‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I flicked my hair and smiled sweetly. Glancing to my left, I saw a man with a huge shock of prematurely grey hair framing dazzling blue eyes and a mischievous grin.

‘Come off it. No serious fitness freak would be caught dead in those trainers. And, no offence, but you’ve not got the physique of a woman who considers carbs to be nutritional cyanide.’

‘Maybe I carb-cycle!’ I tittered, still trying to act as un-Nora like as possible, while simultaneously resisting the urge to squirt my drink in his face.

‘No. You’ve got the look of a woman who knows how to actually enjoy food. A real woman, not a haggard cyborg held together with stringy tendons and overly sculpted muscle.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I mean, look at them.’ He nodded at a pair of women standing nearby, who I had to admit did appear semi-bionic beneath their tiny bralettes and cycling shorts.

‘Are you always this rude about people’s appearances?’ I hissed, while simultaneously feeling my shoulders de-hunch. I had felt more than a little overwhelmed by the rest of the guests, and it was a relief to know not everyone here was horrified by my clear lack of fitness finesse, or ‘fitnesse’, as Nora Sharp would call it in her review.

‘Compared to you, Nora, I’m an absolute gentleman.’ He winked, waiting a few seconds before adding, ‘I don’t mean it about the women, I’m just jealous and intimidated and wanted to crack your legendary iron shell.’

At that point, the speech was over, the crowd broke into a smattering of applause, more cheers of, ‘Fit don’t quit!’ and, in my case, a whoosh of relief.

‘Want to get out of here? Go and get some chips or something?’

Misinterpreting my hesitation as something other than nervousness and disbelief at a real-life man asking me to hang out with him, he held out one hand. ‘Marcus Donahue-Black. I’m only here because the owner is my cousin. I hate exercise and I love doughnuts. And I apologise for my demeaning comments. I use humour as a safety net when I’m out of my comfort zone, and I was trying to impress you by being mean. I also apologise for assuming that you in any way resemble your online persona. I can immediately see that you are far kinder and more lovely than the memes would suggest. Can we start again?’

Given how lonely and tired I was of pretending to be someone else, the thought of eating chips with someone who seemed to understand my predicament after just one brief interaction made it an offer impossible to resist.

A handful of dates later, Marcus was my boyfriend. He was someone else who could come to meals and events with me, and it turned out he moved in the kind of circles where he was often already invited, so I could go as his date and no one would be any the wiser.