‘But um, just so you know,’ he said, picking up an apple of his own and shining it on his T-shirt. ‘If this doesn’t work out, we won’t really have a reason to keep you on. So let’s give it everything you’ve got, yeah?’

What are you doing tonight? I really want to see you. Southbank Centre at seven?

I fizzed as I reread the text from Patrick that had sent me sprinting across Waterloo Bridge on a Thursday lunchtime tour of London, readying myself to leave for our second first date. Superdrug for makeup essentials, Chanel for a spritz or seventeen of nice perfume, Topshop to replace my greying old granny pants with a more acceptable date-night thong. I had an entire debate with myself in the changing room. I knew a pair of knickers could not change the course of mine and Patrick’s relationship but I bought the black lacy thong anyway. It never hurt to have one in your arsenal even if, I realized only after I got back to the office, it did really rather hurt my actual arse.

After applying roughly eighteen coats of mascara, slathering my new lip gloss all over my lips and throwing an optimistic toothbrush into my handbag, I left work on time, waving to Ted through his big, beautiful window as I went, and set off to meet Patrick.

He was standing by the railings on Southbank, all of London laid out behind him, and my insides seized up as he turned around and smiled. He wasn’t just there, he was there to meet me. On purpose. By choice. Ridiculous.

‘Hey,’ I leaned forward to meet him for a kiss.

‘You made it.’ Patrick’s face shone with a smile of his own as he cocked his head towards the cinema behind me. ‘Come on, I don’t want to be late.’

‘Late for what?’ I asked, anxiety washing over me. Had I got the time wrong? Had he sent another message I’d missed? And then I saw the tickets in his hand. ‘We’re seeing a film?’

‘Two films,’ he corrected. ‘It’s a Fassbinder retrospective. I was supposed to come with Carlton but he cancelled and I knew you’d love it.’

‘Really? A Fassbender retrospective?’ I was somewhat stumped. Didn’t seem like Patrick’s kind of thing. ‘As long as they’re not showing Shame because I saw that when it came out and I don’t think I could sit through it again, not for all the naked Fassy in the world.’

Patrick laughed and took my hand in his, pulling me through the throngs of people wandering more aimlessly up and down the South Bank. ‘Not Michael Fassbender, Fassbinder. Rainer Werner Fassbinder? The German filmmaker?’

‘Oh,’ I cleared my throat and nodded with great knowing. ‘That Fassbender.’

‘Fassbinder. Tonight they’re showing The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant and The Marriage of Maria Braun.’