“What? No.”

“Really?”

“Well, it’s the kind of thing I think I’d remember. I’m pretty sure this is just what my eyes look like.”

He looked slightly affronted. “That’s ridiculous.”

Thankfully, at this juncture a waiter materialised with the menus, giving us an excuse to ignore each other for a few happy minutes.

“You should start,” remarked Oliver, “with the smoked eel sandwich. It’s a speciality.”

Since the menu came in the form of a broadsheet, with hand-drawn illustrations and a weather report at the top, it took me a moment to find what he was talking about. “It damn well ought to be for a tenner.”

“Since I will be paying, that need not concern you.”

I squirmed, which made my jeans squeak against the leather. “I’d be more comfortable if we went halfsies.”

“I wouldn’t, given I chose the restaurant, and I believe Bridget said you work with dung beetles.”

“I work for dung beetles.” Okay, that didn’t sound much better. “I mean, I work for their preservation.”

Another of his eyebrow twitches. “I wasn’t aware they needed preserving.”

“Yeah, neither are most people. That’s the problem. Science isn’t exactly my strong point but the short version is, they’re good for the soil and if they go extinct, we’ll all starve to death.”

“Then you’re doing good work, but I know for a fact that even the big-name charities pay far less than the private sector.” His eyes—which were a hard, gunmetal grey—held mine so long and so steadily that I actually started sweating. “This is on me. I insist.”

It felt weirdly patriarchal but I wasn’t sure I was allowed to complain about that, on account of us both being men. “Umm…”

“If it will make you feel better, you could allow me to order for you. This is one of my favourite restaurants and”—he shifted position and accidentally kicked me under the table—“my apologies… I enjoy introducing people to it.”

“Are you going to expect me to trim your cigar later?”

“Is that a euphemism?”

“Only in Gigi.” I sighed. “But fine. I guess you can order for me. If you really want to.”

For about 0.2 seconds, he looked perilously close to happy. “I can?”

“Yes. And”—God, why was I always so ungracious?—“sorry. Thank you.”

“Do you have any dietary restrictions?”

“Nope. I’ll eat anything. Um. Foodwise. That is.”

“And…” He hesitated. Then tried to pretend he hadn’t. “Are we drinking?”

My heart did the half-dead fish flop it always did when conversation strayed even tangentially close to any of the things that had been said about me over the years. “I know you’ve got no reason to believe this, but I’m not an alcoholic. Or a sexoholic. Or a drug addict.”

There was a lengthy silence. I stared at the crisp, white tablecloth, wanting to die.

“Well,” Oliver said at last. “I’ve one reason to believe it.”

In an ideal world, I would have behaved with terrible dignity. In the world I actually lived in, I gave him a sullen glance. “Which is?”

“You told me otherwise. So are we drinking?”

My stomach had gone into a wild free-fall. I hardly knew why. “Can we not, if you don’t mind? While I don’t have medical problems with alcohol, I do tend to make a bit of a tit of myself when plastered.”

“I’m aware.”

And to think I’d almost liked him. Although technically I didn’t have to like him, I just had to make him think I liked him for long enough that he’d date me for long enough that I wouldn’t get fired. It was fine. I could do this. I could be charming. I was naturally charming. I was a quarter Irish and a quarter French. You couldn’t get more charming than that.

The waiter returned and, while I sat in sulky silence, Oliver placed our order. The whole experience was slightly strange, since I still hadn’t figured out how demeaning I should be finding it. I definitely wouldn’t have wanted it to happen regularly. But there was also some pathetic, lonely part of me that enjoyed being so publicly possessed. Especially by a man like Oliver Blackwood. It felt perilously close to being worth something.

“I can’t help but notice,” I began, when the waiter departed, “that if this fish sarnie is all that and a bag of chips, you aren’t having one.”

“Yes. Well.” Surprisingly, Oliver went a teeny bit pink around the ears. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“Then how do you know about the magic eel?”

“I’ve eaten meat before, and I like it. It’s just I’ve reached the point that I can’t justify it ethically.”

“But you’re cheerfully going to sit there and watch me chow down on bits of dead animal like some kind of creepy carni-voyeur?”

He blinked. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I just wanted you to enjoy the food, and I’d never impose my principles on people who don’t necessarily share them.”

Was it me, or had he basically said “I think you’re behaving unethically, but I assume I can’t expect any better from you”? The mature making-this-work-and-saving-my-job reaction would be to let that slide. “Thanks. I always like my dinner served with a sprinkling of sanctimony.”

“That’s rather unfair.” Oliver moved again, and kicked me again. “Especially given you’d have been equally, if not more, offended if I’d ordered vegetarian without asking you. Also, I’m sorry I keep catching you with my feet. Yours are never where I’m expecting them to be.”

I gave him one my meanest looks. “These things happen.”

The conversation hadn’t so much died on us as been taken out back and shot in the head. And I knew I should be playing paramedic but I couldn’t quite bring myself to or work out how.

Instead, I crunched on some of the baked salisfy and parmesan that had just arrived (which was delicious in spite of the fact I had no idea what salisfy was, and didn’t want to give Oliver the satisfaction of asking him) and wondered what it would be like being here with somebody I could actually stand. It was a lovely, cosy place, with the brightly painted windows and caramel leather seating, and the food was clearly going to be amazing. The sort of restaurant you’d come back to for anniversaries and special occasions, and reminisce about the perfect first date you shared there.