‘I’ll just have a Caesar salad I think.’ We’ve got over the tiff. We’ve got over the dangerous ‘moment’. We’re back where we should be. Mates.

‘Maybe you should throw in a gym session.’

‘Why?’ I pull my stomach in involuntarily. Not that the flabby muscles are really listening; they quiver a bit then relax back into their normal positions. ‘Are you saying I look fat?’ I fold my arms and manage to cram a fair bit of indignation into my voice, because if I want floppy bits, what’s that got to do with him? ‘That’s chauvinistic,’ I count off on my fingers, ‘patronising, rude—’

‘And not true.’

‘I’m not fat?’ I look at him suspiciously. This is tricky, trust is in the balance: if he says no he’s smooth talking, if he says yes then …

‘I didn’t say that. What I said was that it’s not true that I was saying you looked fat. You assumed that part.’

‘So you do think I’m fat? Chubby? Over rounded? Well built?’

He holds up a hand. ‘Woah, woah, woah.’ Then heaves a sigh of relief when I stop talking. ‘Can we rewind here. You look fine, perfect even, squishy in the right places.’

‘Squishy?’

‘Though I’d know better if I could put my hands on—’

‘No hands!’

‘Purely for research. Look, before you bite my head off again and feed me to your young, the gym is about confidence. Not wobbly bits.’

‘Confidence? We’re back to that.’

‘No escape from it! Because that’s all dating is about. Love yourself and the whole world will join in.’ He waves his hands expansively. I think the whole world, well the female side, had joined in with him. Apart from the waitress that wasn’t a waitress. She was more interested in salt.

‘Hmm. So dating isn’t about sex, power and money?’

‘No, that’s what life is all about, not dating! The gym isn’t just about toning up though, it’s about stamina.’ He winks.

‘Don’t you ever stop thinking about sex?’

‘Who said I was thinking about sex?’ My face heats up faster than you can blink. ‘And it’s a great place to meet hot guys, chat over the bench press.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Try out your chat-up lines while you’re eyeing up—’

‘Seriously? You’re mad! How can you eye up anyone when you’re going through hell? I don’t chat and exercise.’ He’s seriously over-estimated my fitness levels here – talk and exercise? Pffft. ‘Anyway, that rewind thing, can we do it again. Why are we here?’

‘So I can see your lovely face, hear your …’

‘Noah, concentrate! Nails! We’re here to talk about nails, not sex and workouts.’

He sighs. ‘Sometimes you can be such a let-down. Okay, nails. Here you go.’ He hands me a business card. ‘Now can we talk about—’

‘No!’

‘The gym? Honestly you have a mind like a sewer. Won’t you at least think about it? On your day off?’

‘Sure.’ I nod. But I might be telling a little white lie. Tomorrow is my day off, and I’d much rather have my nails done, in fact I’d rather have a Brazilian wax and my eyes poked out than try and master talking, breathing and pounding a treadmill all at the same time. Lethal.