She was called Carly. She looked friendly in the pictures James’s app had supplied. Large, like James: no threat of her taking against him on first look, at least not for that reason. Red-pink hair. A disparate range of interests (animal welfare, cinema, roller derby) which he could either hold his own with, or research. They’d exchanged messages. Carly had suggested La Chimère for dinner, and it was almost a date before he realized with horror that was where Steffi worked. He’d steered her instead towards a tapas place called Bravas, and got a ‘romantic offer’, using one of the apps he still had from back when he booked everything for Michaela and himself. When he clicked the ‘Confirm’ box, a little animated heart flew across the screen, which then filled with confetti.

James had been there fifteen minutes early, hoping to get in a reconnaissance of the menu. The window was full of red glitter and mini-Cupids dangling from invisible strings; the restaurant claimed to be ‘the Valentine Venue’, ahead of every other eatery in the Western world – there was even a trademark sign next to the slogan, though James was almost certain it had just been drawn on. He went in and was shown to a table, uncomfortably close to other couples on both sides. The offer included a half-bottle of champagne, but the waiter immediately asked James if he would like a drink ‘to start off with’, and James – feeling a burst of nerves – asked for a whisky. He drank it and sat with the empty glass, hoping his shirt was dark enough. It had been a little lighter than it looked online, and the jeans a little tougher to get into.

After a while he worried whether perhaps Carly had missed his text; but no, no sign of her outside, either. The waiter offered him the menu to look at, but James said he’d wait, thank you. He ignored the sceptical tilt of the eyebrows. He didn’t think it was right to contact Carly until she was at least twenty minutes late. Even though he always avoided being late, he didn’t like to be the sort of person who hassled. Besides, you weren’t meant to look too keen, were you; that was what Karl would say. Would have said. James made it to the twenty minutes. He ordered another whisky. He messaged her, finally, at thirty-five minutes. Again at forty-five. At fifty minutes he asked for the bill, saying his plans had changed. Well, it was true: they had.