Is it possible to be unfaithful to somebody you haven’t yet met? Oh my God, Tinder isn’t like TripAdvisor, is it? Can I be rated on true-to-likeness, turns-up-on-time, and likelihood-of-being-faithful?! Is there a noticeboard where I can be branded a bitch and lose forever the hope of a swipe surge? Even though it is not my fault?

Well actually it is partly Gabe’s fault for picking this place, which is a bit of a pick-up joint from what I can tell, and for not turning up on time.

I have got to get away!

But Not-Gabe has his hand on my waist. And he’s got a pretty firm grip of me.

Maybe I need to let go first. My hand is still splayed over a surprisingly firm pec, which I am tempted to squeeze. But I don’t. If I shove hard enough, I might catapult myself backwards over the bar and possibly injure myself hideously in the process.

Instead I take my gaze off my twitching fingers and glance back up. Straight into smiley eyes that have laughter wrinkles at the corners.

I wriggle, and his fingers move against my waist but don’t go away. So I freeze.

This is a weird game.

What do I do now? No blog I have ever read about first dates has covered this situation. Or rather, how to get out of it. Even Bea, the fount of all man-related knowledge didn’t cover this in her pre-date pep talk.

She covered: what to do if he’s boring (suggest going to a karaoke bar – he probably won’t go, but if he does at least you’ve got a distraction); what to do if he’s ugly (tricky one, nobody likes cruelty, but turn the convo to plastic surgery?); what to do if he’s drunk (just sit and wait until he passes out); what to do if he won’t stop talking about his divorce/ex (leave, no argument, just leave); and what to do if he keeps saying he wants to shag you, but you don’t fancy him and the thought of seeing his bits in all their naked splendour is making you feel like you need to vom (tell him in a whisper that the infection has nearly cleared up, only a few more blisters to pop – but if he tells anybody he’s dead).

Tango-style clinches with an attractive but totally unsuitable man (who wasn’t the man you were meeting), and getting out of them, were definitely not mentioned.

‘Let me go! What the hell are you playing at?’ Attack is always a good form of defence.

His warm fingers close over my hand which is holding the glass. He doesn’t move out of my personal space. I gulp. It’s weird. Holding hands with a man who isn’t Robbie.

Even weirder having his thumb inches from my left boob.

Maybe I should savour the moment, use this as a taster of what is to come. You know, get used to being touched by a stranger.

Or maybe not. My nipple is stirring uncomfortably at the uninvited attention.