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The good news is that I am only twenty-six minutes late arriving. The bad news is that the restaurant is one of those vast, gleaming, nook-free spaces populated with Real Housewife clones, each one so botoxed and bedazzled I expect to be handed a selfie ring light and microblading kit at the host podium. It could happen – remember how men used to be given ties to wear if they didn’t meet the dress code?

‘Buona sera, signorina.’ I am greeted by a sleek man with a shiny jaw. ‘How may I help you?’

He thinks I’ve strayed in to ask directions to Nando’s.

‘Buono sera.’ I dip my head then whisper, ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit late for my dining companion, Tristan, um.’ Oh gosh, I don’t know his last name. ‘Very handsome blond with a little dip in his chin here . . .’

‘Ah, yes,’ he grimaces. ‘Allow me to escort you.’

Even from this distance I can see my dinner date is peeved. I begin my fluster of apologies from two tables away. ‘I’m so sorry, I had a client meeting that overran and—’

‘You look different.’

My hand goes to my hair. ‘Well, yes, I am a little windswept . . .’

Was he expecting me to turn up with an updo and a silk dress like at the wedding?

‘I wouldn’t have recognised you.’

By which he means, ‘I wouldn’t have invited you . . .’

‘I, er . . .’ I falter. He doesn’t seem overly keen on my joining him. I’m not convinced either – we’re right next to the clattering and sizzling of the open kitchens, which just adds to the frazzled vibe.

‘Are you going to sit down?’ He seems fully exasperated now.

‘Just give me five minutes to tidy myself up!’ I rally, sidestepping a waiter bearing a tray of oysters.

I find myself hovering for a second beside the exit . . . Would it be awful if I just ran out into the night? We both seem to have had a loss of appetite – he’d rather be with the dolled-up girl from the wedding and I’d rather be with Ben. Or even just out in the cool air. Of course, there is a one-in-three chance that Tristan is my Big Love but I think the odds are higher. Or lower. Or whatever way round it is when the outcome is unlikely. Already I feel deflated and defensive.

‘Could you at least try seeing it from his point of view?’ I hear my mum playing devil’s advocate as I step into the hall of mirrors they call the ladies’.

I have to concede that he’s gone to a lot of trouble to groom and impress whereas I look like something that blew in from the moors. I mean, how would I have felt if I’d got a mani-pedi and a new frock, only to have him lurch in late in a crumpled football shirt? If my phone wasn’t dead, I’d be tempted to ask May to swing by with my rose-gold top. The thought of doing three courses in cashmere right next to all the flambéing and grilling . . .

Unless.

I reach into my bag. The slippy silk of the camisole is pleasingly cool to the touch. I feel a bit guilty repurposing it for Tristan when I bought it with a Ben bedroom scenario in mind, but what other options do I have? I dart into the cubicle, wrangle it on but unfortunately May was right about my underwear situation. My comfort bra is not exactly showing off the spidery lace to its best advantage. I’m going to have to try and drape my jumper over that area. Or order lobster and hope they provide a bib.

The more pressing concern is my face. As much as I’d like to reconnect to the liberation I felt on the Disruptive Beauty night, this is not a conducive environment. I start rummaging in my bag for my make-up. Earlier this week I watched a YouTube video on how women prisoners do their make-up without cosmetics – using deodorant and vaseline to work the coloured pigments from magazine pages into eyeshadows. I’d be willing to give it a try but for once I don’t have a rolled-up copy of Grazia in my bag. I do, however, have concealer, so I sweep it under my eyes, around the corners of my nose and in a circle on my chin. Blend, blend. No eyeshadow but I can smudge my kohl into a smokey eye and my rosy lip sheen can double as blush. Oh, that’s a bit sticky. I try to lift it off with a tissue but now have a layer of white paper stuck to my cheeks.

‘Goddammit!’

I turn away as another woman enters the ladies’, scrubbing at my cheeks as she enters the cubicle. On the upside, I now have an authentically pink flush.

I quickly wash my hands and then smooth a little of the scented hand cream behind my ears to double as perfume. All that remains is to loosely pile my hair up into a topknot, freeing a few waves around my face.

The other woman is stood beside me now. If I were her, I would be transfixed by my own reflection – the luminescence of her skin, the artistry of her brows – but she seems more interested in studying my outfit.

‘You need to lose the bra.’

My eyes widen. Is that a proposition?

‘If it were black, you might have got away with it, but beige that’s seen better days?’

I pull a face. ‘I’m worried about looking a bit provocative without it . . .’

She leans in. ‘You step out like this, your evening is only going to get worse. You lose the bra, he’ll forgive you everything. Trust me, I know men.’

‘Really?’ Suddenly I feel a little seedy.

She shrugs as she applies a layer of iridescent lip gloss. ‘It’s your call.’

And then she’s gone.

I look back at the mirror, acknowledging just how much better it looked in the boutique and then sigh, ‘Well, here goes nothing!’

This time when I approach the table Tristan scrambles up to get my chair and, when the waiter approaches, he orders champagne. A magnum of Moët & Chandon no less.

I sneak a glance at my fairy godmother, who discreetly raises her glass to me and smiles.

This really is a different world – gleaming cutlery, attentive service, leather-framed menus as big as desk blotters . . . Rich people even sound different in their small talk.

‘So, should we be toasting the success of your meeting?’ Tristan asks as the waiter positions the ice bucket beside our table.

‘My meeting?’

‘The reason you were late . . .’

‘Oh, I’d already forgotten about that.’ I swat away his comment, turning my attention to the pale gold bubbles filling my glass. ‘This place is so amazing. Any particular dishes you’d recommend?’

‘Do you often work on a Saturday?’

He doesn’t seem to want to let it go.

‘Very rarely, it was just this one client was in town from Italy, and it was the only day he could do.’ I study the menu intently, hoping he’ll do the same.

‘What part of Italy?’

Oh, for the love of pizza.

‘Bologna,’ I say, having dismissed the lesser-known towns of Carbonara and Amatriciana.

He nods. ‘I just got back from Milan the night before the wedding.’

‘Really?’ I look up.

‘Of course, it was business but I always try to take in some culture in my downtime. Opera in Italy is a much more visceral experience. And La Scala isn’t to be missed, especially if you’re a fan of Neo-classical design, which of course I am.’

‘Of course.’

It feels like he’s reciting a Telegraph city guide but he’s certainly got it down pat, pausing only long enough for us to place our order. Happily we both go straight for the main course – apparently he ate his body weight in olives while he was waiting for me.

‘And would you like wine with your meal?’ the waiter asks.

‘I’m fine with champagne,’ I say, as if I’m taking one for the team.

‘I’ll have a glass of the Bucci Villa Riserva Verdicchio,’ Tristan decides.

‘An excellent choice, signor.’

I wonder if a waiter has ever responded with a spitting motion and said, ‘What are you thinking? That one tastes like vinegar!’

‘Anyway! Back to Milan,’ Tristan continues. ‘Did you know that Bellini premiered his first opera at La Scala?’

I want to say, ‘No, but give me some peach juice and I’ll conjure a Bellini right now!’ But I don’t. Instead, I say, ‘Tell me more!’

Ordinarily I might find this lecturing style of talk tedious but I’m so glad to have the chance to catch my breath and for nothing to be asked of me, beyond the occasional ‘Really?’ or ‘Oh, how wonderful!’ It’s amazing how much drinking you can get done that way. Especially when you have a waiter whose sole duty appears to be keeping you topped up.

‘Of course, whenever I’m there I visit my tailor. He does the most superb bespoke suits.’

‘Is this one of them?’ I ask, acknowledging his immaculate midnight navy ensemble.

He nods, visibly preening.

‘Beautiful – very George Clooney.’

His eyes light up. This is clearly a man who responds well to compliments. At least now I have a tactic for the meal: I’ll simper and fawn and laugh like a bell and then go home and get in my pjs and strike his name from the list.

‘More champagne?’

‘Don’t mind if I do.’

I smile as I watch the waiter refill my glass. I’m finding the blurriness helpful, softening the edges of my brain. But then Tristan says, ‘So, Amy, tell me everything I need to know about you.’

‘That seems a little broad . . .’

‘All right.’ He leans back on his chair. ‘What do you want from me and where do you want tonight to lead?’

‘And that’s incredibly specific.’

He gives a cocky shrug. ‘Well, you were pretty detailed on the phone . . .’

I gulp.

‘I liked it,’ he tells me. ‘I like a woman who knows her mind.’

Oh jeez. I neither know my mind nor what I said. I take another sip of champagne. Is this why we’re at such a fancy restaurant, because I made some highly explicit sexual promises? I should really watch my drinking tonight. Or drink more . . .

‘You know, I knew as soon as you sat down at the wedding table that we were going to get together.’

‘Did you?’

He nods. ‘There’s just something about you . . .’ His eyes lower to the lace area of my camisole, making me so self-conscious that I fear even my breathing is causing an unnecessary rise and fall in that area.

I feel I might need to reign him in a little. I look for my fairy godmother, wondering if I could lure her back to the ladies’ for some pointers, but she’s gone – probably on a private helicopter by now.

‘Your cappellacci di zucca.’

Oh, praise be! The food has arrived, we can focus on that. Mine looks perfect – six pasta parcels in a brown butter sauce accented with crispy, deep-fried sage. I can’t wait to tuck in!

‘Spaghetti al nero di seppia con gamberi.’

‘Oh goodness!’ I startle at Tristan’s choice – I don’t know if I’ve seen a less appetising dish: squirms of shiny black spaghetti set with giant, pink, ridged prawns. It looks like a high-end Bush Tucker Trial – I think it might even be moving . . .

‘You’ve never had squid ink pasta?’

I shake my head emphatically.

‘You have to try it!’

‘Oh no,’ I wince. I don’t know which I find more distressing – eating it or the idea that he might try to feed me across the table.

‘What does it taste of?’

‘I think briny is the best description. Here . . .’

‘Really, I’m fine!’ I quickly fill my mouth with butternut squash and extend the necessary chewing period, adding a second one before I’m done.

For a moment I think I’ve got away with it. I’ve got him on to the subject of homemade tagliatelle. Gareth showed us how to do this on my last birthday dinner – flattening out the durum wheat dough to a paper-thin layer, rolling it up like a carpet, then cutting it into narrow slices that unravel into the delicate pasta strips. But then I see a heaped fork heading my way.

‘Come on, one little bite . . .’

Oh god! I’d use my fingers to take the food but of course it’s too slippery to handle so, reluctantly and resentfully, I lean forward.

The table is sufficiently wide that I have to rise up and bend forward, adding a peep show quality to the proceedings. I wonder just how far down my top he can see? Apparently he’s wondering the same thing because when I lose my nerve and turn my face away at the last minute the spaghetti continues its motion, sliding neatly down my cleavage.

I gasp in grossed-out shock as the warm worms slither down to my belly button. I don’t even know what to do – how to react, how to fix this.

Tristan’s jaw is equally slack. ‘Oh my god!’

‘I can’t tell you how weird this feels right now.’

Tristan bites his lip. ‘Can you just let it fall out onto the napkin?’

‘Is anyone looking?’ I hiss, pulling my seat closer to the table.

He glances around then tenses. ‘One sec!’

‘And how are you enjoying your food tonight?’ Naturally the waiter chooses this precise moment to check in.

‘Delicious!’ Tristan enthuses, reaching for his wine.

‘Signorina?’

I bat my eyes. ‘I can feel it going straight to my hips!’

Tristan spurts his drink as he bursts out laughing.

‘Oh my god!’ I reel, shaking off the liquid. ‘I didn’t need any wine with my food!’

‘I’m so sorry!’

‘You want to order the tiramisu now so you can just smear that all over me?’

He’s really laughing now.

‘You wish for me to bring the dessert menu?’ The waiter looks confused.

‘No, no!’ I sigh. ‘But a couple of extra napkins would be nice.’

‘Certainly.’

I raise an eyebrow at Tristan.

He tries to contain himself but bursts out laughing again. His eyes are streaming now, his nose pink, his teeth are on full display and not as flawless as they first appeared. And yet . . . he’s never looked more attractive. It’s as if a mannequin has come to life.

‘What are you trying to say?’ I ask as he points to my shoulders.

All he manages to get out is, ‘Spaghetti straps!’ before he convulses again.

‘You know, you wouldn’t find it so funny if you were the one coated in squid ink.’

‘Well, at least it matches your outfit!’

I try to hide my smile. I would never have predicted this side to him. It’s a world away from the terse individual who greeted me. And the conversational bore who made me wonder if the reason I kissed him at the wedding was to stop him talking.

Finally he catches his breath. ‘Any food, any body part – you choose.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m inviting you to return the favour – I have a whole fridge full of options.’

Did he just ask me back to his?

I make a joke to stall for time. ‘A little orecchiette for your ears? Jelly beans for your belly button . . .’

‘I’ve got a whole pork loin—’

‘Now hold on a minute!’ I raise my hand, which he takes in his.

And then my entire body chemistry alters. The mere act of him interlacing his fingers with mine sends a tingle through me and when his thumb begins tracing circles in my palm I become utterly entranced.

Finally I regain the ability to speak. ‘I would’ve thought you’d find all this mess and hysteria mortifying . . .’

‘Why do you say that?’ he asks, softly now, gazing directly into my eyes.

I give a little shrug. ‘Made-to-measure suits from Milan, Michelin-starred restaurants in Mayfair . . .’

‘Well, you didn’t seem like the kind of girl you could take to a taco truck.’

‘I’m exactly the kind of girl you can take to a taco truck!’ I snuffle. ‘Mind you, if ever there was a cuisine that spills everywhere . . .’

‘You know, my friend is hosting a Mexican street party next weekend . . .’ He progresses his caresses up my arm. ‘There will be watermelon margaritas and a Mariachi band that does Lady GaGa covers.’

‘That sounds amazing!’

‘So you’ll come with me?’

I hesitate. I can’t believe that an hour ago I was thinking of doing a runner and now I’m considering a second date. More than considering.

‘I’d love to,’ I hear myself say.

He gives me a satisfied smile. And then peers over my side of the table. ‘I can’t have you sitting there like that. My place is ten minutes from here. Let’s get you cleaned up and start over.’

My heart skips a beat – I’m going to see his place! But I’m definitely way too tipsy to navigate another posh restaurant. ‘Is there somewhere casual we can go?’

‘There is an old-school pub near me that does the best pasties—’

‘Bill, please!’ I cut in.

Tristan takes out his wallet and then reaches over to the ice bucket to assess the remaining champagne. ‘Do you reckon we can finish this before he gets back?’

There’s still the equivalent of a standard bottle left.

‘Go for it!’

Suddenly everything seems a lot more fun. The champagne glugging only makes us giggle more and knowing that we’re going to a scruffy pub where we don’t have to worry about making a scene is such a relief. I don’t even care about the state I’m in. All I want to do is to get this table out of the way so I can get closer to him. I’m longing for him to touch me again.

When he places his hand on the small of my back to escort me out, I have to bite back a squeal of excitement.

‘Taxi!’

He hails one like a pro.

‘Manhattan-trained,’ he acknowledges.

This time I am impressed, suddenly picturing myself on his arm on Fifth Avenue in a cocktail dress and satin heels.

He bows low as he opens the cab door for me. ‘My lady . . .’

‘My man,’ I murmur as I step inside, wondering if he really could be The One.