draping it around her shoulders, a gesture that felt kind and sweet but oddly old-fashioned.
    â€œThanks,” she said, feeling the warmth of his body all around her. She wished she didn’t feel so shy; that she was capable of asking pertinent questions about his life, his family, what he got up to when he wasn’t at college or theater workshop. Trying to formulate coherent sentences felt like plunging her hand into a bag of Scrabble letters.
    â€œWant to go to the park, see who’s there?” she asked, even though she didn’t fancy running into Emma or Georgia or any of the others who hung out at the bandstand after workshop. Those girls always seemed to have some boyfriend on the go. They’d often show up with their necks decorated with lovebites, which they’d make a big performance of trying to hide with pasty concealer. One snog was all Hannah had had, with Michael Linton, a horrible fuzzy-chinned boy who’d ground his chapped lips overenthusiastically against hers round the back of Angie’s Bakery. It was an episode she’d rather forget. If the kissing hadn’t been bad enough, the bakery boys had come out with their giant trays of loaves, and laughed uproariously as they’d loaded the van. Hannah couldn’t smell baking bread without being haunted by the spectre of Michael’s undulating mouth.
    â€œIt’s too cold for the park,” Ollie said. “I’m starving—fancy getting something to eat?”
    â€œOkay,” Hannah said. She checked her watch; just gone five thirty. Jane wouldn’t expect her home from Amy’s for another hour or so. They could get chips, or a sandwich from Bert’s Bagels.
    â€œLet’s go to the Opal,” Ollie said.
    Hannah wanted to ask, “What’s the Opal?” and, “How much does it cost to eat at the Opal?” but he’d already turned swiftly down a side street and was sauntering, more purposefully now, along the narrow lane that ran alongside the canal.
    The Opal’s sign swung idly from its spindly support. Hannah hadn’t known this place existed, and why would she? She and her mother ate out around twice a decade. Ollie stopped outside the restaurant, fished out his cell phone from his pocket and read a text. As he tapped out a reply, Hannah glanced at the framed menu on the outside wall. Ollie probably came here all the time for