He winks at me. ‘I love Chardonnay. Best wine ever. Just don’t tell the lads. It’s a bit girly. I’ve been noticing you for weeks, Lizzie Riley. I think we should spend lots and lots of time together. And then get married.’

I can barely believe this is happening. A nobody chalet girl like me, being chatted up by this confident, tanned athlete. I guess I should enjoy it while it lasts. When he works out what a nothing I am, he’ll run a mile.

I laugh. ‘Are you always so forward with your wedding plans?’

‘Only with my future wife.’

‘You don’t even know me.’

‘Yes, but I’ve been watching you and your purple puffer jacket for ages, wondering how you don’t freeze to death in those DM boots.’

‘Where have you noticed me?’

‘Drinking black coffee in the café, buying a ginger cookie and giving crumbs to the birds on your way out. Always carrying a pile of books under your arm. Are you a student?’

‘I’m training to be a nurse.’

‘A nurse? Well, Lizzie Nightingale, you’ll have to put your career aside when you have my five children.’

‘Five children?’

‘At least five. And I hope they all look just like you.’

Our eyes meet, and in that second I feel totally, utterly alive.

I’ve never been noticed like this.

It’s electrifying.

And I feel myself hoping, like I’ve never hoped before, that this man feels the same sparks in his chest as I do.

Kate

8 a.m.

I’m eating Kellogg’s All-Bran at my desk, silently chanting my morning mantra: Be grateful, Kate. Be grateful. This is the job you wanted.

Apparently, social workers suffer more nervous breakdowns than any other profession.

I already have stress-related eczema, insomnia and an unhealthy relationship with the office vending machine – specifically the coils holding the KitKats and Mars bars.

Last night I got home at 9 p.m., and this morning I was called in at 7.30 a.m. I have a huge caseload and I’m fire-fighting. There isn’t time to help anyone. Just prevent disaster.

Be grateful, Kate.

My computer screen displays my caseload: thirty children.

This morning, I’ve had to add one more. A transfer case from Hammersmith and Fulham: Tom Kinnock.

I click update and watch my screen change: thirty-one children.

Then I put my head in my hands, already exhausted by what I won’t manage to do today.

Be grateful, Kate. You have a proper grown-up job. You’re one of the lucky ones.

My husband Col is a qualified occupational therapist, but he’s working at the Odeon cinema. It could be worse. At least he gets free popcorn.

‘Well, you’re bright and shiny, aren’t you?’ Tessa Warwick, my manager, strides into the office, clicking on her Nespresso machine – a personal cappuccino maker she won’t let anyone else use.