No, Nick’s first words to me weren’t what most people would think of as romantic. But then he had caught me falling out of a train carriage on platform four at Waterloo when I was up for the day from Herne Bay with my best friend, Sally. And, anyway, I think it is quite romantic that we met entirely by chance.

Sally and I were like two peas in a pod: one hundred and sixty centimetres (my mum would have said five foot three, but you get in trouble these days for imperialist measurements), fresh-faced blondes soon to turn thirty. We had bought matching jackets for the January chill and done our curly hair in the same Greta Garbo style, giggling for a week that we were coming up to find ourselves chaps. The War had robbed us of men in our early twenties, so seven years after it ended we were still trying to make up for lost time. Sally had insisted on Victory Red lipstick and I had gone along with what she wanted, even though I thought it was a bit much.

When the train came to a halt, I opened the door and she saw Nick on the platform, waiting to climb in after our departure. So Sally – never one to hold back – shoved me right on to him, and ‘Oops-a-daisy!’ was what I heard as I fell straight into his chest. I think it was about two seconds before my cheeks turned the same colour as my lipstick.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I said, feeling the flush spreading to my neck as I pushed myself off him.

‘No, she’s not,’ Sally called from behind me.

‘I am.’

‘She isn’t.’

I wasn’t completely, if I’m being honest. He just laughed. Nick always had a nice laugh – free and easy; and a handsome, puckish face that could have been eighteen years old or forty. There were a few silver strands in his brown hair, though, giving the game away. He insisted he dyed them that way just to look distinguished.

‘Well, if you’re not sorry, then you should be,’ he said. ‘You’ve got lipstick all over my shirt.’

‘Oh, now I’m sorry again.’ I blinked down at the cream cotton and saw that it really was stained bright red. ‘I could …’ I ran short of anything I could do. ‘Buy you a new one?’

‘This one was two pounds.’

‘I can’t buy you a new one.’

‘She can do other things,’ shouted Sally, who remained in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms folded, enjoying every second.

‘Will you shut your trap?’ I demanded over my shoulder.