I gulp, try and clear my throat. ‘Not many of them round here. Hobbits that is. There’s a very nice tree surgeon in—’ I’m rambling to fill the silence that I’m expecting any minute, but he puts a finger on my lips, so I freeze.

‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Nothing,’ I squeak. But I am. I’m petrified that if he touches me, I’ll end up crushing on the wrong guy. This would be the worst kind of failure. I do not want to discover that I have been conditioned to fall for somebody like my dad, that I’m going to repeat the pattern of behaviour I’ve seen as I’ve grown up.

If I get this wrong now, not only will the chance of taking a date to the party be doomed – so will I. Well, maybe not doomed. But it is not going to happen.

‘Shall we start again? You know, in a conventional kind of setting. You, me, man, woman.’

Hugo groans and flops down. ‘No dog?’ I bite the inside of my cheek. I need a prop. What do I use if I can’t have a dog?

‘No dog. Let’s hit this head on, off the nursery slope, straight onto the black run.’

I never did fancy skiing.

‘Stop avoiding me, Rosie.’ His voice is soft. ‘I’m not the one making you do anything. Skip out if you want, it’s your life.’ He holds his hands up in surrender.

I don’t want to skip out; I don’t want him to walk out and not see the best of me. Oh bugger, why am I thinking like this? I’m doing exactly what I’ve always done with Dad – desperately wanted him to see the best of me. Tried to please him.

Take a deep breath, Rosie. You are not doing this so Noah can see the best of you. You are doing this for yourself. Because you can do this.

It is my life. And I’m not too stupid to ignore the fact that right now it’s a life that needs a bit of added-spice, and a companion – but not of the four-legged furry type.

‘Tomorrow?’ My heart is pounding like billy-o.

‘Oh, afraid I’ve got …’ He looks uncomfortable.

‘A date?’ Gulp! Why does that make me come over all possessive? He’s allowed dates, I’m allowed dates, that’s the point!

‘To see my mate.’ He suddenly looks all deflated and sad. ‘It’s the anniversary of his wife’s death.’ Noah blinks; he’s looking my way, but not at me any longer. He’s looking into the distance. ‘I don’t like him to be on his own,’ then the moment passes as he snaps himself out of it and gives a crooked smile, ‘bloody miserable company though, he’s a real sad sod.’

‘Oh.’ I try not to be relieved that he’s seeing his friend. That’s horrible, being pleased when his poor friend is heartbroken. ‘I hope he’s okay.’

He shrugs, and I want to hug him. Not because I’m pleased that he’s not proper dating, but because he cares about his friend. The lump in my throat catches me by surprise. This is a side of Noah that is nothing like my dad. My father wouldn’t put himself out like this. He’s a good-time boy, like I’d presumed Noah was. Out to have a great time, but never sticking around for the bad times.