‘No, you stay with us, Connie. Was it Tinder?’

I nodded.

‘Well, he’d be twenty stone heavier, ten years older and have commitment issues, so you stick with us – you’ll have a much better time.’

Ordinarily, I would have bolted. I wasn’t part of their world. Had nothing to say to them, no common ground apart from my dress, which wasn’t even mine. But it was the perfect scenario for being there. I was out with my friends. Like a normal person. So I took it as a divine sign. Approval.

Before long I’d been invited to other events: Shelly’s barbecue and a shopping trip followed by tapas. All lovely gatherings I definitely wouldn’t attend. Even the birthday girl welcomed me in, once she arrived. I endeared myself to her by buying her a pina colada, complete with umbrella and sparkler. It was all quite touching, really. I was unused to being around women in this way, but it was nice. Though I didn’t see that at the time. I was only concerned with you.

It was nearly nine. The place was heaving. A myriad of people, none of them you. I’d made attempts to search, but you were nowhere, and each time the girls pulled me back to sink more Jägerbombs and sing songs from Frozen.

There was talk about going on to a club. The effects of the alcohol had mutated from fun to maudlin. The disappointment overwhelming. Barely able to focus, I broke free to stagger to the bathroom.

Waiting in the queue, I caught myself in the mirror. A stranger. A black-eyed, smeared-lipped stranger. I left the line and went over to the sink, yanked a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and wet them under the tap. Wiping my stupid face clean of the futile attempts at desirability, I realized it was her. Mum. Looking back at me. The mess in the dress. Lava rose inside and I threw the sodden ball of paper at her image, gripped the sides of the sink, dropped my head and shouted, ‘Fuck,’ into the plughole. When I turned around, I was faced with a wall of staring women.

‘I’ve been stood up, OK? And it’s my birthday.’

‘Purple Rain’ played as I dug around the work clothes stuffed in my bag in search of my fags and battled back through the fun and frolics.

Pack in hand, I looked up towards my goal, the exit. Then I blinked, long, hard. The song slowed. I thought I was so intoxicated I’d imagined it.

You.

Leaning casually against the wall of an alcove. Your shirt half untucked. Swaying. Eyelids drooping. Talking, laughing with your two friends, who looked like they’d just stepped out of a Tory conference.