I'm so excited about my next private lesson with Mr A, I count down the days.

(In between updating Cheryl's Twitter and Instagram accounts which keeps me from thinking about food, which is good because I'm starving a lot of the time.)

Mr A tells me again he'll meet me outside of school and I have to stop myself punching the air, but I manage to smile at him so widely I think my face might split. He doesn't smile quite so widely, but the wink he gives me more than makes up for it.

I try on different outfit combinations in preparation and I'm surprised (and bloody delighted) to find that my skinny, black jeans fit and I can place my hand down the front of them without undoing the button or zips.

Result. Result. Result.

I top off the skinny jeans with a tee shirt with sequins and a pink hoodie seeing as my grey hoodie is a bit too big now. I need to put on tonnes of make-up because I'm pale and spotty at the moment, and I'm good to go as Cheryl would say.

We meet in the same coffee shop. The waitress – the same one as before – gives me a funny look and I wonder if she suspects. Or maybe the bitch is jealous because Mr A is looking at me intently. Me, plain ol' Savvy Dunn.

We don't waste too much time talking about English and my progress with the stuff he's been giving me to do. He seems pleased with my writing and the way I'm handling it, and after we've talked about my work he reaches across to hold my hand, the warmth of it as always takes me by surprise and sends a tingle through the whole of my body.

"What do you want to do when you leave school?" he asks.

Marry you, I think to myself, but I guess that's not what he wants to hear.

"I dunno," I say. "I kind of stopped thinking about it a while ago. What do you think I should do?"

"Go to university of course," he says. "And don't go into acting or teaching – especially if you're not any good at it."

I watch his face and the sadness I see there.

"But you were good at it – good at both of them!" I burst out. I tell him about watching old episodes of that series me and Cheryl found on YouTube – the five young people working in the city and doing drugs and sex and all that.

He winces slightly. "You actually watched that?" he asks and I can tell he is thinking about the naked bum scene – the scene I watched again and again by myself.

I nod, slightly embarrassed. "Yeah. I liked the programme and I liked your character. Even though he was doing all those drugs and sleeping around, I thought you made him seem like a good guy – just mixed up."

"It was a long time ago. I was young and I look completely different."

"I don't think you do," I say, wondering about the bum. Does that look different? Not when it's clothed, that's for sure, and I wonder to myself if I'll get the chance to find out. And what about my bum? I think of the actresses in that programme – they were all skinny as hell with tiny arses, and I shrivel a bit inside myself.

He takes my hand and trails a finger over my palm.

"You look the same to me," I pipe up, wanting him to continue with what he is doing to the palm of my hand, and then I do something I've been wanting to do for ages. I reach out with my other hand and I run it through the hair on the side of his head. He wears his dark hair quite long and it feels soft and silky between my fingers. As my hand slips from hair to the side of his face, he turns his head slightly and presses his mouth to my palm.

"I don't know if the young appreciate how beautiful they are," and he looks straight at me as he says it. It's difficult to hold his gaze and I find myself flushing.

Me? Do you mean me..?

"So beautiful..."

Under the table, his legs have stretched forward so that my feet are caught between his. I'm pressed tight against the table between us and I suspect that if I pushed any harder, the table would start to smoulder and burn.

"Let's get out of here," he whispers, even though there is no one around us to hear, and I push up from the table so quickly I bang my knees.

He takes my hand and we hurry out of the café. I spot the waitress looking after us, kinda disapprovingly, and I'm tempted to flick her the vees, but I resist.

"Where are we going?" I ask as I'm pulled along with him, hurrying along the street. He mutters something about a place he knows and I follow, trusting him completely.

We rush past shops and houses until we eventually come to a cobbled close and he drags me down it, past old brickwork cottages with tiny gardens. We come to the end of the street and a tiny little park with benches and an old swing set and he pulls me down onto one of the benches.

"This is nice," I say. "How did you know about this place?"

"I used to come here when my mum was ill," he says, and I feel a warm glow that he should have brought me here – his special place.

We're sitting next to each other – and he pats his lap. I get on top of him, straddling him and forgetting to worry about how much I weigh and if I'll be too heavy. He tilts his face up to meet mine and then kisses me.

It is so, so exciting. There are so many thoughts in my head I don't know which ones to concentrate on. One, though, is that this is more exciting than me being alone in my house and stuffing myself with chocolate. I wonder if I'll ever want to eat chocolate again and I think that I should hold on to that thought.

How amazing that would be.

... but not as amazing as this is. We're still kissing and his hands have slipped inside my hoodie and then under my vest. They move slowly and firmly, stroking my back and then the sides of my body and round to the front, hovering at the bottom of my ribcage before moving upwards.

Oh wow.

I can't believe this. I can't believe how wonderful this is and how I just want him to keep going. We are all alone. We have lots of time and anything could happen.

Anything at all.