I write directly to her. 798 words intended to cheer her up, make her laugh, and try to make her believe that she’s cool enough and hot enough to go naked speed dating too, if she really wants to. But she doesn’t have to.

I draw my own conclusions. Ultimately, naked speed dating might just be the perfect antidote to twenty-first century dissembling. If you’re fed up with finding false friends on the internet, you might want to look for a partner in a place where no one has anything to hide. What you see is what you get. However, I’m starting to wonder whether the pursuit of modern love really just leaves us all with a yearning for old fashioned romance. This simply made me miss the longing, dreaming, waiting and craving you feel on a perfect first date. I want the connection and intimacy that comes from a slow reveal. And I don’t know why I can’t wear my heart on my sleeve when I know there are so many testicles under the table.

Harri will hate that. But I think she needs to hear it. I’m offering her some market research. The Girl wants true love, lust and longing, I’m sure of it. I do.

I put the copy in a draft email to Harri. I decide that I don’t want to send it—but maybe I can revisit it, and use some of the jokes, if I reschedule and go to the next one. If Harri isn’t too furious with me.

As I start to drift off to sleep, with my phone in my hand, my pounding heart keeps jerking me awake. I’m so tired, and so wired. Fragments of bad dreams loop and flicker. I have a nightmare that I suddenly panic about the deadline, send the email, then I am naked, and Harri is chasing me through the traffic on Shaftesbury Avenue. Every time she catches me, I wiggle, sweatily, from her grasp. I’m ducking behind bushes, into side streets, and there is nowhere to hide. She finds me every time.

Screaming, I wake myself up. I’m weeping, clawing the air, trying to catch my breath. My mouth doesn’t work, my nose doesn’t work, the world is separated from me by invisible straws, all clogged with lemon pips. The sheet beneath me is cold, and sodden. I can’t stop crying. Is this a heart attack? Am I going to die?

I think about calling an ambulance, but then, if this isn’t a heart attack, will I get into trouble? Do women in their twenties have heart attacks? I can’t call Mum, she’ll worry. Obviously I can’t call Jen. I have a vague memory of a conversation with Kim about cholesterol. ‘I’m super careful, most of the time, my dad had a cardiac episode last year, he’s fine now, but…’