We opted to sit on the terrace just in time to see the last glow of sunlight slipping behind the ocean. Fairy lights spiralled around the pergola. Candles flickered on every table. The beach was swallowed by night but we could still hear the gentle lap of waves. Taste the salt carried by the warm breeze. It was relentlessly romantic right down to the musician perched on a high stool, gently strumming on a guitar. Honeymoon-perfect, except a virtual stranger was the one topping up my glass.

Except, despite only knowing him for a few hours, Adam didn’t quite feel like a stranger.

This is not a date.

I had been studying the menu for far too long, my stomach fluttering with nerves. It was natural I’d feel on edge; I’d almost drowned earlier, but each time I raised my eyes and caught sight of Adam I felt… something.

‘Are you ready to order?’ The waiter hovered around our table for the third time, pad and pen poised.

‘I’ll have a crab salad, please.’ I can’t remember the last time I ordered anything other than salad on a date.

‘You’re getting a bit porky, Anna. Think of our wedding photos.’

Except this… this wasn’t a date and the restaurant smelled so delicious – garlic and oil and herbs. Did I really want a plate of leaves? If I had died today, I wanted to have lived my life. Loved my life. I wanted to be remembered for being kind and happy and fun. Not the girl who never let herself go because she was trying to lose the same ten pounds over and over again.

‘Sorry, can I change my mind?’ I quickly scanned the menu again. ‘I’ll have a paella with a side order of tomatoes stuffed with feta and spicy chorizo, and could I please have some bread and olives while I wait?’ I lowered the menu, my shoulders stiff with the expectation of disapproval on Adam’s face but instead he smiled.

‘That sounds great. I’ll have the same, please.’

We both watched the waiter until he disappeared back inside.

My mouth was dry. I picked up my glass and took a long drink of sangria, watching the other diners. The couple staring so deeply into each other’s eyes that they probably didn’t register the chink of cutlery on china, the low murmur of conversation. The elderly lady eating alone, a paperback propped up against a jug of water, eyes straining to read by candlelight. A widow? A family of at least three generations seated at a long table across the terrace. A ‘Happy Golden Anniversary’ balloon tugging against its string.

What did these people see when they looked at me? A girl whose fiancé hadn’t been able to bear spending another single day with her, let alone a lifetime? A girl having a holiday romance? The start of something?

This is not a date.