‘If it would help, you could stay … dunking, and I could finish dinner?’ Apparently I’m determined to continue the date with this unsupportive fuckwit. Heaven help me.

He relaxes slightly and leans against the door-frame, looking like a great weight has been lifted off him. ‘Gosh. If you don’t mind, that would be great.’

The appendage has been dunking for a solid half hour while I prepped and cooked. I wonder if it will look all wrinkly like your fingers do when you’ve been in the bath too long? I’m not quite curious enough to ask the question out loud. Our conversation has been awkwardly stilted so far, and I don’t think it’s all because of the appendage issues. I keep asking questions, questions that are getting more and more mundane, but all he’s giving me back is one-word answers.

I’ve been exaggerating my interest in the food prep to camouflage the silence.

Finally I have a momentary reprieve from thinking of things to say when Toby retreats to put some clothes on.

‘I think it will be a while before I go near chilli again.’ He enters the kitchen with the swagger of a man who has recently escaped death.

I nod. ‘I think that would be wise.’ I take a taster bite from the pan and, yes, dinner is more than edible. Hopefully I won’t poison either Toby or myself. ‘Good timing too, I think dinner is ready.’

Toby holds out the bowls, and I dish us up before we head to the table. It’s quite a small table, and I have to sit with my legs squished to one side to stop myself from continually bumping into his outstretched legs.

But fully dressed Toby is no easier to talk to than half-naked Toby. Our first date was full of laughter and joking. Maybe we’ve already used up all of our funny?

I look around the room for some inspiration. I’ve already asked him about his work, his weekend, his crazy mum. ‘So, have you lived here long? I really like it. I really like all the … lamps and chairs and stuff. It’s very stylish.’

‘Thanks, but none of it’s mine.’

‘Oh, so it came furnished?’ Even as I ask the question I don’t care.

‘Yep.’ He seems more intent on the food than anything else.

I decide to keep talking anyway. ‘Well, I really like decorating. Painting walls. Buying soft furnishings. Picking out objets d’art.’ I am mildly impressed with my French accent. ‘I was always the kind of person in those computer games who wouldn’t really play, but would build houses over and over again. Obviously I don’t own the house I’m living in now. I rent it, but I’ve tried to make it my own.’ I keep going, oblivious, and now also indifferent, as to whether he is finding this interesting. ‘And I guess it isn’t really worth it. Say I put all this money into making it nice, and then—’

He holds up a hand right in front of my face. ‘I’m gonna have to stop you there.’