Her name is Florence Williams, but her friends call her Florrie or sometimes just Flo if they can’t be bothered, because it’s a bit of a mouthful, so she says anyway. Her mother named her after the Italian city where she was conceived. She’s never been but hopes to go one day soon. She’s thirty-two and was born in St George’s hospital and grew up in Clapham, although her accent sounds more Home Counties than South London, something I’m glad about I have to say. Not that there’s anything wrong with an accent, not least a London one, but I like a woman who speaks well. Rachel had a beautiful speaking voice, almost musical sometimes, and her laugh reminded me of wind chimes, tinkly and infectious. Rach laughed a lot, we both did, together. She was also great at accents. Brummie, Scouse, Manc, Scottish, Geordie, American, Australian, Irish, Welsh – you name it, she could do it. I’m crap at accents, my attempts always end up sounding like a weird hybrid of Indian and Australian.

Florence is good at accents too, particularly Irish and American, which she demonstrates to me perfectly, making me laugh. She’s not afraid to make fun of herself either which is good because neither am I, although admittedly often it’s by default.

She’s training to be an actress, hence the accents I suppose, and I listen as she talks about the course she’s taking and why she chose such a profession. She used to work as a legal secretary but got bored of the mundane nine-to-five and, feeling there was more to life, decided to follow her childhood ambitions. I tell her I think this is pretty cool and she seems pleased. Her nose wrinkles a little when she gets animated which I kind of like too. She’s dressed well: dark-grey skinny jeans, which are low on the waist, with a slubby white T-shirt and a blazer-style jacket that has leather detailing on the collar. Kind of understated, but at the same time pretty trendy. The biker boots steal it for me though. I’m a sucker for a girl in a pair of biker boots. Rachel lived in hers. I particularly liked it when she wore them with pretty floral summer dresses; feminine with a hard edge. That was Rach.

‘And so, what do you do, Daniel?’

Florence calls me Daniel and I smile because no one calls me that, not since Mum died anyway. Even the old man calls me Dan, or Danny when he’s been at the whiskey and gets sentimental, which isn’t often. Leaning onto her elbows on the table, she takes a swig of her Captain Morgan and coke. She’s confident, but not to the degree that it spills into arrogance, and she’s incredibly pretty. I reckon she could hold her own with the lads down at the station. Something about her face seems familiar, even though we’ve never met before. I’m taking this to be a good sign.

‘I work in architecture, run my own business, it’s not nearly as exciting as acting,’ I say. I don’t know why I lie but I do – I mean, architecture! Jesus, I can’t even build a Lego model. I just don’t want to run the risk of ruining anything because once I pull the copper card with a woman the atmosphere nearly always changes. I’m no longer Dan Riley, I’m DI Dan Riley, the copper, and then the questions come; cases I’ve worked on; grizzly details of murders and rapists. I don’t want to talk about the job; I want to talk about her and myself a little. I want to be judged on the man I am, not the job I do, at least not yet. Rachel never asked me much about my work, she let me speak when or if I was ready and wanted to. It wasn’t that she wasn’t interested but she knew there was more to me, to us, than my job catching criminals. Even on difficult cases, the ones where you become emotionally involved, she wouldn’t push for details, but she always knew when something got to me. She could sense my unease, it would be in her touch, a gentle stroke of the arm or face, she’d make a favourite meal, or put on a favourite CD or movie without saying a word. I loved her for that. For everything really.

‘A city slicker eh?’

‘Hardly.’ I grin and she grins back.

‘Are you into films?’

‘Do bear’s sh— do their business in the woods? My girlfriend used to say I was a walking encyclopaedia on them… bit of a nerd, you know, trivia and—’

‘Your girlfriend?’

She’s still smiling as she says it and I suddenly realise what I’ve said, how it must’ve sounded. I hadn’t meant to tell her about Rachel. I’d not mentioned it to any of the others, not least on a first date, but I’ve slipped up now so feel I have to explain myself.

‘I’m sorry,’ I apologise, taking a sip of my Jack and coke; a single, I’m still officially on duty. ‘That’s not how it sounded, how it was meant to sound.’ I’m digging a bigger hole for myself and she’s watching me squirm with a mix of pity and humour. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend, hence why I’m sitting here talking to you…’ I shift in my seat. ‘Although obviously I have had girlfriends,’ I add, ‘you know, before… you’re not the first,’ I laugh, ‘not that I’m saying you’re my girlfriend,’ I’m blathering. I feel tongue-tied around this girl and it’s freaking me out a little. I mean, I ask questions for a living; I know how to talk to people, it’s a big part of my job and I’m pretty good at it. I should be – I’ve had enough practice, yet I’m struggling here and I can feel myself beginning to blush like a complete dickhead.

She starts laughing and I join in, laughing at myself.

‘I was engaged… I was with a woman for a long time, seven years, but she died. Two years ago. Motorbike accident.’

Well, that certainly killed the laughter.

‘Jesus, I’m sorry,’ she touches my hand with her fingers and I feel something. It’s not sexual exactly but I’m guessing it’s along those lines. ‘What was her name?’

‘Rachel,’ I say.

‘How old was she, when she… when she died?’

‘Thirty-three, she would’ve turned thirty-four the month after she was killed.’

‘Gosh, that’s no age at all… Have you had any relationships since she… since she passed? Sorry,’ she apologises, ‘tell me to shut up if you think I’m prying, I… I just…’

‘It’s fine,’ I smile at her warmly. People never know what to say when you talk about dead people, lost loved ones. Invariably they always feel they’ve said the wrong thing. But it’s worse when they say nothing at all.

‘Actually, you’re the first person, the first person I’ve met on that website anyway, who I’ve told. It’s not exactly a pleasant icebreaker, bringing up your dead girlfriend is it?’

She smiles at me a little sadly and now I feel like I’m fishing for sympathy, which I’m not really. I’ve had more than my fair share of that. I don’t want pity, certainly not from a pretty stranger. She probably thinks I’m after a sympathy shag. Good God, this is going from bad to worse.

‘And to answer your question, no… no I haven’t. I haven’t been looking to meet anyone really.’

She nods.

‘So why now?’

It’s a direct question yet I can’t really give her a direct response because I don’t exactly know myself. It should be easy to answer, but it’s complicated in my head and I’m not sure I can articulate my feelings so I say, ‘I’m lonely, I guess,’ which makes me sound like a loser. But at least I’ve told the truth about one thing. ‘I miss her, of course. But I miss company and conversation, listening to music with someone, catching a film, going to dinner, travelling, talking, laughing… you know the simple, everyday stuff…’ I glance up at Florence and look down with a smile. She’s silent so I look back up at her again.

‘Touching,’ she says, looking directly into my eyes, ‘do you miss that?’

I swallow loudly. I’d not expected that but we’re both adults so I suppose it’s a fair-enough question.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I miss that too.’

She holds my gaze for a few seconds and then my phone rings.

‘Shit,’ I say and cover my hand with my mouth and we both laugh nervously. ‘Sorry.’ I answer it. ‘Shit,’ I repeat. ‘Touchy… Jesus,’ I glance at my watch, ‘it slipped my mind… I’m on my way,’ I say, standing to leave.

She looks up at me and disappointment flashes across her face. This makes me feel pleased because I’m guessing it means she doesn’t want me to go.

‘Florence, I’m really sorry,’ I say, ‘I totally forgot that I have to meet a colleague… I was supposed to be at… at a business meeting,’ I explain, badly. ‘It’s really important. Please forgive me? Can we do this again? Another time? Perhaps I can take you out for dinner to make up for it?’

She nods her understanding.

‘Guess it’s busy in the world of architecture.’ She smiles and her face lights up again. She has a megawatt smile. ‘Dinner would be lovely…’ She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a pen before writing her digits down on the back of a receipt and handing it to me. Her fingers lightly touch mine.

‘Great,’ I say, ‘it’s a date… well, a date meaning it’s… well, you know what I mean…’ I wish I had my gun on me because I’d use it on myself right about now. It’s safe to say that I’m woefully out of practice around women I’m attracted to.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say, which makes me sound like even more of a prat, like she’s at an audition or something and so I make to leave before I reach the point of no return. I’m guessing she’s thinking the same thing because she says, ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you, eh?’ albeit humorously.

‘Seriously, I am sorry,’ I say, ‘I was enjoying our chat. I’d really like to see you again, if you’d like to that is?’

She downs the rest of her rum and coke and meets me with those eyes again.

‘Yes Daniel,’ she says with a faint smile, ‘I would like that very much.’