‘You can stop the winking.’ I sigh and climb back on my stool. ‘I’m immune.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ Being brought up by a man who thought a wink made up for everything, including forgetting your birthday party, has kind of made me wary. It worked when I was five years old, but it sets off warning bells now. ‘I’m not like your normal swooning to the floor type of date.’

‘How do you know what my normal type of date is? We’ve hardly met. I don’t even know your name.’

‘True, I was just taking an educated guess, from the winking and touching,’ I try not to glare at him, ‘and smart one-liners.’

‘I’ve not even started yet. Those are my warm-up lines!’

‘See! You can’t not do it.’

He puts one rather muscular forearm on the bar and tilts his head on one side. Then stares. ‘You’re funny.’

‘No, I’m not!’

‘Oh you are! Funny, sexy, smart.’

I’m not sure if he’s taking the piss now, or it’s a chat-up line. See? I don’t get the signals. But it doesn’t matter. I am immune to men like him. He is not part of my life plan.

Maybe this is going to be too difficult; he’s not going to be useful after all. Maybe I should just forget this. Go home, get into bed and bury my head in the pillow. Or fill my romantic well from Netflix.

Except I came here for a reason, a purpose.

I don’t want to admit defeat, it’s not my style. I can’t. Not straight away. What am I going to tell Bea?

He leans in closer. ‘You are funny, funny strange, not hilarious.’ He grins. ‘I’ve been watching you.’ He wags a finger. ‘You’ve been here for ages, sitting all on your own, with a drink. One drink!’ This is even worse than being stood up. Being watched being stood up! ‘You look kind of lonely, not like the type of girl who comes out on her own. You’ve been dumped, haven’t you? Am I right, or am I right?’

‘You’re wrong!’ I glare at him. I am feeling uncomfortable: hot, flustered and embarrassed. I brush a hand over my knee, even though there’s nothing on it. ‘Actually, I was just about to say sorry for being grumpy, it was just you startled me,’ and grabbed me, ‘but now you’ve spoiled it!’

‘Really? I’m wrong? About you being dumped?’

‘Stop saying really like that!’ Technically he is wrong. I have not been dumped, I have been stood up. Worse, I have been ghosted. On my first date. ‘And stop saying dumped!’

‘Stood up then?’

Shit. I’ve gone bright red again; I know I have. I need to invest in a really good foundation that will leave my face the same colour whatever happens. Green’s the colour, isn’t it? ‘Okay smart arse, I’ve been stood up. So what?’

‘So nothing. No shame in that, happens to the best of us.’

‘You too?’ For some reason this cheers me up slightly.