He sits down, draws his stool up close to the table. Examines me. It’s only the second time he’s seen me. I must look better than that first time, when all my make-up was washed away. Now it is painstakingly applied, covering all my sins. So why does it seem like he is looking directly at my birthmark, like some men look at breasts? It’s always been the face, with me. Curiosity. Trying to see what lies beneath. Their eyes stripping off all my layers one by one. Scraping off my skin. Gouging a track in it with a jagged nail …

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘Nervous?’

Our faces are about three feet apart. I am on a date, on show, on audition: every single thing I say or do will be noted and calibrated, judged against Salvi’s internal guide of what he’s looking for.

‘No,’ I lie. ‘I go on dates with virtual strangers virtually every night of the week.’

He laughs, his lips so soft-looking I wonder if I will get the chance to kiss them. Highly unlikely. ‘Have you ordered anything yet? A drink?’ He notes the empty table.

‘No, not yet. I hadn’t decided. I googled this place,’ I add, trying to sound light and sparky. ‘I couldn’t find anything about Dickens writing Hard Times in here.’

‘Of course he did! It’s common knowledge.’

‘There’s no plaque.’

‘You don’t get a plaque just for drinking somewhere. He didn’t live here. Come on, what would you like to drink?’

I scan the menu again, even though I have looked at it ten times already.

‘I’ll have a Copperfield Collins, please.’ Gin. It could be the only way.

He gestures to a passing waitress and she stops at our table. She is very attractive, too. He orders my drink and a beer for himself.

‘Olives and crudités?’ she asks.

He nods. ‘So,’ he says, once she has gone. ‘Have you had a good day?’ I already feel he is just going through the motions. I already feel he is regretting asking me here. ‘What is it you do?’

‘Do?’

‘Yes, you know, for a job?’

I should have prepared for this question. I should have prepared an answer for it so I don’t sound like an utter loser. ‘Nothing. I don’t work. I’m sort of my father’s carer.’ Ugh. I hate that this falsehood rolls off my tongue so easily.

‘Oh, it seemed like he can look after himself quite well.’