‘Hello?’ Oops, I forget to adjust my tone. I sound as flat as I sounded to Angela. Maybe I need to fashion a big old boot out of the clay Angela made a man with and kick myself up my own arse.

‘Hi!’ Oh God, I didn’t dare hope it was him, but it’s Salvi. He’s phoning me, like he said he would. ‘So, it’s the crazy street performer guy here! How are you doing?’

‘I’m doing good.’ Salvi’s tone is upbeat – he’s an Angela not a Prudence, isn’t he? I try to sound more perky, to match him, but I am nervous. Really nervous. ‘Thank you.’

‘You got home OK?’

‘Yes, we did.’ I like the sound of his voice, through the phone. I like that he is talking to me.

‘Good, good. So, let’s go out? I’m free Wednesday night. Can you get into the West End? Soho? There’s a bar on Hopkins Street called the Dickensian – do you know it? Dickens himself drank in there when he was writing Hard Times.’

‘No, but I’m sure I can find it.’ Oh, I’m so cool, I think. I could at least have pretended I have something else going on. A diary to check, maybe. A life.

‘Great! See you there, eight o’clock? I’ll look forward to it, Pruey.’

Did he say Pruey? Despite myself and my nervousness and my indignation at this liberty, I smile. Despite the fact he hasn’t actually asked me if I want to go to this bar or given me the chance to say ‘no’, I find myself saying, ‘Yes, me too, see you then,’ before hanging up and placing my phone back on the table.

I stare at it, as though it’s going to ring again and he’ll laugh a cruel laugh, whilst lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke coolly out of an open window, or something, and say the whole thing has been a joke. If it doesn’t, I’m going on a date for the first time in well, ever. I’m going to a bar called the Dickensian on Wednesday night with a complete stranger. I have to make myself look decent, I have to be witty and engaging. I have to be someone who might be of vague interest or attraction to another human being. I’m not sure I can do this! It’s all well and good heading off on jolly day trips with my father; any mistakes we make – any stumbles, any falls – are just for us. On Wednesday, if I go, I’ll be on my own. Exposed. I’ll have to sit opposite someone and have him stare into my face like I’m a bloody show poodle and I don’t know if I can.