‘Gosh, this is very fancy,’ I whisper, leaning across the table as the waiter finishes telling us about the specials and leaves us to consider our menus.

‘I thought you’d be used to fancy restaurants, after living in London,’ says Ben, fiddling with his collar.

He’s had a shave and is wearing a smart jacket and a freshly ironed shirt. When he picked me up in his van, I made some jokey comment about how well he scrubbed up, and Ben said something about how he thought he should make an effort. But what I was really thinking was how handsome he looked. Out of his overalls and with a fresh shave, the transformation is quite startling, and when I went to kiss him on the cheek, I caught the scent of his aftershave and I felt something shift between us. It felt different.

Or is it just me that’s different?

‘Honestly I think you’ve got completely the wrong impression about me,’ I protest, smoothing my napkin onto my knee. It’s made of heavy, starched white linen and is so spotlessly clean I can’t help wondering how on earth they get the stains out. ‘My life was hardly glamorous. Most of the time you’d find me on the sofa, marking homework.’

Ben laughs then and I feel him relax a bit. I get the feeling he chose this restaurant for me, and he would have been as happy – if not a lot more comfortable – down the local pub. Me too, if I’m honest, but of course I can’t tell him that. He’s made such an effort.

He turns to the menu. ‘What’s pommes purée?’ he asks, lowering his voice.

‘I think it’s mashed potato.’

‘Well, that’s not very fancy – even I can make that.’ He looks triumphant and I laugh. ‘Though mine’s probably lumpier,’ he admits as an afterthought.

‘That’s a good thing. My grandma always used to say that’s how you know it’s home-made.’

‘Wise lady, your grandma,’ he nods approvingly and I start giggling. I don’t know what’s got into us. Neither of us is drinking and yet I feel giddy. Aware of the other diners’ eyes on us, we both duck behind our menus, trying to straighten our faces.

‘Chicken looks good.’

‘Ah yes,’ I nod, ‘but can you make Parmesan Snow?’ Reading from the description, I look at Ben over the leather-bound parapet and raise my eyebrows.

Which of course sets us both off again, and it’s only when the waiter returns to take our order that we finally manage to stop giggling. Though I do feel a bit guilty about dabbing my eyes on my lovely white napkin, as I get two big smudges of eyeliner all over it.

We both go for the chicken, complete with the Parmesan Snow. Ben isn’t drinking, so I order sparkling water, even though he tries to persuade me to have some wine.

‘Please at least have a glass,’ he insists. ‘I’m the one driving.’

‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I say, handing the waiter the wine list.