‘Right you are, we’ve got a turn on tonight,’ he muttered, beckoning a slight woman holding a guitar onto the stage. ‘This is our Karen, she’s going to sing us some songs. Keep quiet for fifteen minutes and don’t be arseholes about it, clap will you?’

Scattered applause danced around the room as the girl positioned herself on a high stool and turned her brilliant smile on the room.

She could be in an advert for toothpaste, I thought, running my tongue over my own teeth. And conditioner. And makeup. And oh, shit, is she wearing my dress? I looked down at my floral frock and grimaced. Fucking Zara.

It was a sign and I knew it. Patrick was late, there was a musically blessed supermodel in the same room wearing the same dress as me and it didn’t matter what I did with my hair, it would never be right. The universe did not want me to meet Patrick, the universe wanted me to throw my phone under a bus, go home and leave this sweaty rag of a dress out for the foxes.

Mind made up and heart in tatters, I turned on my heel to march out the door and back into my senses.

And there he was.

Our eyes met and the light of recognition brightened his face. In the dim gloominess of the pub, he was all I could see. Blond hair, blue eyes, easy smile, exactly how I remembered.

‘Hi,’ he said as Karen strummed her first chord.

I opened my mouth to reply but nothing came out. I smiled and tried again, managing a strangled squeak.

‘Ros?’ Patrick asked, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’

I gave him a thumbs up as I doubled over, spluttering, the ground rushing up towards me altogether too fast. My eyes were watering, my face was burning, I couldn’t breathe. Oh my god, I was choking on a Polo. This was perfect, I thought as I dropped to my knees and people around us began to mutter. I’d waited three years for this moment and I was going to choke to death on a Polo. At least I was wearing nice underwear.

‘Ros? Ros!’

As the room began to close in on me, I felt two hard thumps in the middle of my back, a shard of white flew out of my mouth and I drew in a long, loud, sharp breath.

Combing my hair out of my face, I looked up to see Patrick, just inches away from me, holding me in his arms.

‘Saved your life,’ he said softly.

‘Thank you,’ I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

A squeal of feedback reeled out from the stage.

‘Is she OK?’ asked Karen with the guitar.

‘She’s OK,’ I confirmed, still doubled over, staring at the remains of the Polo and wondering if perhaps death by mint wasn’t the worst way to go.