Hugo and Evie sat across from each other at a small table at Miso Tango, an exclusive restaurant famous for its delicate Japanese dishes, hefty prices and amazing views of London. There was always a crazy long waitlist to get in, but Hugo’s parents knew the owner, who’d agreed to have his maître d’ squeeze them in. The city lights twinkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, forming a stunning backdrop as Hugo and Evie clinked their champagne glasses. Wearing her best dress (a blue velvet H&M number) fake diamond drop earrings and discreet, slightly wonky winged eyeliner, Evie was mentally pinching herself. Hugo seemed to glow as he gazed at Evie, unable to wipe the smile from his face. A buoyant energy radiated from the two of them.

‘I’m so happy to be here with you, to be able to celebrate all this together,’ said Hugo. ‘You’ve been so encouraging. I feel like none of this could have happened without you.’

Hugo took her hand in his and Evie blushed, taken aback by the genuine warmth of his appreciation. ‘Don’t be silly. It was all you.’

‘No, really Evie,’ Hugo insisted. ‘I’ve always felt so pressured by my parents’ expectations, their scepticism about what I’ve chosen to do since leaving the firm … it really held me back. But you—you really see me. And that means the world.’

The very formal maître d’ approached to check whether they were ready for the first dishes from the degustation menu—Evie had been gobsmacked when she’d googled and discovered it cost two hundred quid per person, not even including wine. After Hugo gave the maître d’ the go ahead, the sniffy sommelier (who’d already turned his nose up at Hugo’s choice of champagne) came over and suggested some wines that paired well with the food. Hugo agreed and ordered a couple of different ones on their behalf, including one from Australia, in Evie’s honour. Evie nodded along excitedly, pretending to be interested. To her, it all tasted the same.

When they’d finished ordering, they both took another sip of the champagne and Evie asked the many questions she had about Hugo’s next steps, including whether he’d thought about the cover, if there was any overseas interest yet, and how did it feel to call himself a published author?

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said, interrupting her mild interrogation.

Evie smiled. ‘You’re not too bad yourself.’

‘I mean it, Evie. You shine from the inside out. I’m so lucky you walked into that cafe, holding that book.’ Again he placed his hand on hers, rubbing his thumb along the ridge of hers.