‘Girl, I only need one photo! That man is hot, I know it! Admit it, he is HOT.’

‘Okay,’ I say grudgingly, ‘I will admit he is attractive.’

‘Hot!’

‘Okay,’ I sigh, dramatically for her benefit. ‘If you say so, he’s hot.’ I suppose if I objectify him and think of him in terms like this, it might help. I can idolise rather than risk fancying him. Like you might fancy your maths teacher but would never, ever even dream about dating him. Because that would be weird.

‘You think so too! And you fancy him.’

Bugger. ‘I don’t fancy him.’ It’s only a small, unimportant fib. I do fancy him a bit, but only in the way you can have the hots for some totally ripped movie star that you will never, ever meet. ‘But if he was actually my type—’

‘As in boring, predictable, safe …’

I ignore her. She knows me too well. ‘—and he looked like that then I might do.’

‘You’d drag him off to your cave and have your wicked way, admit it!’

‘Well he’s not my type, so it’s irrelevant.’

‘Smokin’!’

‘Isn’t that sexist? Or objectifying him or something?’

‘Oh boy no, I’m interested in his brain as well. I bet he’s got pillow talk off to a T!’ She laughs throatily. Then there’s a pause. ‘But, hey, seriously, Rosie? He can’t be a total player, or we’d have seen loads more piccies of him splashed all over the internet. Serial daters like people to see their success, they put themselves out there, Rosie. He’d be king of the selfies!’

She might have a point. Noah is rather low profile, unlike most unfaithful men (i.e. Dad) who thrive off attention. ‘I admit he’s good-looking, okay? I’m attracted to him. Satisfied? But he is a serial first dater. He told me.’ So, even if he likes to keep his private life quiet, he still isn’t the type of man I want to actually go out with. ‘We’re not going to be dating though, so I can handle him,’ I say airily, and suddenly realise I have my fingers crossed, so self-consciously uncross them. But I can handle him. I’m sure I can. I think.

He might be the teacher, but I am controlling this – the where and when, the pace and just how far we’re going to go with the practical sessions.

I must be crazy. The man is gorgeous, upfront, gorgeous, confident, gorgeous.

Not my type at all.

This could be like agreeing to enter a shark cage just because you want to look at the pretty penguins that they’re about to eat.

‘Course you can handle him! Can I come over and help you pick an outfit? Or we can go shopping?’

I try not to sigh. ‘No, Bea. I know exactly what you’d try and get me to wear, and that leopard-print dress you convinced me would turn me into a feline wonder just makes me look like a constipated, overweight moggie. Anyway, I know exactly what I’m going to wear.’ Like I said, Bea and I are like sisters – but very different sisters. She is naturally exuberant, totally self-confident and a bit of a risk taker. And I am not.