Navy shirt and corduroy trousers, he had replied instantly, implying he wasn’t having a similar wardrobe panic. Maybe he was just one of those supremely confident people who didn’t really care about clothes. (Or maybe he was an old fart who bought his clothes from catalogues. Oh dear.)

It was a cool evening – disappointing for July, everyone had been moaning about it – but even so, she could feel a trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades as she continued to gaze about in search of a man matching that description. No. Nobody there. Was he even going to show up? she wondered in horror. She’d forgotten how terrifying it was, going on a first date, how vulnerable you made yourself. Well, never mind, she thought as she tried to catch the barmaid’s eye. She was here now, she would have a drink on her own, if the worst came to the worst.

The bar was busy, with only one person working there and several customers already waiting. For some reason, Alison found herself thinking back to the very first date she’d ever had – a Saturday night at the pictures with Tom Naylor, back when she was sixteen years old – and wanted to blush as she remembered how they had cuddled experimentally in the darkness. (Gosh, yes! Tom Naylor, with his freckles and that cowlick of hair, and those rather adorable jug-ears. Now he had been a good kisser.) She bit her lip, wondering if there would be any cuddling tonight – and how she might feel if there were. How quickly was a sixty-something woman supposed to move on a date these days anyway?

‘Alice! Is that you? Sorry I’m late,’ came a booming voice from behind her, and she jumped, miles away, and turned to see a short, red-faced man with his hair every bit as badly coloured and cut as she’d dreaded from his photo, plus a paunch that threatened to send all the buttons of his shirt pinging off like small bullets. Welcome to Silver and Single, she thought, trying not to look dismayed.

‘Alison,’ she corrected him politely as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. ‘And you must be Calum.’ Disappointment curdled inside her. Calum McRae might well turn out to be the funniest, kindest, best person in the whole world, but on first impressions, she didn’t fancy him one bit.

‘Correct-a-mundo!’ he said with a laugh, putting his elbow on the bar. ‘Now, have you been served? What can I get you? It feels like a gin-and-tonic sort of evening to me, what do you say? Like gin, do you?’