‘Your mother. You live with your father and you’ve never mentioned her. Is she dead?’

‘No, she’s not dead. She lives in Sweden.’

‘Do you mind?’

‘No.’

I don’t want to talk about my mother. I want to concentrate on the way Salvi is looking at me. He’s looking right into my eyes. I notice flecks of navy and ochre in his eyes, fuchsia flashes reflected from a 2D woman doing the samba in the stained-glass opposite us. I feel half hypnotized. I wonder when he’s going to kiss me again.

‘You look beautiful when you’re angry.’

‘Oh, come on! You’re having me on! I’m not beautiful!’ I am pretending to be affronted now, as I’m not sure I am. I am tempted to be flattered, to believe his lie. And in approximately ten minutes, if I keep on drinking this cocktail, I will be drunk.

Salvi looks at me quizzically. He is smiling too, a smile I want to jump into and flail around in, for a while. ‘How do you feel about your birthmark?’

My head snaps back. I feel I’ve been come at with a red-hot poker. My hand involuntarily goes up to my cheek. Why is he interested in my birthmark? I trusted he could barely see it in this kaleidoscopic light, but he’s shoved it straight under the glare of a harsh bare bulb.

‘Do we have to talk about that? How do I feel about it? Good God!’ Now I feel angry and hot – the bloody thing is going to flare like a beacon under all my make-up. ‘I hate it! What do you think?’

‘What I think,’ he says evenly, ignoring my outburst, ‘is that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I think you’re beautiful. And it gives you character.’

‘I’d rather be character-less. Unnoticed. Character I’d rather not have, thank you very much.’ The prickles are up; they are bristling, ready to pierce something. First my mother, now this! I want to get up from his side and go.

‘I’ve upset you,’ he says calmly. ‘I was just interested. Look, let’s order another round of drinks. Please. Don’t be like that.’

He places his hand over mine again and turns to call a different waitress over. I am still smarting. I keep my other hand in front of my face, not touching it, though, as I don’t want any make-up to come off.

The waitress comes over. Salvi orders the same again. ‘I really like you,’ he says, as he turns back to me. ‘It was a stupid question. Please, let’s just move on.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘We’ll move on.’ I can’t have this evening ending in disaster and disappointment again, I just can’t. ‘Honestly!’ I add, light as artificial air. ‘Just because you like being the centre of attention. Hot-shot barrister and unicyclist!’