He held out his hand. “Les,” he said. “Les Craft.”

We just sort of stared at each other for a couple of seconds.

“So, which birthday is it?” he finally asked.

I didn’t hesitate for even a nanosecond. I didn’t want to put him off because he thought I was too young.

“My eighteenth.”

He smiled. “Well, Happy Birthday, Lana Spiggs.”

Happy Birthday to me.

Les Craft was twenty years old, kind, sensitive and intelligent (he had two A levels). He wasn’t exactly a babe, but he was good-looking in a quiet way, and he had two gold hoops in his left ear, and he did dress very smart. Plus, there was no grease on his hands. Les was assistant manager of the Blockbuster on the high street.

“I thought you looked familiar,” I fibbed. I wanted him to know he was special, not some dork a girl would never notice. “I go in there all the time.”

He smiled. In my opinion, Calvin Klein could’ve made millions if he bottled that smile.

“I know.”

He’d noticed me! I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t noticed him – I didn’t really look at the boys who worked at Blockbuster because they tended to have bad skin and only recommend action films – but this attractive man had noticed me.

I told him all about my most recent fight with the Curse of Kilburn while we ate our burgers. He dipped his chips in the ketchup just like I did.

Les was very understanding. He had a mother, too.

“They have a lot of trouble letting go,” said Les. “My mum’s the worst. I won’t let my mum in my flat, because she’d start tidying up the minute she got through the door.” He smiled his break-your-heart smile. “And she’s always after me to cut my hair.”

“Oh, don’t do that.” It was long enough to hang sexily over his collar, but not so long that you’d mistake him for a girl from the back. “It’s lovely.”