I kiss his cheek, ignoring his outstretched hand. ‘Nice to finally meet,’ I say.

A flutter in my stomach; a swarm of butterflies. He’s not ugly, but he doesn’t really look like his profile picture. Most people might be annoyed, but I’m relieved he’s not too attractive. He’s just what I’m after. He’s also wearing glasses, which give him a sort of tattooed Clark Kent vibe. I wonder for a moment if they’re an affectation or real.

‘You don’t look much like your profile pic,’ he says.

‘Oh,’ I say. Is this a neg? Or honesty? To be fair, I have photoshopped it, so it doesn’t look exactly like me, plausible deniability etc. If you reverse image-search my profile photo, you won’t find any of my social media accounts.

‘I mean that in the best possible way,’ he adds.

And you’re nowhere near as hot as your profile pic, I think but it’s too early in the piece to lance his ego, and despite the fact he’s not exactly like the image on the app, he’s still my type. The type I’m after anyway.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘Oh, no. It’s true. You’re stunning.’

‘Don’t flatter me. I wasn’t expecting glasses?’

‘I inherited my father’s bad eyes, unfortunately.’

Noted. I move on and ask him about work, even though I already know the details.

‘I’ve got my own business,’ he says. ‘I’m like a handyman.’

‘So you clear drains for housewives, that sort of thing?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, missing the joke but smiling properly for the first time. His smile is self-conscious and creeps up from the corners of his lips. He glances back towards the bar. ‘What are you drinking?’

‘The first round is on me,’ I say, pointing at his empty glass. ‘What are you drinking?’

‘You like to be in charge?’

‘I do,’ I say, forcing another smile. This is all moving so quickly it feels like a form of motion sickness. I know the feeling will be with me most of the night but hopefully it’s worth it in the end.

‘I’ll have another lager.’

‘Please.’

‘Sorry?’ He looks confused.

‘Are you going to say please?’

He gives me a knowing look; a slight smile shifts his wet lips. ‘Please.’

The barman is young and sharp cheeked, with the sort of bowl haircut for which kids were once bullied.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Can I get a lime and soda, and a pint of lager?’

‘Sure,’ he says.

I hand him a note, then lean over the bar. ‘Can you do me a favour? See that man I’m with?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, if he orders a vodka-soda for me, could you make sure that it’s just lime and soda. I’m not actually drinking tonight.’

His pale face shapes into a question mark. ‘We’ve got mocktails.’