“I joined this club. It’s huge. Each month they hire a location and you have to put in your code to get the address. They send it to you and you have an hour to get there.”

“This is like being spies,” he marvels, and I kiss the top of his head, inhaling the faint scent of eucalyptus that clings to the shiny locks. “So, what happens when we get there?”

“I’m sorry,” I say smugly. “You don’t have the code. I can’t tell you. You’ll have to guess.”

His guesses get wilder and wilder, and I’m laughing as we get out of the taxi. “No to naked camel racing. Jesus Christ.”

He looks around. We’re standing outside what was obviously once a huge ballroom. Its Art Deco exterior is still beautiful despite the faint air of neglect clinging to it. His eyes sharpen as he looks at the queue of people waiting to get into the building. They’re dressed in thirties costumes, the women glittering in the evening light in their pretty dresses, their hair arranged into jaunty bobs.

“Oh my God, this is already the best date I’ve ever been on,” he breathes, and I squeeze his hand.

“Me too,” I say softly. But it’s not because of the costumes or the air of excitement. It’s to do with him and the thought that I’d be happy walking round Sainsbury’s if I was with him. Nobody makes me laugh like him or challenges my brain so much.

I push the thought away and pull him over to the queue, which is moving quickly now that the doors have opened. Within five minutes, I’ve given the code to the bouncer dressed in a black suit with a white silk scarf thrown jauntily around his neck, and we’re inside.

Jesse looks around avidly as we move past people giving their coats to hat-check girls dressed in tight, black silk dresses. The huge double doors are thrown open, and I hear his gasp.

The inside of the Art Deco ballroom is huge. A wide wooden dance floor is already half full of people dancing to the live jazz band that are playing, and the long bar is busy with people ordering cocktails. But what makes it most magical is the fact that there are no overhead lights on. Instead, it’s softly lit by huge lanterns and the candles that are everywhere, sending shadows dancing up the walls as if the ghosts of old partygoers are still around.

“Oh my God, this is like a film on prohibition I watched the other day,” Jesse shouts in my ear.