"Sandy's a nice lad, isn't he?"

I bump into Jan on Saturday morning. I'm on my way to the corner shop to buy coffee and the papers for Tony when I meet her.

My head's in the clouds. Jan's practically on top of me before I notice her. She waves her bag and laughs. "Caught! It was weigh day yesterday at Weight Watchers. I'd lost one pound so I'm celebrating with a croissant." She pulls one out of the paper bag and waggles it in front of my nose.

"Want one, love?"

NO. I bite back words. Take that horrible thing away from me. The corner shop is attached to an artisan bakery owned by two young guys with beards and tattoos up to their necks, and they make their own fresh. Wafts of sweet flaky pastry drift over. I try my best not to watch the thing, a cat stalking a mouse. I'm not sure if I'm the cat or the blasted mouse.

She insists on walking back to the house with me, saying she'll pop in and see if my mum wants to share croissants with her.

She asks about school and exam studying, and I pretend I'm working all hours to fit it in. Then she pounces with the Sandy thing, proud auntie and all that.

The front door to our house is coming at me too quickly. If Mum hears this conversation, she will poke and prod. Oh yes, Sandy is a nice lad. Wouldn't it be nice if...

I say "mmm-hmm" and nothing else, but Jan keeps wittering anyway. Such a mature young man, choosing to complete his education here instead of moving to the US, and did you know that he wants to be a doctor, a doctor of all things. Jan thought every young person these days wanted to be a celebrity, but no, no not...

We're in the house, the smell of croissants attracting Mum, Tony and Ben who crowd around us in the kitchen all insistent on having one. I am forced to shake my head again, repeating the now every day lie, I've eaten breakfast.

Plates appear, seats pull out and there's no escape.

"How is he getting on, your nephew?" Mum asks, having caught the tail end of Jan's speech for her nephew where he is awarded the Nobel Prize for Being Brilliant. Or something. Tiny bits of pastry fleck about her mouth. Tony spreads his thickly with jam and butter, and it becomes magnet-like. Try tearing your eyes from that.

"Very well," Jan says. "Did Savvy tell you she ran into him at the office the other day when she was cleaning?"

Jan, shut your GOB.

"No!" my mum cries, pouring us all glasses of fresh orange juice. Calories. All sugar calories too, but I take it anyway.

Jan fills them all in; another excuse to say continue her speech on the amazingness of Sandy, the kind of young dude who helps people out for free. Not many of them like that these days. And he's been asking about me. Wanted to know how long Jan had known me.

My mum's eyebrows shoot up, croissant well and truly forgotten.

"You need to get out of the house, Savvy," she says. "Too much studying isn't good for you. If you take Ben to school all next week, I'll lend you twenty pounds and you and Sandy could go to the cinema or for a burger or something."

NO. NO. No times a thousand. Your mum and your honorary aunt try to set you up, and the guy loses any appeal at once. Besides, I'm busy. Cheryl's social media, my on and off studying and the biggest and best thing that has ever happened to me that fills my head almost as much as food.

Jan and my mum have gone off on a tail spin, suggesting where we might go and what films we could catch, and joking about their own dating days. "Ha, Jan do you remember," my mum says, "when we went on that double date and the guys took us to a rave in Hampshire? The two of us so worried we were going to end up overdosed on ecstasy we refused to kiss them in case they slipped one in our mouths!"

For once, Ben and I are in agreement. Across from me, he sticks his fingers in his ears, hoping this hideous chat ends before it makes us vomit.

The upshot is... tonight I have a date. Practice, I tell myself as I head upstairs able to escape at last. Practice for the real thing when it happens tomorrow.

The skinny jeans still fit—yes, it is possible for them to glide on one day and me being unable to fasten them the next—so I wear them for the Sandy date.

I messaged him earlier. "Hey, wanna do the cinema?" He sent me a reply seconds later. "Okay. Meet you at the Odeon 7pm?" Not cool, dude, I said in my head. You're supposed to wait two hours, then reply saying you can't make it but you could do Sunday.

But when I pick the new top and bra combo, I wonder if I'm a bit excited after all. I watch my second Silver Ang first date make-up tutorial, this time going for the sexy cat look she promises makes any guy fancy you.

"A tip, girlfriends!" she blows a kiss to the camera and shakes a finger furiously. "Never wear thick dark lipstick on a first date. You know why, queen? 'Cause it puts them off kissing you. And we don't want that."

She makes up for it by suggesting you put ten different products on your eyes.

The Odeon throbs with people, mostly couples. Girls holding massive tubs of popcorn and kids going crazy over the pick and mix. You can taste the sugar in the air, and Sandy catches me staring at the tubs piled high with cola bottles, white mice, jelly beans and hundreds of other wonderful things.

"Want some?" he says. "We could share a bag?"

Get thee from me, Satan. "Yes" comes out when I'd set my lips out in a circle ready to refuse. He returns five minutes later with a ginormous, overflowing carton, which must have cost him twenty quid.

"Deadpool 2's sold out," he says, though I note he doesn't look that gutted.

"We could see Book Club instead, or we could take these somewhere else?"

"Okay then," I say, and we head outside. The people who aren't at the cinema are in the bars and restaurants along the High Street. Laughter and chatter is everywhere, emphasising that I have no idea what to say to Sandy.

"What do you want to do when you leave school," he says eventually.

"Oh... um, I dunno. Maybe something to do with writing," I manage.

"Mmm, you'll be good at that."

I ask the same back, and he says he's interested in mental health. He wants to be a doctor who specialises in it, makes a difference to people's lives and all that.

We've reached the park by the canal where the rest of the people who aren't in the cinema or those bars and restaurants gather, having picnics, drinking wine and sitting on blankets.

Sandy takes off his denim jacket and sweeps it before him.

"Here," he says, "Save you getting a dirty—

He stops suddenly, obviously appalled that he's about to refer to my arse. I burst out laughing. "All right then, Walter Raleigh. Thanks for being such a gentleman."

I sit and he flops down beside me, dumping the carton of sweets so it spills out on his jacket.

"I didn't know what you liked so I got a bit of everything."

He's not kidding—a riot of bright colours and multiple shapes litter the space between us. There isn't anything here I hate, but the inner MyFitnessPal shrieks and screams. Fizzy cola bottles? Twenty cals each. Piece of fudge? Fifty. Chocolate raisins? Fifteen, but who stops at one?

"I've just had my dinner," I say. "I'm not hungry at the moment." Then, to stop him objecting I go back to the reasons he wants to be a doctor, and why he thinks mental health is so important.

He shrugs. "This will make me sound holier than thou but I want to do something that helps people. Last year, oh... it doesn't matter."

"Tell me," I say, and my hand reaches out all by itself, fingers curling around a random fistful of sweets. He sees me do it and pushes more of them my way.

"My older cousin, Max. He killed himself. Jumped in front of a train, so I guess you could say he meant it. If you take the pills and whisky route, there is always the chance you'll be found before it's too late."

I haven't yet put a sweet in my mouth. If I do, I know I'll be so distracted I won't listen, and this stuff is important, right? I've never met anyone who knew someone who killed themselves before.

"What was wrong with him," I say, touched that Sandy has chosen to tell me. "What do you think made him do it?"

"He didn't leave a note or anything," Sandy says, "but the day before he came round to our house and he gave me his X box. Told me he wouldn't need it anymore. I thought he meant he'd upgraded or something.

He pauses, his hand moving over the piles of sweets still between us and hovering over yoghurt-covered apricots. He gives in and shucks a handful into his mouth. I let him chew. Most of the time, I'm fussy about people eating in front of me. Hell is the noisy chewer whose every bite, mastication and swallow you hear loud and clear. Sandy manages to chew and swallow his super-large mouthful silently and without speaking with his mouth full.

"I found out afterwards he'd had depression on and off for years. He used to lift weights obsessively. I thought that meant he was fit and healthy, you know, but it turned out he hated his appearance. Thought he should look like those ripped guys you get in magazines. Or in Hollywood films. He took steroids; the ones that really mess up your head."

I start at that. It's never occurred to me men might feel the same way, loathing their own bodies as much as I do. But I wouldn't kill myself, a voice whispers, I'm not that bad. Is that true? Don't I beat myself up all the time, and do crazy, horrible things that health professionals would disapprove of?

Eat regular meals. Nope.

Eat balanced amounts of carbohydrates, fat and protein, and enough until you're full not stuffed. In your dreams!

Don't go more than twelve hours without eating and definitely don't buy over-the-counter laxatives and eat the whole packet at once. Whatever.

I unwrap a piece of fudge, pop it in my mouth and feel it dissolve on my tongue—sugary, vanilla-y bliss.

Sandy has eaten almost all the yoghurt-covered apricots. He scoops up the rest of the sweets and puts them back into the carton. I bet he's not obsessing about them. He's eaten his fill. He wants no more of them.

I imagine him as a doctor or a counsellor and it's easy enough. When he looks at you or asks questions, you can tell he wants to know the answer. Most of the young guys I know either never ask you anything or look bored when you answer pat questions.

"Anyway, that's heavy for a Saturday night. And it's getting cold. Let's find somewhere else."

As I'm shivering, he gives me his jacket to wear. The denim fits snugly and I wince in alarm. I shouldn't fit a guy's clothing, should I? But when he tells me it suits me, I decide to believe him, and we head to a coffee shop he knows where they play live music on a Saturday night.

Inside, the place is half-full—mostly people our age and a bit older, and the band play grunge—the lead singer a hyper skinny girl who makes me green with envy. I'd kill for hip bones that jutted out of skinny jeans and a concave belly that made wearing crop tops do-able.

Thankfully—times one hundred—we only have enough money for coffees, rather than any of the cakes and pastries displayed on the counter. Sandy buys us two cappuccinos, and we sit up the back where it's a bit less noisy.

The door opens a few minutes later and Cheryl walks in with Danny. I sink in my seat and curse. If she sees me with Sandy, I'll never hear the end of it. And she'll slag me off for not telling her in the first place.

"Savvy!" Too late. She waves at me, and does a comedy double take—who's THAT you're with kind of thing. I do the same back. There's Hot New Lad Danny, and he clasps her hand as if he's frightened she'll run away otherwise.

"Shit," I say, as they make their way over and Sandy frowns at me.

"You don't want to be seen with me?"

"No, I..." But the answer is yes. I don't want to talk to Danny either. Fat humpback whale, remember? I'm a boring cow too, according to him.

Cheryl slides into the seats opposite us, and pulls my cappuccino towards her. She never has any money.

"Hey stranger!" she sings out. "That's Danny's cousin," she says, indicating the band. "The singer. Didn't know you were going to be here."

I mutter something about last-minute plans, and watch Sandy and Danny eye each other up. Only the world's least observant person could tell they don't like each other. He doesn't bother with hellos, taking his phone out straightaway, and thumbing through it. It strikes me that Sandy hasn't taken his phone out once while he's been with me.

"We're going Abelard after this," Cheryl says, naming the nightclub on Ebon Way. "You two should come too. Danny's cousin knows the guys on the door. She can get us in, and to the VIP spot too."

Sandy shakes his head. "Not my scene", and Cheryl mouths 'lame' to me not discreetly enough for him to miss.

"Go on, Savvy," Cheryl adds. "Supposed to be a great place for seeing celebrities. Sometimes even Matt Rogham goes there."

She waggles her eyebrows at that, and I wonder who would win in the competition for Cheryl's affections—Danny or Matt? Matt, I suppose.

Sandy scrapes back his chair. "I'm off," he says, and his tone prickles at my skin. Is he looking down on us because we want to go to a nightclub where there might be famous people and the chance to take selfies with them? His eyes seek me out, but I don't return whatever they look for. I'm a loyal friend.

I'm also the current love interest of a man far more interesting and better looking than YOU, I remind myself. And tomorrow afternoon which is now only sixteen hours away will be a million, billion gazillion times better than this.

But when he leaves—without looking back once—a part of me slumps, nice feelings draining away down the sinkhole. The hours I spent with him passed quickly. He's easy to chat to, and the bit about him wanting to work in mental health services took me out of myself.

I put my hand down on the seat beside me and discover he has left the sweets behind—a three-quarters full carton of pure sugar and fat calories.

Great.