‘He’s a bit broken.’ That twisted smile flashes briefly again. ‘That’s what love does for you. Anyway, Thursday?’

‘You’re not busy with, you know, proper dates?’

‘I can fit them in Wednesday or Friday.’ He winks. Not funny. See, what did I say about not being impressed by winks? ‘You are okay? Sure?’

I think he has mistaken my silent, and totally inappropriate, simmering for dog-induced trauma. It is not that at all. I am in shock. Shock that I am the slightest bit bothered about him dating alongside our tutorials. Which is ridiculous. Why should I care? In fact, it is a bonus. He obviously doesn’t fancy me, and so all my fears about pretend-dating the wrong kind of man are groundless. I am safe. Phew.

But also slightly miffed. Why doesn’t he fancy me at least a tiny bit? Am I really that unattractive that even a serial first dater (who, let’s face it, must get through a helluva lot of dates) isn’t interested? Huh!

‘I don’t need to check you over for damage?’ He raises both eyebrows suggestively, his dimples deepening.

‘You never stop, do you!’ I grin at him; I can’t help myself. Maybe he does find me just a teeny-weeny bit attractive after all. He shakes his head, then pats Hugo.

‘Noah?’ I stop him on impulse, about to ask him why he’s doing this.

He pauses. Raises an eyebrow.

I can’t do it. I can’t ask because I don’t want to hear an answer that might be crushing and will make me slam the door and never dare date again.

‘Thursday?’

‘Thursday. I’ll text you the details!’

‘What? You can’t …! You need to tell me.’ He starts to step backwards down the path, away from me. Smiling. ‘I don’t like surprises!’

‘My turn!’

‘Don’t be mean! Give me a clue? Where?’

‘Laters! Oh, and Rosie, if you haven’t got a date sorted for that party, I can always step in!’ He winks, waves a hand and is gone.

Hugo stands up, shakes and strolls into the house as though it is his home.

I push the door firmly shut and lean against it. What have I done?

Then I look at my phone. I could cancel! No, I can’t cancel. I can handle this. I can.

Hugo barks. When I look, he wags his tail then sits down looking very pleased with himself.

Why am I doing this? I stare at my reflection in the hall mirror, and I do know deep down, even if I won’t say it out loud. It’s not just the party, or my dad.

I like the idea of being in a relationship. And I like being in love. I miss it. I don’t want to just watch it on Netflix, or read about it, I want to do it. I want to fall in love.

‘Am I mad?’ I go in search of Hugo, who has flopped out on my sofa, and left me a tiny corner to squeeze into. ‘I know I have to get a date for the party, but I really want a boyfriend again.’ I fondle his ears. Like Noah did. It seems to work: he sighs. ‘Am I being pathetic? Is it just FOMO?’ Hugo cocks his head. ‘Do I really want a date or am I just scared I’m missing out?’ He rests his large head on my lap. ‘Oh my God, Hugo. I’ve just agreed to meet up with a serial dater again! Twice!’ I feel a bit sick. But I think it’s excited sick. Jittery, nervous, can’t sit still kind of sick – not head in a toilet bowl. ‘Would I be better off staying safe, finding the right dog?’ He wags his tail lazily, with a thump, thump, thump. ‘You do realise this is all your fault? If you hadn’t liked him so much, I wouldn’t be doing this. I trusted you!’ There’s a loud slightly disturbing noise from my lap, and a woomph of warm air towards my crotch. Hugo is asleep, snoring and blowing bubbles between my thighs.