‘There’s a guy over there who can’t tear his eyes off you.’

‘Which one, Andie?’ I asked, hugely dubious.  ‘Guys usually can’t usually bear to look at my repellent mug.’

‘That dark-haired one by the bar.  He’s doing it now – look!  He keeps nudging his friend and nodding over at you.’

I peeked at where Andrea pointed.  To my amazement, she was right.  He was one of those exotic creatures most sixth form girls dreamed of captivating – from the species commonly known as Older Man.  And he was staring so hungrily at me that I suddenly felt like the most stunning thing on two legs. 

Little did he know I had just turned seventeen, lost four stone in the last six months and was wearing a dress voluntarily for the first time in my life.

Andie and I were milling very self-consciously in the Wolverhampton Civic Hall where, in half-an-hour, Echo and the Bunnymen were due on stage.  The gig tickets, along with driving lessons, were my parents’ birthday gift.

Andie became my closest friend after Janine and Claudette left school and progressively lost contact.  She was also the only friend who, during the reign of grunge, shared my ‘dated’ musical tastes.  I was (as I remain) a true 80s throwback: shunning new indie icons like Nirvana or the Black Country’s own Ned’s Atomic Dustbin and The Wonder Stuff. 

But even if my tastes were considered old hat, my image – literally in this case – was decidedly not.

The diet had withered my once swine-sized body to something it hadn’t been for about five years – a size eight.  On a practical level, this necessitated a drastic wardrobe overhaul as my roomy clothes ceased to fit.  And, after a lifetime’s hiding beneath drab tracksuits and leggings, my new trim shape gave me the boldness to experiment.

With birthday money from Granny – without whom there would have been no diet – I purchased an entire outfit in honour of this concert: long black pinafore dress (yes, a dress – this from Zoe Taylor, a girl whose only previous skirts formed part of her school uniform), clinging cream bodysuit to go underneath, and even a black velvet hat and thigh-high boots.  This experimentation extended to my hair too: I braided it in two Heidi-esque plaits, a look that was in fashion at the time.

Years of self-abhorrence had left me with a psychological dread of mirrors, but tonight mine astounded me.  For once, I looked my reflection in the eye: head high, shoulders back.  This new Zoe, despite the girlish hairdo, radiated sophistication and elegance.  Oh yes!

Hence, I guessed, this naked lust from a guy quite obviously pushing thirty.  I turned bashfully away and took a flustered gulp of Babycham.  My face was maroon.  I had never been on the receiving end of such a gaze, and it was really rather unnerving.  I felt sexy and honoured, but at the same time a niggly, scared part of me wanted to squeal to him, ‘I am not what I seem!  I am a schoolgirl virgin who used to be grossly overweight and has never so much as held hands with a boy – please be gentle with me!’

‘Trust you, Zo,’ Andie was teasing, ‘you’ve only been dressing like a girl for an hour, and already you’ve pulled!’

I giggled into my glass, suppressing my reservations and feeling suddenly elated.  I decided the chap was quite nice-looking, in a black-eyebrowed, intense sort of way, and I liked the adult sound of the words ‘you’ve pulled.’ 

‘He’s coming over!’ she hissed.

Aaagh!

Lick lips.

Chest out.

Tummy in.

Take a demure sip of drink.

Arch your brows and appraise him with an aloof, ‘I get men coming on to me all the time, you know’ look (and stop trembling, girl, stop trembling!) when he says…

‘Can we get you young ladies another drink?’

The voice was mellow and articulate, a Walsall twang refined by education.  It didn’t thrill or fill me with smiles the way Karl’s matey Dudley brogue did – but I wasn’t to think of Karl anymore.  No!  I had made up my mind, it was a waste of time travelling down that route.  It was farcical – abnormal even – to love someone unrequitedly for six years.  I had to forget him; move on.  Other males existed.

‘Oh, er, I’ll, er – ’ Stop stammering, you pathetic bint!  ‘I’ll have a Babycham please.’

Did I detect him wince when I revealed my tipple of choice?  Not that I particularly wanted one at all.  I was barely halfway down the bubbly drink in my hand but, unused to even the wimpiest liquor, was already a little red about the face and light in the head department.  I’d really have loved an apple juice – but to order one from this man would make me sound like an infant school kid.

‘A Babycham for the lady in black.’  It was clear from the way those cocoa-dark eyes lingered and blazed that I was his focus, whereas he barely bothered glancing at Andie as he brusquely added, ‘And for yourself?’

This struck me as a tad rude (and I could tell by her injured expression that it struck Andie thus too), but it is sadly easy to forgive someone who slights another – be they your friend or otherwise – in favour of yourself.

‘I’m Ben,’ he announced when he returned with the drinks (his was red wine), ‘Ben Washington.’ 

Washington!  The glamorous word raced through my head like a Cadillac, past a montage of American cities, presidents and movie stars.  I thought what a thin, wet, ‘kick sand in my face’ kind of a name Simon Floyd was by comparison.  Oh yes, I was definitely moving up in the world! 

By tacit consensus, we had paired off: Andie and Ben’s morose mate –  Adam, he was called – being lumped together by default.  Neither, it must be said, appeared awesomely impressed with this arrangement.

‘Zoe Taylor.’

We shook hands, for the obligatory fraction-of-a-second too long.

‘And what do you do, Zoe Taylor?’

When was he going to stop looking at me like that?  My clothes could have been melting beneath his dark gaze.  I coyly studied the contents of my glass.

'I’m a student.’

‘Oh?  A design student, I bet, having such a flair for fashion.  Which uni are you at – Wolverhampton?’

‘I’m, ah – ’  I could have just said yes!  Would it harm anybody if I told him I’m at art college? I actually thought for a devious second – before checking myself, remembering my lies had a habit of backfiring horribly.  Art wasn’t even one of my subjects.  I smiled apologetically.  ‘I’m actually still at school.  Doing A-levels.’

‘You never are?’

‘Mmm, and not in art and design either!  In home economics and – ’

‘But that would make you no more than, what, eighteen?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Seventeen?  Bloody hell!’

He took a grave sup of wine and frowned.  His absurdly solemn expression evoked further unwanted comparisons with Karl’s easy, smiley countenance. 

Sod off, Karl, I wanted to yell angrily at the laughing face that kept popping into my brain like one of those bash-a-mole games you find at fairgrounds.  Laughing at me, no doubt, because I’d blown it with Ben by being such a drippy little infant.  I’d enticed him under false pretences with my adult looks, conned him into buying me an illegal drink, then gone and ruined the illusion by telling him the pathetic truth about myself.

It is interesting, thinking about it now, how my immediate instinct was to blame myself – and not for the last time with Ben.  He had this way of making you feel like everything was your fault.

‘You astound me,’ he blurted out in a tone of brave disillusionment that was to become so annoyingly familiar, ‘you seem so sophisticated.  The most attractive woman in here by far.  I thought you must be twenty-two or three at least.’

‘Thank you very much.’  I couldn’t help colouring up at his compliment.  I was so unused to them.

Then it was his turn to astound me by shaking his head and abruptly laughing, in a false, cynical sort of way.

‘I don’t know – you ladies, you’re so desperate to look older until you get to twenty, and then you start knocking years off!’

I truly had no idea what to say to this.  The notion of ‘knocking years off’ was still blithely alien to me, and the way he said ‘you ladies’ carried an underlying edge I didn’t quite like.

Thankfully, he changed the subject with lightning speed – another of his skills.

‘You can’t possibly remember Echo and the Bunnymen first time around then?’

‘Only vaguely, but I love 80s music.  There’s not a lot I like in the charts at the moment.’

‘Too right!  Who wants to listen to New Kids on the Block and Right Said Fred when they can have meaningful lyrics and proper tunes?’

‘I think I was born too late, that’s my trouble!’

‘Yes, I think you were,’ he said suggestively.

We spent the next ten minutes conversing easily and earnestly about music.  I must admit it was a subject upon which we concurred.  It was rare to meet someone who not only shared my tastes entirely but also empathised with the way music drove and inspired me.  He described, for example, how he would watch top bands like UB40, Fuzzbox and Dexy’s Midnight Runners on Top of the Pops and experience a sense of great pride that they hailed from the West Midlands.  It was uncanny – so did I!

Relationships are built upon such foundations, I told myself.  True love is not all about looks.  Karl may be scrummy and hunky, but it is personalities and tastes which matter to soulmates.

The bell rang, indicating we ought to take our seats in the murky auditorium.  It had the same effect upon Ben as might a game show buzzer.  Right Ben I’m going to have to hurry you, you have ten seconds in which to make your move if you’re to be in with a chance of tonight’s star prize – an evening out with the lovely Zoe!  He clutched my elbow and turned to me in a manner so urgent that it verged – I hated to admit – on desperate.

‘Listen, Zoe, I’d like to take you out some time.  If you can bear to be seen out on the arm of an old man of twenty-seven, that is.  Where do you live?’

‘Sedgley.’

‘We’re not too far apart in that case.  I’m only in Walsall.  Got my own flat.  Do you know Rollo’s?  It’s a nice little bistro over Aldridge way, near Sutton Coldfield.’

‘No.’  Bistro?  That sounded a bit upmarket!  I still felt too gauche to go in pubs.

‘I think you’d love it there.  Are you doing anything this Saturday?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Then would you object if I booked us a table for eight-ish?’

‘No, of course not.’  I tried not to sound too overwhelmed, but doubt I succeeded.

‘Now what time can you get there?  Do you drive, Zoe?’

‘Not passed my test yet.  I’ve only had three lessons.’

‘Well could you get a lift there for about quarter-to – no, where are my manners?  I’ll pick you up.  About half-past seven OK?  You’d best give me your address in that case.  And your number.’

Before I knew what was happening, he had ripped a beermat in half (with needless force, I thought) and was proffering a pen.

‘Here – you put your details down on this half and I’ll give you mine on this bit.’

We had to go once we had swapped our semi-circles of floppy cardboard.  Our respective friends were hovering pointedly with fed-up expressions.  There was little likelihood of Andie and Adam exchanging numbers.

Ben didn’t kiss me – which was actually gladdening, as I didn’t feel ready for a kiss quite yet – but softly stroked the tip of my nose with his index and middle fingers, a gesture that struck me as odd and somehow possessive.  A curious, not particularly pleasant feeling shivered through my body in response. 

He followed Adam, walking backwards so that he could fix me with his smitten smile and say: ‘I can’t wait for Saturday.  All the men in that restaurant are going to be so jealous of me, sharing an intimate table with the most gorgeous girl in there!’  He blew me a surreptitious kiss and turned away.

‘Did that really just happen?’ I breathed.

‘That was torture,’ huffed Andie once the men had escaped our earshot, ‘Adam was such tedious company.  You did all right by the look of it, though.’

‘Mmm, I’ve got a date with him this Saturday.’

I’d got a date!  I’d got a date!

‘You be careful with that Ben,’ she warned, with unusual brusqueness, ‘he looks a bit sleazy to me.’

‘You ought to approve of him,’ I pouted.  I had hoped my fey friend might be happier for me.  ‘He has the true soul of a poet.’

‘Huh!  You just make sure you’re wearing your cast-iron chastity belt come Saturday, girl!’

‘Oh sour grapes!’

‘Bugger!’  I came to from another daydream to find my fountain pen had bled blue splats all over my Shakespeare essay.

‘Concentrate, Zoe, concentrate,’ I tutted, scrunching up the illegible page and purposefully rewriting the title, Is Hamlet a tragic hero?, on a fresh leaf.

‘Oh who gives a monkeys if he is?’  I grinned wryly to myself.  Stuff homework!  What cared I for such dreary faff when I had been Asked Out For Dinner?  And not by a boy, but a debonair man, who had a job (I presumed), a flat and a car.  To be admired by a twenty-seven-year-old who must have amassed a whole harem’s worth of girlfriends, was an immeasurable step up from being the object of little Simon Floyd’s adolescent fancy. 

School had been hopeless that day.  It was futile even trying to concentrate on essays and plays when one possessed a mind only half engaged with the real world. 

Andie had made barbed digs to one or two of the girls about ‘Zo’s head being in the clouds because she’s met a divine new beau,’ but I amazed myself by not wanting to discuss Ben at all.  I’d imagined that when I acquired a boyfriend I would shamelessly broadcast the fact – yet now I had a story to tell, I hugged it privately to my heart.  It didn’t seem right to blether about Ben with girly cliques; somehow I doubted he’d like it.

Down in our hallway, the phone pealed to life.  I knew it was him.  It was a different ring, I swear!  An edgy ring, not its usual cosy little tinkle.  The conclusive proof came when Mom’s voice went all polite and surprised, not bubbly mom-ish the way it did when friends rang.

‘Phone for you, Zo!’

She mouthed ‘It’s a chap’ as I ungraciously snatched the receiver.  You needn’t look so shocked, Mother, I thought huffily, why shouldn’t men phone me?  When I wanted to, I could be so rude to my poor parents.  I turned my back to her in a very affected, ‘I’m old enough to have private conversations’ sort of way.

‘I wanted to make sure you got home safely last night,’ he crooned in that low, dark voice, ‘I’ve been thinking about you constantly.  Couldn’t concentrate at work for daydreaming of my beautiful Zoe.’  He’d had a similar sort of day to me then.

‘Couldn’t you?’

‘Your gorgeous eyes and luscious lips have been on my mind all day.’

‘Have they?’

‘Oh yes!  I don’t know quite how I’m going to hold out until the weekend.’

‘Don’t you?’

I was aware I sounded like a wally, but I was still reeling.  In less than twenty-four hours I had progressed from a leggin-wearing virgin to a lady who wore dresses and exchanged full-on dialogue with dishy men a decade her senior.  I had no idea people talked like this outside Danielle Steel novels.  I’d daydreamed for years about being a romantic heroine; now I wasn’t sure I was up to such a role.

‘See you Saturday, my darling,’ he said deliciously as we rang off.

I clicked the handset down and stared it for a while, feeling weird.  Why was I not leaping about the house in elation?  Why did these amorous compliments not cause me to tingle in rude places?  Why did the whole thing feel so unreal, as though Ben were speaking of someone else?

My self-esteem, so high the night before, was at floorboard-level again.  I may have lost my Fat Girl tag, but divested, Cinderella-like, of my hat and plaits, I felt shabby and juvenile again.  Men fancied me so seldom, I felt I should have been somehow ‘making the most of it’ before this one had chance to go off me, or come to after the bump his brain had obviously received, and realise what an unsightly old boot – or young boot, in this case – I was after all. 

And what of Karl?  Did I truly admire him any less just because some other swain was suddenly paying court to me?  The very notion of eulogising my eyes and lips may never have entered his Brylcreemed head, but did that make him any less worthy of my affection? 

Mom ‘just happened’ to walk back by me then, and made one eyebrow into that ‘I don’t want to pry, but…’ V shape that cons you into confessing everything.  She’d have made a fantastic detective, my mother.  With one twitch of that brow, she’d have worn down the most hard-bitten felons.

‘I’ve got a date on Saturday,’ I gabbled, ‘with a lad called Ben Washington.  I met him at the concert last night.’

‘Ben, eh?  That’s a very deep voice he’s got there.  How old is he?’

‘Er, twenty-’

‘Twenty?’ she butted in hysterically before I could even add the seven suffix. 

‘Mmm,’ I replied noncommittally, deciding under the circumstances, against admitting Ben’s real age, ‘he’s taking me to a place called Rollo’s, in Aldridge, or somewhere.’ 

It’s ironic that I now live very close to Aldridge – a genteel little town between Sutton Coldfield and Walsall – but when I was at seventeen it was about as familiar to me as the Bahamas.  Only when I acquired a car, years later, did my geographical knowledge extend beyond Sedgley’s boundaries.

‘Rollo’s?  I’ve heard of that.’  The way Mom whistled denoted it was a very posh place.  ‘What does he do for a living?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘How are you getting to Rollo’s?’

‘He’s picking me up.  Here.  At seven-thirty.’

‘Was that wise, giving your address to a man you’ve just met?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mom!  He’s not an axe murderer.’

‘You don’t know that.  Does he live with his parents?’

‘Not sure, I think so.  In Walsall.’

Another lie!  But it made Ben sound more safe – to myself as well as my mother.

‘What do they do?’

This was one question too many.

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘Well if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem to know an awful lot about this chap.’

‘I only met him last night!’

‘Yet you’ve gaily given your address and number to him.  Can I meet him?’

‘Meet him?’  Oh no, please God no!  I couldn’t bear introductions this early on – not if I wanted to make it to a second date anyway.

‘I’d like to see who my only child is going out with.’

At which point my dad was finally elevated off his armchair to join in with a placatory ‘Calm down, Val.  Our Zo’s a big girl now, and mature for her age.  You can’t wrap her up in cotton wool forever.’

‘All right, I’m sorry.  I just want you to take care, love.  And don’t run before you can walk.’

So Dad’s gentle, down to earth approach prevailed as usual.  His intervention spared me an excruciating session of politely piercing questions and the best china in a room whose walls were bedecked with photographs of me at progressively goofy phases of childhood.  I couldn’t have borne that.  Nor could I for a minute picture Ben tolerating such a twee experience.

When Saturday came, I couldn’t even risk him ringing the bell and being vetted by my mother, who would no doubt choose that moment to flit through the hallway on some flimsy pretext. 

‘I’ll wait for him on the drive, Mom,’ I called, already halfway through the door.

‘But you’ll freeze!’

‘I won’t, it’s OK.’

I hated the idea of Ben seeing me in the chintzy context of our family vestibule, preferring to huddle and stamp in the spring dusk, pulling my coat taut around my unusually bare back. 

My scheduled homework marathon had given way that afternoon to an emergency trudge around Merry Hill in quest of a first-date outfit.  I couldn’t afford it, but nor could I afford to have Ben seeing that black pinafore again and assuming – correctly – that it was my only frock.  My choice today was a silky green number with spaghetti straps zigzagging down my back – which could scarcely have been less like the cast-iron chastity belt Andie advocated.

Ooh – he was here!

Mmm, a Cavalier.  G-reg.  Hardly a Jag, but who cared!  The important thing was He Drove A Car.  I was going out with a man who had a driving licence. 

A handful of the boys in my year had passed their tests; one or two with wealthy daddies bombed around in hatchbacks which they would ostentatiously park next to the teachers’ estate cards of a morning.  But for the vast majority of my contemporaries, socialising and courtship were strictly bus-dependent activities.

Not for me, though.  Ha!  Wasn’t this one in the eye for the school bullies!  I wished Tina and all those other cows who said I was too ugly to get boys could see me being chauffeured by this gentleman, who opened my door for me, greeted me with a ‘Hello gorgeous’ and a kiss on the cheek, and drove with control and confidence, not like a harebrained boy-racer, showing off because he’s just passed his test. 

Who needed boys anyway, when they could net men?

I would not have wanted Tina seeing how stilted things were inside the car, however.  My voice, unprotected by the background music of the Civic Hall, was a timid tweet as I answered Ben’s questions and peeped sidelong at him.  I took in the tiny mole next to his ear; the eyes so brown as to render his pupils almost indistinguishable from the irises.  He wore that winning combination of white silk shirt and black waistcoat, and I had to admit he looked pretty horny.

One thought dominated: What on earth is he doing with me?

When he slid the Cavalier into a slot outside Rollo’s, I felt even more out of my depth.  I may have looked the part, in my slinky jade, but to tell the truth I ached to be with my parents, who I knew would be enjoying fish and chips in front of Big Break.

Don’t be a wimp, Zoe, you’re a grown-up lady now, on a proper grown-up date with a grown-up man.  Come on now, you must not show Ben up.

Six years later, I hosted my first press day at Tunney’s.  The PR department invited ten journos from provincial rags, specialist food mags and websites to a guided tour of the chocolate factory, a tasting session (always popular) – and complimentary lunch at Rollo’s.

The irony amused me.  Again, it was a nervous occasion, but I hoped I hid my nerves more adeptly this time.

As the hacks bandied technical terms across the table and earnestly discussed cocoa beans, I leaned and whispered to my friend Nadine: ‘You’ll never believe this, but the last time I was here, I was a terrified seventeen-year-old who had no idea which knife to use.’

‘You, terrified?  Never!’  She giggled.

‘It’s true!  I’d never been so intimidated in my life.’

‘But it’s such a friendly place.  Old Rollo’s an absolute poppet.’

‘I know that now!  But at the time it was by far the swishest place I’d ever eaten in.  I didn’t think I’d even be allowed through the doors.  I came here with my first boyfriend – wonder whether he’d recognise me now?’

I doubted it.  An unctuous waiter bustled us to an intimate corner table and hovered as Ben assessed the wine list with connoisseur earnestness.

‘What would you like to drink, sweetheart?’

‘Babycham please.’

He definitely winced that time.

‘Babycham isn’t the most sophisticated drink in the world now, is it?’  His terseness was rather startling.  ‘Sophisticated’ was one of his favourite words – if he said it once, he said it a dozen times.  I started to – privately – refer to it as The S Word.  ‘Why don’t you share some wine with me?  A nice Chardonnay?’

‘OK.’

‘Good girl.’  He smiled with kindly approval before flapping the wine list shut and tossing it to the waiter with a dismissive, ‘leave us in peace’ gesture.  ‘A bottle of the Chardonnay please, pal.’  Ben tended to slip into Black County when he wanted to be officious.

He flipped open a Silk Cut packet and offered me a fag.  I had never smoked in my life, and hadn’t imagined I ever would, having survived the bulk of my turbulent, supposedly experimental teenage years without once being tempted by the lure of the weed.  I was petrified of becoming addicted, as the scary-wary anti-smoking lectures at school warned one could after a mere puff. 

The prospect of lung cancer, yellow fingers and premature wrinkles had done little to attract me either, and I grew up associating smoking with ‘rough’ types like Tina Skidmore or that guy who nearly raped us in Baggeridge Park.  I hadn’t wanted to be like them.

I wanted to be like Ben, though – didn’t I?  Lounging there, all suave in his sexy waistcoat, he seemed to be saying, ‘Smoke one of these and you too can be cool like me!  But say no, and you may as well crawl back into the playpen with your teddy bear.’  I pulled one from the packet in what I hoped was a blasé, twenty-a-day sort of manner.

‘So what did you think of the concert?’ he was asking as he exhaled a satisfied plume.

I could hardly remember a second of it, my head had been too fuddled by Ben (and Babycham), and I was now too engrossed in taking my first inept drags, but I think I replied that it was good.

His speech about the merits of early Bunnymen albums versus their contemporary output wafted into the background as I sucked the ciggie virtually soggy and waited for something wonderful to happen. 

Nothing! 

It didn’t do anything amazing for me.  It was OK – none of the expected spluttering or eye-watering – and there was a certain feeling of power to be had from waving the thing theatrically between my fingers.  But I couldn’t believe there were people who did this twenty or forty times a day, seven days a week.

‘You friend – Angela, was it?’

‘Andrea.’  He swatted away some smoke as if to say ‘Whatever.’

‘Well I have to admit Adam wasn’t too impressed with her the other night.’

‘No?’

‘I’m afraid not.’  He shook his head gravely.  ‘She wasn’t sophisticated like you.  Between you and me, I rather think Ad’s a bit jealous of me taking you out tonight.’

‘Oh?’

The waiter returned with our wine and whipped out his minuscule notebook – would madam care to order?  Madam had barely glimpsed at the menu, in fact, being so overawed as to actually forget she was here to eat.

‘Er…’

‘Why don’t you start with the whitebait?  That’s what I’ll be having.  And maybe the chicken chasseur for your main?’

‘OK.’

‘Two whitebaits then please, then one chicken chasseur and one rump steak.’

Ooh – I loved rump steak!  But I dared not alter the order now.  Anyway, white meat was better for you than red (since this diet, there was little I didn’t know about nutrition and calorie counting), and I got the impression Ben mightn’t approve of ladies who ate steak.  Chicken was a more refined, feminine meat.

‘How’s your wine, darling?’

‘Not as nice as Babycham,’ I tittered, thinking that mocking my own naff tastes might tickle his funnybone, but he still looked irked. 

‘Only joking,’ I hastily reassured him, ‘I like it really.’  In fact I did, though it was much stronger and dryer than my unseasoned palate was used to.  I’m now a big wine fan.  I grew out of Babycham when I was about nineteen, and since then haven’t been able to bear its sickly fizz.

‘What have you been doing today?’ he asked, changing tack.  I was on safer ground here.

‘I’ve got an absolute mountain of homework that has to be handed in on Monday.’  I groaned, rolling my eyes and conveniently omitting the detail that I had made no inroads into this mountain due to spending all day in sweaty changing rooms, wriggling in and out of dresses.  Oh well, there was always tomorrow.  I grimaced at the thought and took a gulp of wine to dull the pain.  Ah, that was better!  ‘Those teachers are really piling it on.  To tell you the truth, I’m finding school very tough this year.’

Ben took a pensive drag and frowned.

‘I’ve been thinking, Zoe,’ he said with such solemnity that I truly expected his sentence to conclude: ‘I don’t want to see you anymore,’ or ‘you ought to know that I’m married.’  Dumped on my first date – just my damn luck! 

‘Thinking about what, Ben?’ I asked, in what I liked to think a rather brave, perky fashion.

‘I’d really rather you didn’t talk about school.’  What?  ‘It demeans you.  Someone as sophisticated as you shouldn’t still be there at all.  It’s somewhere you go when you’re about five, and every time you say the word ‘school,’ I’m sorry, sweetheart, but it just makes you sound really – well, young.  If you must talk about it, can you call it ‘college?’  It has a better ring to it, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, OK,’ I giggled uncertainly.

Well it was OK, wasn’t it?  I mean, I didn’t particularly want to talk about school – I detested the place – and he made it sound like a delicious little game; a private bit of role-play.  Hey, let’s pretend I’m a college student.

Why then, amidst the fug of alcohol, was I indignant?

When I grew older and acquired greater vocabulary and understanding of the human psyche, I realised it was because Ben made me lie about my life.  I may have lied about Curtis all those years ago, but that was my choice; my way of livening up a life I found drab and lonely (and a vain attempt to make Karl envious).

Ben was showing me he didn’t love the real Zoe; that even on our first date, he couldn’t bear to acknowledge me for what I was.  No-one was making him embark on a romance with a teenage schoolgirl; if a ten-year age gap embarrassed him so much, he should have dated an older woman.

‘Are you thinking of going to university when you finished college?’  He placed grating emphasis on the word, but I ignored it, too cowed by Ben to contradict him. 

‘There’s an English language and literature degree at the UCE that sounds absolutely ideal.’

‘UCE?’

‘University of Central England.  That new uni in Perry Barr.’

‘Ah, the old Birmingham Poly.’

‘That’s the one.  But I need to get a B for my A-level English.’

I trailed off, unsure whether I was straying into forbidden topic territory by even alluding to my A-levels, but was opportunely interrupted by the arrival of our whitebait.  I jabbed my fag into the ashtray, gratified of an excuse to be rid of it, and seized my cutlery.  I was hungrier than I imagined, and after one cautious nibble of this fishy first course, was genuinely grateful to Ben for endorsing its crispy merits. 

I loved the chasseur too, with its a lavishly tomatoey texture, though couldn’t help a covetous gawk at Ben’s steak (oops, perhaps I might have phrased that better – all I can say is it’s a good job he didn’t have the sausage).  Food – though I didn’t gorge anymore – still succoured like nothing else in the world, and I soon forgot my prior disgruntlement.

‘I love food, you know, Ben.’

‘Keeps you alive, doesn’t it?’  This was remarkably jokey for him.

‘I have to do a week’s work experience in the summer, through sch – college – and I’m going to Tunney’s.  I can’t wait!’

‘The factory in Lichfield?’

‘Yes.  I would just adore to work there!  That would be my dream job.  Hope I get plenty of free samples when I’m there!’

‘Chocolate isn’t good for you, you know,’ Ben rebuked, his face and tone too stern to be humorous.

‘You’re preaching to the converted there,’ I tittered lamely, feeling a tad crushed, ‘I was twelve stone six months ago.’

‘Twelve stone?’  He looked hurtfully aghast.

‘I know – repulsive, eh?’  I cringed self-deprecatingly.  ‘I had the most grossly piggy eating habits you could imagine – ’

‘But you don’t now?’  His face was anxious, seeking reassurance.  The thought he was dating an ex-Fat Girl must have been more than his superficial pride could bear.

‘No, I don’t now.  I’m dead proud of the way I’ve managed to lose – ’

‘You’re lovely and svelte,’ he interrupted.

‘I’m keen on cooking too,’ I sidestepped, ‘I’ll have to do you a meal one day.  One of my specials.  Spaghetti carbonara, or chilli – ’

‘A lady like you shouldn’t have to cook,’ he interrupted, with that same strange look of concern.  I’d said the wrong thing again, had I?  ‘I wouldn’t like to imagine those pretty, soft hands embedded in a bowl of cake mix.  I shall take you to the finest restaurants.’

‘But I enjoy it – ’  No, best change tack again.  ‘So where do you work, Ben?’  Perhaps he was bored of Me as a subject; I should be more passive, take more interest in him.  I thought about what Mom said – I ought to find out a little more about him.

‘Sorrels, a firm of accountants in Darlaston.  I’m in the insolvency department.  Not too boring, eh!’  He pulled an ironic face that made me laugh despite myself.  ‘Following in Dad’s footsteps.  He was an accountant too.’

‘Was?’

‘He retired a couple of years back, and he and my mom bought a little place down in Cornwall.’

‘Cornwall?  How lovely!  Must be handy for holidays.’  I was impulsively visualising hand-in-hand beach strolls during weekend breaks of the future.

Ben gave an indifferent sniff.  ‘Actually I don’t go down there very often at all.  It’s just a dull little backwater.’

‘Oh.  Have you got brothers and sisters?’

‘Nope.  There’s just me.’

‘I’m an only child too.’

But he didn’t want to talk about mundane things; everything had to be romantic with Ben.  He reached over to stroke one of the hands he wanted me to keep cake mix-free.  ‘I’ve still got that half of beermat with your address on.  I shall keep it forever to remind me of you.  One day we will stick our two halves back together.’

Yeah, great.

The prefix ‘slap-up’ might well have been invented for Rollo’s rich, home-cooked meals.  I nearly fell off my chair when I clocked the bill, but Ben slapped down his gold card without breaking into the vaguest sweat, and looked offended when I delved for my purse.  At least he wasn’t stingy.

As Ben escorted me back to his car, I was jelly-like because the date was nearing its natural conclusion and I knew he would consider it only polite to make a pass pretty soon.

He twiddled with the ignition just enough to emit seductively warm air from the heater and Vienna from his Ultravox tape.  He set the scene to perfection.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d have guessed he had acted in this scene before!  And quite a few times.

‘I love Midge Ur-’ I burbled before Ben wrapped me in his silky white arms and welded his mouth to mine.

 My first kiss – like, from what hear, a million other first kisses – was an ungainly clank of teeth and noses.  When I was younger, I’d sniggered over snogging scenes in soap operas and films – now I was myself partaking, it felt unreal.  I did it because it was expected of me rather than because I had any great desire to.

‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’ Ben panted when our mouths were at last prised apart.  I nodded, not entirely sure my affirmative was true.  Then he stretched his arm to cuddle me from the cold.  My head was resting against his chest, my right arm was over his knee and the fingers of my left hand were intertwined with his. 

My arms very quickly went dead and my mouth was parched from both kissing and booze-induced dehydration, but all of a sudden everything felt right.  Yeah, I could get used to this after all.  It was romantic and fun, if none too comfortable.  I squeezed myself happily against Ben.  He kissed my head and the nub of my nose; it felt delicious.

I began to unwind as we indulged in increasingly prolonged bouts of what my mom would have called ‘canoodling.’  Ben dropped delicate kisses on to my neck and fingers and stroked my hair with an easy, experienced air.  I grew more used to it, this fumbly intimacy, once I was over my initial coyness.  In fact, I was a surprisingly natural and passionate kisser; the act had the same relaxant effect on me as might cannabis.  It made my insides melt and my head go all fuzzy and swirly. 

This may appear a curious turn of phrase, but I felt as though Fate had designated this as the day when Zoe Nicola Taylor would be ready for her first kiss with a man - not before, not after.

‘You have a look of Kim Wilde about you,’ Ben simpered as he smiled adoringly up into my face.  (I’ve never succeeded in seeing the resemblance myself!)  ‘Most men would die for Kim Wilde, you know!’

Yeah right – guys ten years ago maybe.

‘Would you?’ I simpered back, concealing my scepticism.

‘No, but I’d die for you.’

We stayed in that car park for almost two hours.  A steady stream of Rollo’s clientele filtered back and forth past us, oh so accidentally slowing to afford themselves a good peer through Ben’s increasingly misted windows – no doubt hopeful that one or both of us might be exposing a stray organ.  Ben, to his credit, noticed and respected my unease.

‘Don’t worry, I don’t want to go any further in the car either.  I always think it’s a bit seedy.  It’s between us, not anybody else.  You can come back to my place, though,’ he added softly. 

I had half dreaded this, and told him ever so politely that I would give it a miss if it was all the same to him.  Going to bed on the first date was not my style (and never has been, might I add!).

‘I just want to be with you, that’s all.  I bet you’re lovely to wake up to in the morning.’  His voice was little more than a sigh; it almost belied the scary sexual hint behind his words.  ‘Some other time then?’

I gulped.  Ben was taking too much for granted.  I really ought to enlighten him as to my virgo intactus status.

‘Can I let you into a secret?’ I confided, stupidly, ‘That was the first time I’d ever kissed anyone.  I’ve never had a boyfriend before either.’

‘Well you have now,’ he retorted, in a manner that suggested the subject was now closed, before linking lips with me for another passion session.  Ben was unpredictable; his responses baffled me at times.  ‘I’d best get you home now,’ he breathed when he surfaced for air once more, ‘else your mother’ll be sending out a search party.  There’ll come a time though, Zoe, when I won’t have to drive you home.  Oh, I can’t wait for you to spend a whole night with me – and then I’ll wake up and be the proudest man on earth because I shall see you lying in my bed, all gorgeous and drowsy.’

Though Ben’s last comment alarmed me, I enjoyed being driven home at that hour; it was delightfully naughty, as though he and I were the only people awake.  It was after two when I slid noiselessly into bed.  Needless to say, I didn’t sleep.

Ben and I began meeting most weekends (weeknight assignations were physically impossible, now that homework and revision had literally taken over my life), and between dates I would be deluged with flowers, cards and tapes he must have spent hours recording, always dedicating the most romantic tracks to me.  After a fortnight together, I was informed that he was ‘madly in love’ with me.

He phoned at least twice a week too.  I convinced myself, with remarkable ease, that I did not find his mail vomit-makingly mawkish or his calls tiresome. 

So what if I was trying to study for crucial exams and a university place? 

So what if his mushy phone chat kept me from my work? 

Ben Washington was an older man; a gentleman; a romantic, considerate, respectful gentleman – and he was in love with me!  Ugly me.  Flabby old Zo, whom Tina Skidmore, the school queen, had eloquently damned as being ‘too fat to shag.’  What cause – nay, what right – had I to complain?

Ben placed me on a pedestal so high, I suffered vertigo.  He told me exactly what I wanted to hear.  His job was easy really: all he had to do was whisper a few of the sweet nothings a lonely, romantic girl like me had longed dreamed of hearing from a man’s lips.  I guess I was ripe for the picking.

The intensity of the affair was worryingly out of proportion with its duration.  I suspected – though naturally suppressed the hunch – that Ben might be in love with an idealised female image rather than the ‘real Zoe.’

In his eyes, I was breathtakingly beautiful, ultra-brainy, sophisticated (of course), caring, vivacious, witty and when we slept together was going to be a tigress in bed. 

In mine, I was plain, tongue-tied, chaste and would be ecstatic if I scraped a hat trick of Cs in next June’s exams. 

My Mills and Boon side told me to be delighted and grateful at his compliments, but deep down I’d have preferred a lover who acknowledged I had faults and adored me warts and all.

His letters were of the infatuated-adolescent-to-pop-star variety, and he knew me about as well as the average fan-letter-writer knows his famous target.  With Ben, I had this permanent compulsion to play-act and strive for his approval.  He dictated what I ate, drank and said, belittled my hobbies and, let’s face it, made me deny what I was – a schoolgirl. 

There were moments – many moments – during those taxing sixth form terms when I craved a supportive partner, in whom to confide my concerns; at whom to yell Shakespeare-maligning expletives.  But Ben would never fit this bill, because he’d turned ‘SCHOOL’ into an expletive. 

He treated my age almost as something that was my fault, something I could change on demand.  He expected me to behave like a mature twentysomething.  I hated having to pretend I was a college student just to keep him happy.  Ben had chosen to go out with me, knowing I was only seventeen and knowing I was still at school. 

Had he really loved me, as he so profusely professed to do, he would have had no difficulty accepting me for what I was.  It was clear he was with me because no-one else would have him.

Ben was refined, I’ll give him that.  I detested belchy, farty, laddy types.  He treated me like a lady – superficially at least: holding doors open, helping me into my coat and flattering me with the prettiest compliments you could imagine. 

Yet his compliments soon became interspersed with cutting, uncalled-for insults and irritating digs, designed to upset my equilibrium.  He made me cry on a few occasions.

Ben wanted to get his end away like any other lad.  I can see that now.  The only difference between him and a sex-mad sixth former was that he dressed up his lust in fluffy courtly language.  The boys in my year, with their vulgar come-ons and attempts to jam you up against the bike shed wall, were at least honest in their intentions.

Seeing how Shane and Nathan and all the rest slavered over girls initially made me grateful for my lovely gentlemanly Ben, but in fact he was a manipulative swine.  With him, there was no bestial groping, nor even any overtures of the ‘fancy a shag?’ variety – that was far too basic for Ben; his technique was more subtle.

He had this work colleague, he told me over a curry after three weeks together: some sexy little accounts clerk called Mandy, who would happily shed her bra for him if I wouldn’t oblige.

‘It won’t happen, though,’ he assured me breezily, ‘not with a slapper like Mandy Johnson.  She’s had more boyfriends than there are people in the West Midlands.  I’m happy being just good friends with her.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ I said tartly.

‘She isn’t, though.  She’s jealous of us.  “How can you date a seventeen-year-old, Ben?” she says to me, “when you can come and have some real fun and games with a woman of your own age?  I can do things to you that your little girl could only dream about.”  My mate Adam keeps egging me on to do it.  “You should drop that kid,” he says – he means you there, my darling – “and get in there with Mandy.”  He doesn’t approve of our relationship, you see.  I’m afraid he doesn’t like you.’

I was confused.  ‘I thought Adam fancied me.’

‘Well he doesn’t,’ Ben said sharply.  Oh, my mistake then.  ‘He keeps on about how you’re too young for me; too inexperienced.  But I’ve told him, and Mandy, that you’re saving yourself for me.’

‘You haven’t?’ I cringed.  I hated people knowing such private facts.

‘I have, my darling, because I’m so proud.  It’s beautiful and romantic.  It shows how special and everlasting our relationship is.  It would be easy for me to fall into bed with a girl like Mandy, but I’m stronger than that.  If I can resist her, I can resist anybody!  She’s an extremely attractive woman,’ he added as a spiteful afterthought, ‘who wears very provocative clothing and knows exactly how to get a man going.’

Ooh – the things that creep said!  I should have punched him, not meekly listened whilst pushing sad little rice grains around my plate. 

It’s easy to say that now, though; easy to forget I wasn’t twenty-eight then.  I was seventeen, with insecurities which this overbearing accountant was slyly exploiting.  Even then, I was intelligent enough to decipher his message: if you don’t sleep with me soon, you risk losing me to an older, sexier, experienced woman.

Had I greater percipience, I could have questioned why, if such a babe really had the hots for Ben, he had not ‘got in there’ with her before, as opposed to wasting his time pursuing an adolescent maiden like me. 

I’ve wondered since whether Mandy Johnson was in fact fictitious; a convenient medium through which Ben could coerce me into bed.  Or if she did exist, perhaps she was some goddess after whom he vainly lusted but to whose league he could never hope to aspire?  I will never know.

With blokey double standard, while he loved to disturb me with his tales about the siren of Darlaston, he’d go ape shit if I exchanged a smile or a ‘Hi’ with another man – regardless of his age, marital status or attractiveness. 

He’d be dripping poison in my ear about Mandy one minute, then abruptly drop the subject (as though she really was a imaginary character, to be magicked up and forgotten as his purpose suited) to demand, ‘Why does that chap over there keep staring at you?  I shall deck him if he keeps on!’ and nod manically towards someone in the distance who had in fact barely noticed I was alive.

I could hardly pass blokes in the street without being accused of sleeping with, or at the very least ogling them.

‘I saw you looking!’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Yes, you were!  Better-looking than me, is he?  More shaggable?  Think he’s got a nice big one, do you?  Bet you’d love to leap into bed with him – like you won’t do with me?’

The garbage I took from him!

Ben even got squirmy when I gave my orders to waiters, for God’s sake!  That’s why he preferred to order for me.  In the presence of males, he always seized my hand in a circulation-cutting clasp, obviously to prevent me hurling myself at or eloping with one of these tempting gods.  When I protested, his defence was a variation on either:

1) Basset hound eyes, sad but plucky smile, ‘You’re a beautiful girl – it’s natural I’ll get protective and jealous with all these staring eyes around,’ or

2) Murderous eyebrows, scowl, ‘Don’t like me touching you, eh?  Want to look available so one of these guys’ll try to pull you?’

It’s ironic: but for Ben’s moodiness and bouts of control freakery, he might have been a fair catch.

That’s a pretty inane statement, isn’t it?  On a par with ‘Adolf Hitler could have been a nice caring guy were he not an inhuman despot.’  Joking apart, though, Ben was handsome, intelligent, civil, smart, punctual, held down a good job and liked similar music to me.  But he was happy – if that was not too strong a word for Ben – only when in possession of the upper hand.  It was impossible to win with him.  Nothing could ever be his fault; his mistake.

He went on at me about studying hard and achieving top grades at ‘college,’ then carped if I couldn’t meet him every night or speak for hours on the phone because I had essays to write; tests to bone up for.

Ye olde guilt trip again.  ‘I’m sick of having to make an appointment when I want to see you, like at the doctors.  I’m climbing the walls here, in the flat on my own.’  Then he would imply that Mandy might at that very moment be all on her own and at a loose end too…

This was an example of how Ben contradicted himself.  One minute, he was Mr Popular, implying that I had to be fitted in between his throngs of friends and admirers; next minute, I was all he had in his lonely life.  The fact never introduced me to this supposed fan club and was perpetually at home, phoning me, would suggest the latter to be closest to the truth. 

And if I dared be out of the house when he rang me, his strops lasted for days and led, inevitably, to insinuations.

‘That Ben’s been on again,’ Mom said sniffily when I came home from a driving lesson one evening.  She didn’t think much of him – though they had still not met.  He was ‘snotty’ towards her on the phone, she said; he addressed her as he might my secretary. 

In my heart, I believed her – knowing this was consistent with Ben’s character – but I wouldn’t have her knowing that.  Mom was jealous, I illogically told myself.  It was maternal maudlin because her little girl had found somebody to love.

I returned Ben’s call before even removing my coat, taking the cordless phone into the privacy of my room as I always did, mindful of my parents’ flapping lugholes.

‘Hi, it’s me.’

I loved saying ‘it’s me,’ both then and in successive relationships; it implied an intimacy where voices were warmly familiar and names unnecessary.  But Ben wasn’t sounding too warm right now.

‘How was your driving lesson?’ he snarled.

‘Why do you say it like that, Ben?’ I stammered, shaken by his tone.

‘Well that’s not where you’ve really been, is it?’

‘Of course it is.’  My voice was beginning to quake.  I didn’t like the way this conversation was heading.

‘You were out, weren’t you?  With another man.  Oh, I can’t come out tonight, Ben,’ he mimicked in a cruel, high-pitched voice, ‘I’ve got to do my homework and driving lessons like a good little girly!  That’s crap, isn’t it, Zoe?  Did you get your mother to cover for you; try and make me believe you were off doing your three-point turns, while all the while you were screwing some other chap?’

‘No!’

‘I bet you’re not really a virgin either, are you?’

‘Yes!  Ben, why are you being like this?’

I was appalled to realise I was sobbing and trembling in shock, like a child reeling from a smack.  Though ashamed to be displaying such naked and babyish emotion in front of my boyfriend, I’m afraid I couldn’t help it.

But then Ben nonplussed me utterly by answering in the gentlest of tones: ‘Oh Zoe, you’re such a beautiful girl.  It’s natural that I’ll be concerned about what you’re getting up to on the nights I don’t see you.’  This was one of his tactics: switching from moody to gentle or jocular – as though the fury had been feigned, to test or manipulate me.  ‘Don’t you see – this proves I love you.’

‘Does it?’

‘Yes, of course.  I tell you something else as well – it’s about time you proved your love for me, Zoe.  You know what I mean by that, don’t you?’ 

Ah, very clever.  Twisting the issue, turning me into the villain, was another classic Ben tactic. 

‘Yes, I do.’

‘How do you like the idea of being in a loving, committed relationship for the rest of your life?  Making love is what grown-up people do to show commitment.  Now I happen to know that next week a certain person will be on Easter vacation from sch – I mean, college.  And I happen to have a couple of days off work.  So how about you pop round to my flat next Monday?  We can spend the afternoon, er – getting to know each other better!  If you’re parents ask, you can tell them you’re going shopping with Angela.’

This time, I couldn’t be bothered to correct him.  He did so hate to be contradicted. 

I swallowed hard.  I had no choice, did I?  Not if I wanted to beat randy Mandy in the battle for Ben’s affection.  He didn’t say this, but I could feel the threat there, behind his words.

‘Yes, all right.’

‘Good girl!’

My tissue-dabbed eyes were still red when I sloped down to dinner.  My parents’ eyes squinted in concern.

‘Has he upset you?’ Dad asked, in such a touching tone that I wondered bitterly why Ben couldn’t be as kind.  Did boyfriends only mellow once they turned into husbands or dads?

‘No!’  I wondered just how much they’d heard of my wailed conversation.

‘Chuck him,’ was Mom’s bluff advice, ‘he’s too old for you’ (and she didn’t even know his real age!) ‘and I think he torments you.’

‘No he doesn’t!’

‘Well he doesn’t seem to make you very happy, chick.  You’re always sobbing and stroppy after you’ve talked to him.  There are plenty of nice lads round here who’d love to take you out and who you’d have a lot more fun with.  Young Karl, for instance.’

‘Don’t start, please!’  What did she mean – Karl would love to take me out?  I was appalled to find perplexed tears brimming again as I miserably jabbed my knife through my chicken pie crust.

Mom knew nothing!  I had no intention of ‘chucking’ my one and only admirer when I had just found him.  And next Monday, I was going to lose my virginity to him.  Ben was right – I was under an obligation to prove my love.

How inconsiderate I had been: expecting a stud of twenty-seven to be fulfilled by twee hand-holding and car-bound snogs.  No wonder poor Ben got so cross all the time.  The way to this man’s heart was through his underpants. 

It was about time I became a true woman anyway.  Tina Skidmarks (though how long had she been my role model?) became one at fourteen, in Baggeridge Park, and I had been legal for over a year now.  I ought to grow out of these nice safe little crushes on boys at school and pop stars, and learn how real men liked to be pleasured.

I had to Do It some time – so why not now?  If I postponed my First Time much longer, I might seal up, like an old piercing that hasn’t seen an earring in years.  Then I would never be able to admit future boyfriends access, and I would die a frustrated spinster!

I could not let that happen.  Ben had to be The One!  I felt a warm glow of selflessness as the thought of appeasing him in such a way.