‘Perhaps rather than concentrating on us, you should keep an eye on your husband,’ Charlie went on. ‘If he looks at the barmaid’s tits one more time he’s going to go blind.’

The man’s face went crimson.

‘And mate,’ Charlie said, ‘you might be interested to learn that while you were in the loo, your bird here had a good look through your phone. Checking your texts, by the look of it. Doesn’t trust you – and who can blame her?’

‘You what?’

The man and woman glared at each other.

Charlie swallowed the dregs of her wine, grabbed my wrist and said, ‘Let’s go.’

As we left the pub, she turned back. ‘You can stick your bloody table up your collective arse.’

We ran out into the street, Charlie laughing and wiping her eyes. ‘Collective arse? What the hell was that?’

‘Oh my God,’ I said, panting. ‘Are you always like that?’

It was freezing outside and she exhaled mist as she spoke. ‘No, I’m usually a pussy cat. I haven’t scared you off, have I?’

The truth was, I’d found it mortifyingly embarrassing, but also exciting. ‘No.’

‘Good. What do you want to do now? Actually, I want to get out of these clothes.’ She laughed. ‘You should see your face. I mean, I want to get changed, Andrew. These are Charlotte clothes. I need to get into some Charlie stuff.’

She hailed a black cab and instructed the driver to take us to Oxford Street. She led me into the huge Top Shop and immediately started rummaging through the clothes racks.

With arms full of tops and trousers and skirts, she strode over to the changing rooms. For a moment, I thought she was going to ask me to follow her in, but she looked me up and down and said, ‘Do you want to get some new stuff too? Have you got any money?’

‘Yeah. OK.’

This was fun. I rode the escalator to the next floor and found a new pair of jeans and a party shirt. I paid for them then went into the changing room where I tore off the labels and put them on. With my scruffy old clothes in a carrier bag, I went back downstairs to find Charlie, who had done the same as me. Now, she was wearing a tight-fitting snakeskin dress that shimmered gold and green.

‘Not bad,’ she said, looking me up and down.

‘You look . . . amazing,’ I said.

‘Thanks. Actually, you look better than not bad, but I didn’t want to stroke your ego.’

‘I don’t have an ego.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Everyone has an ego, Andrew.’

She was right. It thrilled me to hear her say I looked good.