By five, I’m so nervous I think I might throw up. The shop’s been quiet so I haven’t had enough distractions and my imagination’s been working overtime. Henry and I have been taking it in turns to faff with stuff in the shop or sit and read behind the counter. I started reading a new US romance, with a beefy, long-haired man on the cover, nipples straining the silk of his shirt, but I couldn’t concentrate and ended up listlessly flicking through one of the glossy ‘anatomy’ books.

I’ve reached the point where I think I’d be relieved if Dan cancelled – or if something happened that meant I didn’t have to go: a small but not serious injury or an easily contained but inconvenient fire, maybe – so I need to get out of here and over to the coffee shop before I bottle it altogether. I just keep telling myself I don’t need to be nervous, because this is meant to be. I dreamt him. I literally dreamt him. It helps. But not as much as you’d think.

‘Do you need to go home and get changed or anything?’ Henry asks me. He’s so bored that he’s starting taking shelves-full of books down and wiping over the bookcases. He keeps finding crisp packets and tissues lazy customers have shoved down the back of the books.

‘I… no. I mean, I wasn’t going to.’ I look down at myself. I’m wearing my favourite black skirt and top with pink Converse. ‘Do you think I should?’

‘No,’ he says, without looking at me. ‘You look great. I just thought you might want to. I know what girls are like.’

I laugh. ‘Do you?’

The tops of his ears turn as pink as my shoes.

‘I might go and fix my make-up,’ I say. ‘Will you be OK on your own?’

‘I think I’ll probably manage.’

The lighting in the tiny bathroom makes me look wan. And my eyes look wide and scared. I add another layer of eyeliner, fill my eyebrows in a bit more and reapply my lipstick. And then I run my wrists under the cold tap as I stare at myself in the mirror.

‘You can do this,’ I mouth at my reflection.

And then I dry my hands and go.

---

The coffee shop Dan suggested has a deli in the front, and seating in the back, down two steps. As soon as I open the door, the smell of pastry and garlic and coffee hits me and I almost feel my body sigh. I’m glad he chose this place to meet. I’ve grabbed a takeaway coffee in here sometimes when I’ve been getting the Tube, but I’ve never sat in. I order a latte from the disinterested-looking woman on the counter and take it through to the back. While the front of the shop is bright and light, the back is moodier. There are no windows and the walls are bright with neon signs. There’s a white one that says ‘Dream’ in script, so I sit under it, smiling to myself. It’s a sign. Literally.

There are only four tables down here and only one of them is occupied, by a woman reading a book and wearing headphones. I hope she leaves before Dan arrives, but at least she’s wearing headphones and won’t be listening to us. Or live-tweeting our first date conversation.

I check my phone. It’s ten past. Even though the shop closes at five, there’s always a bit of admin stuff to do after. Henry had started cashing up when I got back from redoing my make-up and I half-heartedly swept the floor before he told me to just go ’cos I was making him nervous.

I scroll Twitter, while glancing up towards the door every few tweets, and it’s only just after five-fifteen when Dan appears. Because he’s standing in the doorway and the light’s behind him, I can’t see him properly at first, just the light shining around him like a halo. My shoulders relax – I realise I genuinely wasn’t sure he’d turn up – and then the butterflies burst in my stomach again. This is it. He’s here. This is the beginning of the rest of my life.

---

‘The interviewer was a bit of a knob, if I’m honest,’ he says, leaning back in his seat. ‘I don’t think he really knew what he was talking about. So he was asking me, like, stuff that I couldn’t possibly know, you know? And then when I tried to twist the question – you know that’s what they tell you to do? Like a politician? – he didn’t seem to like that either. So I don’t think I got it, no.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

He shrugs. ‘It wasn’t perfect, anyway. Good interview practice mainly.’

I’ve almost finished my latte, but Dan hasn’t even taken a sip of his cappuccino yet because he’s been telling me about his interview. I still haven’t managed to work out exactly what the job was – or what he does or wants to do – but he looks even hotter than he did yesterday. When he came in, he was wearing a black beanie, which he pulled off to reveal such soft-looking hair it was all I could do not to reach out and stroke it back from his face. He’s wearing different glasses today, rounder than yesterday’s, and they suit him. They make him look sort of European. Or like a hot young lawyer forced to work on a case with the female colleague he has a secret crush on. Or something. It’s possible I read too many romance novels.

‘What is it you do?’ I ask.

‘Accountancy,’ he says, nodding.

I’m not sure I’ve read any romance novels featuring accountants.

‘Oh, interesting,’ I lie.

‘I’m still a trainee, basically. I’ve got more exams to pass. Well, there’s always more exams to pass.’ He laughs and I laugh too, even though it wasn’t funny.

‘What made you want to do that?’

He looks confused for a second, his mouth turning down at the corners. ‘My dad… he works in a factory. And he loves it. He’s got really good mates and he’s always worked there, you know? Right from school. And I just… I didn’t want that. I wanted something where I could make decent money. I thought about law, but… I don’t think I’m clever enough.’

My cheeks heat up, but he’s not to know I’ve just been having a lawyer fantasy.

‘Do you enjoy it?’ I ask.

‘It’s good, yeah,’ he says, his eyes brightening. ‘It sounds weird to say it’s fun, but it kind of is, sometimes. You know if there’s, like, some money missing and you search for it and then you find it.’

I smile and he laughs. ‘Yeah. I know. That doesn’t really sound like fun. I want to get into forensic accounting eventually, that’s like investigating companies, what they’ve done with their money, how they might have lost or hidden some. It’s dead interesting.’

‘Sounds it,’ I say. And it does. A bit. ‘I do a bit of bookkeeping for my stepdad, Tom. The shop doesn’t pay that well, so he’s just helping me out really.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. He’s lovely. And I know what you mean. It is interesting. Like if the figures are out and you go over it all again and get it to work out?’

He nods enthusiastically. ‘That’s my favourite thing really. I worked on this case where…’

As he tells me about a company who were meant to have sold their stock, but had actually stashed it somewhere and faked the figures – I think – I watch him. I like his face as he talks. He’s animated. His eyes are bright and he’s quick to smile. His eyebrows are expressive and he has long dark lashes. He’s got nice lips and I watch his mouth for a bit, before switching up to his eyes again in case he thinks I’m looking at his mouth because I want him to kiss me. Which I think maybe I do. But not right now. I really don’t want him thinking that accountancy chat gets me hot.

He’s got a mole at the base of his throat and I can see a mark just under his jaw where I think he’s cut himself shaving. He’s got nice hands too – he’s fiddling with his mug as he talks. His fingernails are neat and clean. And he’s stopped talking.

‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s amazing.’ I have no idea what the conclusion of the story was, but luckily ‘amazing’ works for good and bad outcomes.

‘Right?’ He drinks some of his coffee. ‘I don’t know how they thought they were going to get away with it.’

I nod. I try to think of an interesting story Tom’s told me. Something about VAT? But nothing springs to mind. Instead, I say, ‘Your parents must be proud.’

He nods eagerly. ‘They really are. But they’d be proud of me for literally anything. My mum still says “well done” if I do a poo when I’m home.’

A laugh bursts out of me and he grins, pleased with himself.

‘I can’t believe I said that,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’

I shake my head. It’s not as if I want to encourage poo chat, but that was funny.

‘What do you do again?’ he asks me, picking up his spoon and poking the chocolate sprinkles down into his coffee. ‘Sorry, I know you said.’

‘Bargain book shop,’ I tell him. ‘Bookland.’

‘Ah yeah, course. Do you like it?’

I nod. ‘It’s good, yeah. I mean, the pay’s not great, but I get to work with my friend Henry. And we can read the books when it’s quiet. I used to spend loads of money on books, so it saves me a fortune.’

‘I don’t really read much,’ he says, finally picking up his coffee and taking a sip. ‘I never have time.’

‘Oh, I read all the time,’ I say, ignoring the flicker in my chest. ‘I read walking down the street sometimes.’

He laughs and I love the way it crinkles his eyes. ‘Do you really?’

‘Sometimes. Not very often. Too many hazards, you know?’

‘I can’t even remember the last time I read a book,’ he says, his forehead crinkling.

‘Really?’ I say, slightly too loudly, before I can stop myself.

‘I think, maybe… at school. There was one we read that was OK. Was it called… How to Kill a Mockingbird?’

I smile. ‘It’s just To Kill a Mockingbird. I did it at school too. Did you like it?’

‘It was OK. I was confused ’cos there weren’t even any mockingbirds in it.’

I think he’s joking. He’s smiling, so I’m pretty sure he is. I laugh, just in case. (And then remember Amy Poehler’s advice that if you don’t think something’s funny, you don’t have to laugh. I need to work on that.)

There’s a short silence, while I desperately try to think of something to say. I was going to ask him about books – that seemed like a natural progression from talking about the bookshop, but if he doesn’t read, then I’m stumped.

‘The shop’s not that busy most of the time,’ I say, eventually. ‘We compete on PopMaster every morning. We’ve got a chart and everything.’

‘What’s PopMaster?’ He takes another sip of his coffee, still looking at me over the rim. He’s got great eyes.

‘PopMaster? It’s a music quiz on Radio 2 in the mornings. Have you never heard it?’

He shakes his head. ‘I listen to Radio 1. I love Nick Grimshaw.’

‘Yeah?’ I say. ‘My friend Freya likes him. But we always have Radio 2 on in the shop – head office rules.’

There’s another short silence, and I wonder if I should ask him about TV, but then he notices that I’ve finished my coffee and says, ‘Can I get you another?’

‘That would be great,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

He gets up to head for the counter and a tiny, paranoid part of me expects him to keep walking, right out of here and my life. But that’s not going to happen, is it. Because he’s literally the man of my dreams. Well… dream.