"Okay okay okay." A thought had obviously occurred, as her face lit up. "You're the girl Portia wants to kill!" She looked annoyingly pleased at this discovery. I shushed her the best I could and eventually, when I was just at the point of killing her using my bag and her head, she pulled herself together.

"Okay. I'll be good," she said, her hair messed up from my attack. "So tell me everything. How did this all happen?"

I explained everything. The first night at the gig, what he'd said to me at the Lock and Key, how I'd felt when I saw him with Portia. Then I filled her in on what had happened since we met at the top of the common. Lizzie was a rather entertaining listener. She was incapable of controlling her bodily responses and at all the juicer bits, like when Noah held his mouth close to mine, she sighed and ooooed like she was watching a firework display.

When I'd finally finished, I laid out my predicament.

"So I'm supposed to be going to his later. But what if he's expecting me to sleep with him? Lizzie, I'm terrified."

She thought about it, her packet of Quavers paused in mid-air. "Hmm."

I was annoyed. "Hmm?" I asked. "I tell you my biggest secret in the world and all you can give me is 'Hmm'?"

She dropped the bag of Quavers. "Well, what were you expecting me to come up with? I'm not exactly Miss Experienced."

"But what do you think he's thinking?"

"I...don't know."

I slumped my head on the table and made myself breathe. Lizzie eventually kicked into action.

"Sorry," she said. "But you've surprised me so I haven't had time to prepare a good friend response." She paused and thought about it again. "I think he's obviously into you, judging from what you've said. And you're not going to sleep with him, are you?"

I shook my head. "No way. Not yet."

"Well, he's just going to have to accept that and, if he's really into you, it won't be a big deal."

She was right. But I was still terrified.

"I don't know, Lizzie. I feel like this whole thing is destined for failure. There's so much about him that sets off alarm bells. Like, I don't know why he lives alone, apparently he has depression, he's a man-whore, and he's also in a band with girls like Portia chucking themselves at him all the time."

She nodded. "Yeah, but it sounds like he really likes you."

"You think?"

"Yeah." She looked me up and down. "God knows why though."

"Don't make me sit on your head again."

We had another mini play-fight, much to the delight of some of the boys in the canteen, who yelled "MUD WRESTLING!" at us. Finally we gave up and collapsed back onto our chairs, laughing.

"I hate saying it..." Lizzie said. "Well, actually I love saying it, but...I told you so." She picked up my coursework again and started copying more of my introduction.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I predicted this perfect union. I told you you'd fancy the fit guitarist because it's against all your principles. I set the wheels in motion."

With horror, I realized she was right.

"Oh no," I said. "I'm a...a..." I couldn't say it.

"That's right," said Lizzie. "You're a big fat cliche."

Apparently time doesn't behave itself if you're nervously anticipating something. Much as I needed the day to pull myself together, time slid away from me like water. In a blur lunch was over, Photography whizzed past, and blink hey, where did Psychology go? Before I knew it, I was sitting in front of Dr. Ashley with the ever-present tissue box between us.

"So what have you been up to this week?" he asked, his notebook poised on his knee, ready for urgent scribbles.

Noah Noah Noah Noah Noah Noah Noah.

"Not much."

I wondered why time had suddenly slowed down again. Now it was dragging. The minute hand of the personality-free clock on the wall was practically moving backwards.

"You must have got up to something."

I needed something to fill the silence. I'd used up Mum-and-our-relationship-issues last time, there wasn't much to say about Dad, and I didn't think I'm-worried-about-my-A-level-coursework merited an appointment at a private health clinic.

"I went to another gig," I volunteered.

"I see. And how was it this time?"

I nodded. "Good. I didn't have another panic attack."

The frantic note-taking began and I wondered if I would ever be allowed to read them.

"That's good, that's good," Dr. Ashley muttered, almost to himself. "And did you do your breathing exercises this time?"

"I did them at the first gig as well."

"I see. Well, did they help?"

"I suppose."

"That's good. That's good."

I interrupted his next surge of note-taking.

"Will I ever be allowed to read those?" I asked, pointing towards his book.

Dr. Ashley looked up and clutched his papers to him protectively. "What do you mean?"

"Well, whenever I say anything, even if it's really boring, you write about it. But I don't know why you're writing."

He put the notebook face down on his knee. "They're just notes, Poppy."

"Yeah, I know. But can I read them?"

"Why would you want to read them?"

I shrugged. "I dunno. Curiosity, I suppose. You could be doodling and not listening, for all I know. Or playing hangman against yourself or something."

I wasn't really sure why I was bringing this all up. But it meant we weren't talking about Noah. That was good.

"I promise I'm not playing hangman, Poppy. Now...shall we get back to things?" He picked up the notebook again. "Has anything else happened this week? Have you-"

I interrupted him. "Dr. Ashley, do you go to therapy?"

That got him. He visibly jerked and took a good couple of seconds to compose himself.

"It's not your job to ask the questions, Poppy."

"I was just interested."

"Well, it's not relevant, is it?"

"You always tell me it's nothing to be ashamed of."

This was fun. I pushed my guilt about Mum's cheque to one side and enjoyed myself.

"It isn't anything to be ashamed of."

"Does that mean you go?"

"I didn't say that."

"Yeah, but you didn't say no. Isn't it weird? Like, don't you judge how good they are? Like when a hairdresser has to get their hair cut by another hairdresser?"

"I think we're getting off the point here."

"Is it what made you want to be a therapist? What happened to you? Did it inspire you? It's alright, Dr. Ashley. You can tell me. It's a safe environment here."

I knew I was being a total bitch. Again. But it was too good. His face turned slightly red. But the fun came to an abrupt end with: "I find it interesting you haven't told me about Noah."

Shock.

Complete shock.

I opened my mouth but he answered my question before I asked it.

"Your mum told me."

He looked pleased with himself. The git. The blood was leaving his face and, in turn, mine was filling up.

"I don't want to talk about it," I said petulantly.

"If this boy is upsetting you then it might be best to talk about it," he said. "Wasn't it the first night you met him? That gig? When you had the panic attack?"

My mouth fell open. How did he know that? I didn't think Mum or Dad even knew. I must've told them and forgotten.

I definitely wasn't having fun any more.

I refused to answer any questions and sat mute in rebellion until the nondescript clock finally marked the end of the hour.

Dr. Ashley sat smiling, writing notes in his pad. He was obviously quite content with the silence.

I was officially a nervous wreck by the time Noah picked me up. Still wound up by my altercation with Dr. Ashley, I'd changed outfit at least eight million times, reapplied lip gloss every thirty seconds and was quivering with fear. When I'd finally decided on an appropriate outfit (funnily enough it was the first one I'd tried on a casual off-the-shoulder stripy dress), I kept a vigil by my bedroom window, anxiously anticipating the evening.

After what seemed like hours, I saw him walk to my house. I'd allowed him up to the front door as Mum and Dad were still working in their respective offices. They were both civil servants whatever the heck that is but it meant they left and returned home like clockwork. Of course, he looked amazing. He was wearing a red checked shirt and jeans, and was whistling. I ran to the door to greet him, smoothing out imaginary creases in my clothes. As I did, I could feel the outline of my matching lingerie set underneath. It wasn't anything too fancy, just an oddly inappropriate Christmas present from my aunt. Pink lacy bra with matching lacy knicker-type things. I'd never really worn it, and I didn't plan to reveal it to Noah just yet, but, you know, a girl has to be prepared.

I could see his shadow through the windowpane of our front door. I opened it, borderline terrified.

His greeting smile made my knees jellify.

"Hello, gorgeous. Ready to see my humble abode?"

I could only nod.

He offered me his arm and we headed down my driveway. It was a beautiful evening. Not one cloud in the sky and the air was balmy odd, again, for this time of year. Touching him still felt electric and breathing still required intense concentration. We walked down my road, not talking, and headed up another. Less than five minutes later, we arrived at a small block of flats. They were pretty posh, very modern-looking from the outside.

"Home sweet home," he said.

I couldn't help but wonder where the hell his parents were.

He fiddled with his keys, then unlocked the door and took me inside. There was plush red carpet and the walls were a cream colour. We went into the lift and he pushed the button for the top floor. My heart was pounding. I realized we were alone. Like, really alone. I was freaked and thrilled at the same time. As we rode the lift we still didn't really talk and I wondered again what he expected from me.

The lift opened and there were only two doors to choose from. Noah steered me right and pushed his key into the lock.

"Come on in," he said as he stepped through the door.

I took a deep breath and followed him inside.

His place was stunning, incredible even. The huge open-plan living room was painted the faintest blue colour, with stripped wooden floors and dominated by a large leather couch. The room reeked of Noah. His touch was everywhere, from the piles of dog-eared books scattered haphazardly to the stacks of yellowing newspapers. His guitar took pride of place and his favourite LPs were tacked to the wall like posters. I noticed a distinct lack of any family photographs amongst the "arty" framed shots of his band and was puzzled again about how and why he lived alone.

Noah gave me a quick tour and I tried not to reveal my astonishment. The kitchen was a serious chef's dream, all aluminium fridges and slate countertops. The bathroom was larger than my bedroom, with a giant hot-tub bath and an infinity shower. He quickly opened the door to his bedroom and I caught a glimpse of a giant double bed. I tried not to think about how many girls had already been in there. I failed miserably.

Noah led me back to the living room and offered me a drink.

"Water," I squeaked nervously, feeling like we were strangers.

He fetched me a glass from his perfect kitchen, adding ice cubes from his massive fridge. He handed it to me, then sank into the leather sofa, sprawling across it. I tried not to think about how many girls must've been on that couch before. I failed miserably.

I was standing with my arms crossed. I clutched at my water glass, trying to work out just how out of my depth I was.

Apparently unaware of my inner turmoil, Noah smiled and said, "Well, I bet you're wondering why I've brought you here?"

To seduce me? To take advantage of me? To scare the hell out of me with your crazy-perfect apartment?

I took a sip of water to soothe my desperately dry mouth. "I am curious, yes."