Both Amanda and I wanted to leave small-town life behind. Almost inevitably, she did it first and better. By the time I met Mark she’d already bought a flat in a nice bit of London and been promoted to manage a team at the bank where she worked, as Mum was fond of telling just about everyone. Plus she was going out with a tax consultant who owned a horse and a house in Fulham. Mum was fond of telling everybody that, too.

By way of contrast, I was renting a room in a shared house in Chessington, on the outskirts. I wasn’t seeing anybody. And after six months at the salon, I was already desperate to leave. There was a clear pecking order, and the only member of staff who was lower down than me was Sarah the Saturday girl, who did the sweeping up and shampooing and wasn’t allowed to go near the scissors.

I was counting down the minutes to five o’clock and the end of the working day when Mark walked in.

All I had to do was finish off Mrs Brinsdown’s blow-dry, which I’d timed perfectly. It was Saturday night and I was going out, and I had my new pink top on and so what if Anita, the manager, had commented snootily that it was a bit lower-cut than she usually liked to see in her salon? In a couple of years’ time Anita would probably still be here, and I’d be a hairdresser to the stars, being flown around the world by private jet so I could attend to VIPs.

Then there he was, the best-looking man I’d ever seen in the flesh, standing by the desk with the till at the front of the salon.

He was everything just about right: nice height, nice eyes, good build. Good hair. Decent clothes, not obviously try-hard or flashy or fashion.

Chances were he had a girlfriend, probably a devastatingly attractive one. He was the kind of man Mum would have loved, and Amanda would have had to work hard not to be jealous of, and who I would never in a million years have a chance of bringing home.

Anita had nipped out to the kitchen to fix her client another cup of complimentary coffee – in other words, to have a fag break. It was down to me to talk to him.

I put down the hairdryer on the shelf in front of the mirror, excused myself to Mrs Brinsdown and approached him.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry to turn up so late, but I’ve tried everywhere, and they’ve all said no. I just need a trim – you don’t need to bother washing it or anything, I did that this morning. I know you’re probably about to close, but what with one thing and another I just haven’t managed to get this sorted.’ He tugged at the lock of hair that was falling across his forehead into his eyes; it was a good two inches long. ‘I’ve got a family funeral to go to tomorrow,’ he added.