‘It’s Darryl Bum Smacker,’ she hisses. ‘Wants to discuss a date for the pitch for Minty Me – and to take me to dinner, obviously.’

‘Tell him I’m not here yet. Tell him I’ll call him back, okay?’

‘She’ll call you back,’ says Shona.

Then, more irate: ‘I said she’ll call you back!’

Even more irate: ‘I don’t think what I’m doing at the weekend is really that relevant to the oral hygiene market, do you, Darryl?’

She slams the phone down.

‘Cock,’ I hear her mutter under her breath before taking another call. God, I love Shona. I wish I could be more like Shona. Doesn’t suffer fools. Never gets stressed. Never puts her job before her principles – which is maybe why she’s still the sales’ team’s admin exec after seven years at the company. If we let her loose on selling anything we’d be in liquidation by now.

Darryl Schumacher is head buyer for Langley’s supermarkets, notorious for making women physically sick but also for driving the hardest bargain in the oral hygiene market. For weeks now, I’ve been chipping away at him, toeing that fine balance between what our boss calls skilful sales and ‘the sledgehammer effect’ (i.e., all punch and no result). I sell oral hygiene products to supermarkets for a living. I know it’s not saving the world, but I love my job and seem to be quite good at it. But then I guess, without blowing my own trumpet, that I’m pretty good at most things if I put my mind to it. ‘Caroline is a very capable young lady,’ teachers would write on my report. You know the sort: three As at A Level, First Class degree, head-hunted on the university Milk Round to join Skidmore Colt Davis’s graduate scheme – a geek, basically.

This is a crucial time with Schumacher. If he catches me off guard, I could lose the sale, but if I play my cards right, we’ll have Mini Minty Me breath freshener on the shelves of all branches of Langley’s by next week, meaning profit for the company and a stab at being nominated as Sales Person of the Year in August’s Institute of Sales Annual Awards – not that that’s a highlight or anything.

So now, when I’ve just walked into the office and I’m not on my guard, is not the time to deal with Schumacher. I’m distracted by Lexi’s arrival and I want to mail Toby.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Teenage Mutant Sister invasion at 64 Coombe Gardens. Argh!

So, on Sunday I am knee-deep in admin [small, white lie but he doesn’t need to know this] when the doorbell goes. You will never guess who was there, announcing she’s staying for the summer?!

There’s a sudden pressure on my shoulders and then a familiar schoolboy giggle.

‘Writing love letters to me again? Give it a rest, will you? They’re clogging up my inbox.’

‘Jesus, Toby. You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

He laughs, chomping on a pastie. I’ve never known anyone eat as much as Toby Delaney, and still have a concave stomach.

‘I tend to have that effect on women,’ he says, sitting down at his desk.

There are bits of pastie all down his tie but even that, unfortunately, doesn’t seem to take away from his breathtaking attractiveness. In fact, it seems to add to it, which I find exhilarating and demoralising all at the same time. The less he tries, and he never does, the more delectable he seems to become.

I lean back on my chair, assuming an air of nonchalance. It’s something I’ve perfected after nearly a year of sitting opposite someone who it’s all I can do not to strip naked and eat.

‘So how was your weekend?’ I say.

‘Oh, you know … missed you,’ he mouths, chucking a pen in front of me.

‘Shut up, Delaney!’

‘I did!’ he says, clutching at his chest with mock hurt. ‘Anyway, pick up that pen, will you? I want to see your pants.’

I chuck the pen back at him

‘What about you?’ he says. ‘Good weekend Steeley? Or are you keeping it a secret?’

But then there’s the familiar ‘dong’ as his computer sparks into action. I wait for him to carry on the conversation but he’s too busy squinting at his screen.

‘Caroline still topping the sales targets,’ he reads, in a South African accent, mocking our boss’s email. ‘You bitch.’ He shakes his head. ‘You total spawny cow.’

I’m about to respond with some devastatingly witty comeback when a familiar figure looms over our desks.

‘What’s that I hear, Mr Delaney? Spawny cow?’

Janine Cross. Our boss. At least five foot ten of South African sinewy muscle and balls. I speak metaphorically, of course, although it wouldn’t surprise me if, tucked into those skintight Joseph trousers, she does, actually, have a pair of iron balls.

‘Do I detect a smidgen of jealousy?’

‘Um …’ Toby can’t speak. More due to food bulging from his mouth than anything else.

‘Or just a healthy competitive streak?’

‘Oh, just the, er, streak,’ says Toby.

Janine shakes her head at him then smiles at me. ‘So, you got Morrisons? Well done. Very well done, in fact. Just Schumacher to get in the bag now, Caroline, but I have no doubt you’ll crack it. If you carry on like this you’ll definitely be in the running for Sales Person of the Year.’ She taps Toby on the shoulder. ‘Look and learn, Toby, and don’t think I’ve not noticed that you were late twice last week and haven’t reached your target for three weeks running.’ Then she strides off on her racehorse limbs towards a slightly scared-looking marketing team.

Toby’s shaking his head at me.

‘You’re such a lick-arse, Steele.’

I am about to reply when a high-pitched ‘Eeek! Eeek!', unmistakable as the sound from the shower scene in Psycho, interrupts us.

‘What the hell’s that?’ exclaims Toby.

‘What?’

‘That noise like the shower scene from Psycho.’

‘I’ve no idea.’

Toby looks around him. ‘Well, it’s not coming from me.’ The noise continues, grows louder, more urgent.

‘I didn’t say it was coming from you.’

‘So where is it coming from, then?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘It’s coming from you, Steele!’ Toby slides back on his chair, pointing at my bag.

I pick up my bag and open it, look inside.

‘Have you got a rape alarm in there? That’d be typical of you.’

‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

‘A bomb, then?’

‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘I don’t know!’ I hold up the bag a metre away from me. ‘But I’m not looking – you can.’ And I walk over and thrust it onto his desk.

‘Oh, nice. So I get the bomb-in-a-bag,’ says Toby, shaking it up to his ear. He opens it. ‘Jesus, there’s like a whole ecosystem in here.’

He rummages a little and then, a smirk spreading across his handsome face, lifts out my mobile phone, the ‘Eek! Eek!’ becoming ear-splitting as he does. He stands up and hands it to me. LEXI is flashing in silver.

‘Hello?’

‘Hiya!’ says the Yorkshire voice on the end of the line. ‘What d’ya reck to what I’ve done with your ringtone? It’s awesome, isn’t it?’

‘So how long is she staying?’

Toby is highly amused but trying not to show it. Shona is sitting on her desk, biting hard on her pencil, trying to come up with a solution, because this is what Shona does in every problematic situation.

For some reason, Toby seems to have orchestrated a ‘crisis’ meeting and skidded over next to me on his office chair, which is causing all manner of problems, mainly in the pelvic region, since I can smell him: a clean, just-had-a-shower smell, but made purely of pheromones and mixed with something reminiscent of fresh, sugary bakery goods. Something delectable. Something flutters between my legs.

‘The whole summer,’ I say, pretending to look conscientiously at my emails, when really I’m picturing Toby, in bed, naked, and me, burrowing my head in his chest hair.

‘What, like July and August?’