So, here I am. Jack’s bucket-list restaurant. It opened about two years ago, the cuisine simple but oh-so effective; Italian. The basics. Done exceptionally well, according to the reviews and framed certificates behind the bar with five gold stars. The party vibe is electric, yet sophisticated. Jack had tried to book this place for his work Christmas do, but had left it far too late, and ever since he had sought a reason to come. I surprised him on his birthday by putting the business card inside a little gift box. He told me I was magic.

‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ he’d said.

‘And I reckon I love you too, Jack Carmichael.’

We’d celebrated with takeaway pizzas and danced in the kitchen to Daft Punk.

A different waitress brings my wine, showing me the bottle first before I sample. It’s perfect, but it lands in my stomach with an unpleasant slosh. I don’t feel whole. I feel cut in half with a blunt knife. Everything about me being here is wrong.

Nobody is looking at me.

Except they are. The more I dart my eyes across the room, the more eyes meet with mine. They talk. Who’s that girl on her own? Sat in the middle of the restaurant, of all places. Seeking attention, perhaps? Does she carry a confidence that normal people don’t possess? Oh, of course, do you think she’s been stood up? Yep. That’ll be it.

I sip my wine and take out my phone.

I swipe, I tap. I like Beth’s latest Instagram post. Her new killer nails.

Gianna walks past with a party of six, a stack of menus on her arm ready to hand out. I grab my phone, tap and put it to my ear. Antonella isn’t a quiet affair: the instrumental jazz ambience isn’t subtle; nor the conversations of its punters; the belly laughing; the clinking of glasses; the scraping of plates. So, I speak.

‘Hey!’ I say into my phone. ‘God, this is weird. What am I doing?’

The last time I did anything like this was in youth drama, having to improvise being on the phone to a parent, apologising for getting caught smoking or something. Never thought I’d be testing out my skills two decades later in one of London’s trendiest restaurants.

But there’s so much I have to say. And only one person I need to say it to.

‘Jack?’ Saying his name makes me smile. I repeat, louder, then pretend he’s saying something back. Nothing fancy. Just that he’s working late.