‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ he said, unafraid to look me in the eye.

I raised an eyebrow and pouted my red lips, unimpressed.

‘You reckon?’ I asked.

And he stretched out his large legs into the aisle, sat back and folded his arms. Releasing a long, satisfying sigh, he looked across at me again, and somehow amused by me – or perhaps my giant earrings – he grinned, so widely I spotted a dimple in his cheek. I wasn’t in the mood to reciprocate.

The lights went down and the show recommenced.

Jack and I laughed at the exact same moments, many of which weren’t at all funny; our laughter was subtle, and perhaps cruel. I could feel his eyes burning into me when the operatic sing-off between Boris and Jeremy kicked off. I glanced his way and scrunched up my nose, cringing. He mimicked me and I elbowed him. I didn’t mind when his knee rested against mine, whether on purpose or due to lack of space. During a boring scene, the most drama being a group of audience members shuffling out of their seats and leaving, I zoned out and imagined that our legs were touching because Jack wanted them to. I was surprised by the shock of electricity it set pulsing through my body. I put my hand on his arm when the lady to my left gestured that she wanted to get out. We both twisted our bodies to the side, allowing her to leave.

‘Guess you and I are Remainers, then?’ Jack whispered, which tickled me.

I realised my hand was resting on his arm, and removed it to twiddle an earring.

When the show finished and us ‘Remainers’ did our best to give the cast a warm applause, Jack said he’d get me a drink as thanks for the seat. I met his assertiveness with a thanks, but no thanks, I was going to the after-show party. Edging our way out of the auditorium, he showed me his ticket, printed with VIP in the corner.

‘Me too,’ he grinned.

‘So are you a reviewer? Or friend of the cast?’ I asked.

‘Neither. I have a well-connected mum.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘She’s a journalist. She’s on daytime TV a lot, arguing for the sake of arguing.’ He lowered his voice and whispered right into my ear, ‘She’s made a fortune being the kind of woman people love to hate. Her Twitter feed is attacked by evil cretins but she doesn’t care. And people are always lovely to her in real life, quite adoring.’

‘Oh, my God. You’re not talking about Patricia Carmichael, are you?’

‘I am indeed.’

‘Wow. She’s your mum?’

‘Guilty as charged,’ he held up his hands.

‘Is she here? I’d love to meet her.’