If Dante had been alive today, I’m positive he would have put blind dating into one of his circles of hell.

I stop a few yards away from the coffee shop and anxiously check my appearance in a handy shop window. My angular face looks pinched and cold, and as I suspected, my brown hair is rioting out of the order I’d put it in before I set out. Some of that is down to my bloody hair which never does as it’s told, unlike its owner, but the rest has to be the weather. It’s February in England, which means cold, blustery weather and never-ending rain. The streets of York gleam like grey marble, and the sky is an overcast tumble of angry looking clouds.

I usually love this time of year, relishing sitting in front of big fires, toasting my feet and drinking hot toddies. However, I’m not feeling the love at the moment, and, as if on cue, a young couple reel out of a card shop, giggling and kissing. She has a huge pink balloon in her hand, and I glare impotently at the hearts and flowers that swamp the window. Valentine’s Day.

It’s not exactly my favourite day of the year. I hate the rampant consumerism about it, the frantic over the top demonstrations of affection. I’ve always been the type of person who believes that real romance comes from the fleeting moments in everyday life when you show love and mean it. I huff out a smile. What do I know? If I was any good at romance, maybe I wouldn’t be alone again.

Pushing the depressing thought away with the ease of practice, I look up at the coffee shop sign as it sways in the wind and anxiety grips me. Shit. Am I doing the right thing? I pull out my phone and click on the familiar dating app. It opens with a swirl of colour, and I click through until I find the message informing me that I’ve been matched with someone. The subsequent chain of messages I’ve received from my date arranging this meeting, are highlighted.

I’ve got an up close and personal acquaintance with Grindr, but I’ve never used a real dating app before, and this one smacks of cheesy adverts and toothpaste smiles. It works on the premise that you never see the face of the person you’re meeting. Instead you rely totally on the expertise of the matchmakers. I never thought I’d miss the obligatory dick pics, but I feel a passing nostalgia for them now that I’m meeting a faceless man.

I grip the phone tightly and hesitate. I could leave now. Go home and curl up in front of the fire and get on with the revisions my editor has suggested. My new book’s release date is feeling a lot closer every day. I’m a horror writer and last year I scored a publishing contract that was big enough for me to gratefully quit my day job as a clerk in an insurance company to write full time.

I love writing with a passion, but it definitely seems more serious now that I rely solely on it to pay my bills. It’s also possible, that now I no longer have to adult at my job, I’ve become a bit of a hairy hermit. Some days I don’t even get out of my pajamas and my best friend, Sage, swore only last week that I now bear a passing resemblance to Mr Twit.

I look up at the sign again and let resolve fill me. My supposed perfect match is waiting for me a few feet away. If it’s a failure, then no one will know, and if it’s a success I just might find everything I’ve been looking for, and also someone who might prevent me from dying a lonely, single, old man and being eaten by my grumpy dog, Charlie.

Filled with resolution, I nod and stride forward grimly. Maybe too grimly. I pause and adjust my face so it isn’t demonstrating resting bitch. Sorted.

I reach out and push open the door. I’m instantly socked with a wave of warm coffee and sugar scented air, and predictably, my glasses immediately steam over. I curse and remove them, polishing them and popping them back on my nose.

The place comes into focus and I look around nervously. It’s fairly quiet for a weekday. Normally, coffee shops in York are filled to the rafters with tourists, but the rain and wind must have kept most people away. There’s an old couple sitting together but staring in any direction other than at each other, a young couple attempting to share one chair, and a man tapping away furiously on a laptop.

I stare hard at him, but he’s not wearing a red jumper, which is what my mystery man promised to be wearing. I straighten my own navy sweater and look around, my brow furrowing. Disappointment sears me. He hasn’t come.

My racing thoughts come to a stop when I hear a throat clearing behind me. I turn slowly and see a small table and leather armchairs tucked away in a quiet corner. Sitting in one of the chairs is a man wearing a scarlet jumper, and… my thoughts come to a screeching halt.

“You!”

Sage, my best friend in the entire world, gives a startled laugh. “Me. And you?” I laugh, and he shoves the spare chair forward with his foot. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “I thought you’d bunkered down to get through the revisions.”

I subside into the chair thankfully and take a grateful sip of his hot chocolate which he pushes over to me with the ease of practice. I curse as I notice pen ink all over my hands, before focusing on the question. “I have got a lot to do, but I had a message from that dating site I was telling you about.”

Something crosses his face, a flare of what looks like recognition, before a slow smile lifts his full lips. “So, you’re here for a date then? Don’t tell me. You’re wearing a navy sweater to identify yourself, and your profile name is Ink Sprinkler, which, by the way, either sounds like a porn name or like you’re incontinent.”

I pause, and then realization rushes through me. “Oh, my God. Are you Picture Man?”

He waves his arms about gracefully as if conducting a symphony. The sleeves of the sweater are rolled up, and the colours from the tattoos on his arms and hands shine in the warm light of the coffee shop. “I thought it was appropriate,” he smiles, and just for a second my gaze snags on those full lips and the twinkle in his warm, cognac eyes.

Then I snap back into reality with the ease of practice. “So, we’ve been matched by a supposedly zero percent failure matchmaking agency.” I snort. “We’re going to detract from their perfect score, that’s for fucking sure.”

He sits back, and something crosses his face too quickly for me to figure it out. Then he assumes his normal expression of lively curiosity and welcome. “Why?”

It takes me a second to work out what he’s asking, and then I laugh. “Fucking hell, we’re about as far from a match as Russell Grant is to marrying Jordan Barrett.”

“I personally am really shipping for that to happen,” he says solemnly. “They’re a match made in heaven.” He folds his arms and sits back. “Are we really that different?”

I smirk and drain his hot chocolate with a flourish. “Just look at us.”

He frowns and it sits uneasily on his open face. “What do you mean?”

I wave my hand at him. “Look at you, and then look at me.”

“I am,” he says, and there’s suddenly a deep note to his voice that I’ve never heard directed at me before.

I clear my throat. “You’re cool and sociable and outgoing. Good looking and a good friend.” I look down at myself. “I’m boring and colourless. I hide away in my flat behind a pen name, and I’m anally retentive to boot.”

He stares at me for a long second, and I squirm slightly under that focused gaze. “You forgot to mention kind, funny and a brilliant author,” he says steadily. “And the anally retentive bit I can really get behind.”

I raise my middle finger at him and shake my head. “I’m not under any illusions. Richard always used to say I was boring.”

He scowls and shifts in his chair. “I don’t know why you paid any attention to him.”

I stare at him. “You went out with him for four years. I’m your best friend. Of course I paid attention to him.”

“I wish I’d heard him say that,” he says fiercely, and then sighs. “Anyway, if that’s the sort of crap he was spouting, it’s a good job I’m not with him anymore.”

I shoot a look at him. “You never did say why you split up?”

They’d started going out together at college and stayed together while I was away at university. They were living together at one point, but within a few months of my moving back, they were finished and Richard had moved out. Sage has evaded all of my efforts to find out why, which is the first time in our history that he’s managed to keep anything secret from me.

I can’t even say what went wrong from personal observation, because I avoided being with them as much as possible. I found it peculiarly painful in a way I’ve tried hard not to analyze, to see Richard hug and kiss him and to see their possessions mixed together. I’d secretly been thrilled when he moved out, and then immediately ashamed of myself, because what sort of friend feels like that?

He clears his throat and I look up to find his gaze on me, curiously intent. Then he smiles slowly. “So, you have spare time for this date?” I nod, and his grin widens. “So have I. What a coincidence. How about we go out?”

I choke on my own spit. “Wait. What?”

He laughs merrily. “Come on, Noah. I haven’t seen much of you lately. I’ve missed you. Let’s go out and spend some time together.” He stares into space, an idea obviously forming, and I groan.

“The last time you looked like that, I lost most of my clothes from that bet.”

He smirks. “Well, that’s not going to happen today.” He pauses. “Not unless you ask nicely.” He laughs at my look of disgust. “Come on, I’ve had an idea. How about you take me out on your date, and then tomorrow I’ll take you out on mine?” He settles back against his chair and looks challengingly at me.

I stare back. “Why?”

He smiles. “Look on it as dating experience. How long is it since you’ve been on a date?” He pauses. “The last time was probably Hugo.”

I laugh at the look of disgust on his face, because he hated Hugo, my last boyfriend, and the feeling was entirely mutual. Sage thought Hugo was stuffy and snobby, and Hugo thought he was frivolous and a bad influence on me. “I think that was the last time,” I admit.

He leans forward and I catch the scent of bergamot that clings to him. “Well, what have you got to lose? At least you won’t be out with that arsehole.” He huffs. “I fucking hated him.”

“Why?”

“Because it was like he had a dimmer switch where you were concerned,” he says grimly. “Any time you laughed and shone brighter, he’d press that fucking switch and I’d watch you button yourself back up again and go dark.”

He shakes his head and I stare at him. Since the first day I met him, he’s had my back, and sometimes I forget that. He looks at me challengingly, the customary renegade lock of dark, wavy hair falling over his forehead. Before I can think about it, I reach up with the old familiar ease and push it back. It’s silky smooth, and I catch the brief scent of almonds. For a second our eyes seem to catch, and the room narrows around us as if we’re standing in the hallway of the House of Fun.

Then he blinks and cocks his head to one side, and the mood is gone. “Well?” he demands, and I laugh, feeling the energy sparkling through me, the way it always does with him.

“Okay, Sage. It’s a deal.”