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We’re lying face to face, pillow to pillow, heart to heart.

The lights are dim and I can hear the faint sound of waves dragging and sighing over the sand.

His kiss is just a breath away. And yet I must resist. It’s crucial that I don’t venture beyond this tantalising, tingly ‘Will-he-won’t-he?’ stage. I’m attending a wedding on Saturday with a school reunion element and I have to be able to sound convincing when my former classmates ask, ‘So, Amy, are you seeing anyone?’

My plan is to give an enigmatic smile and confide, ‘There is someone but it’s very new, so I don’t want to jinx it.’

If I kiss him, I won’t be able to say that.

‘Well?’ he husks, eyes flitting around my face, looking so amorous I can almost feel the sensation of his eyelashes, lips and fingertips glancing over my skin.

I take a breath, hyper aware of the exaggerated rise and fall of my chest, giving away my attraction. I want to tell him yes. One word and his face would light up; he might even whoop. But I hold back, needing to be absolutely certain. This is a big commitment. I can’t afford another bad decision.

He sighs and rolls onto his back, sensing I need a bit of space.

My eyes linger on him, studying his profile, thinking how amazing it would be to get to know this man from every angle.

‘This does feel really good,’ I concede.

He nods, turns his head towards me. ‘Firm but yielding.’

‘Mmm,’ I say, snuggling deeper. ‘I could lie here all day.’

‘Do you want to try the memory foam one again, just to be sure?’

*

I’m just a girl, lying on a bed, asking a guy to sell her a mattress.

And I want to buy one, I really do. I’ve been searching for the perfect fit, something that will prompt a contented exhale when I recline at night, something that responds to my contours and cradles and supports me, something that gives me sweet dreams. I would also prefer one that doesn’t require a rope and pulley system to get me upright in the morning. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, just that one perfect mattress. Sold to me by Mr Right.

This may be an unconventional way to find romance, but it turns out few men are as attentive as mattress salesmen, especially when you’re in the market for a luxury, hand-tufted number.

I was going to wait to make my purchase until I was in my first flat as an actual owner but my quest for a characterful yet airy nook hasn’t progressed as I’d hoped. When a coil pinged through the worn fabric of my old hand-me-down mattress and skewered me like a corkscrew, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer to sort out my bed situation. But even that has proved quite the trial.

The first place I visited, the middle-aged salesman was way too creepy and hovering. When he eyed my boobs and said he could tell I wasn’t a stomach-sleeper I headed for the door, but en route he caught me looking enviously at the couple spooning on the Sleepeezee.

‘We do offer body pillows.’ He hurried after me. ‘Studies show that by replicating the emotions associated with hugging you can allow your mind to stop racing and enjoy a sense of peace.’

I looked at the long, cotton-covered columns waiting for a human companion and then back at him.

‘Do they come in the shape of Jason Momoa?’

The second place had more pine bed frames than mattress options so today I went straight from work to a superstore a little way out of town and that’s where it all came together: a spacious showroom flooded with natural light, soothing ocean sounds playing in the background, a female salesperson already with a client but cheerily letting me know her colleague would be out any second. I just wish she’d given me a heads-up about his eyes so I could’ve been more prepared: Just so you know, they are really blue. Like, Bradley Cooper blue.

I didn’t hear the first thing he said because they were so jewel-bright they put me in mind of the phrase, ‘If you’re going to rise, you might as well shine!’

‘Sorry, what was that?’

‘I’m Matt,’ he repeated.

‘As in mattress?’ I replied without thinking.

He burst out laughing and it was a lark from that moment on. To him, mattress construction was a form of wizardry – when he led me over to the display cubes to show me a cross-section of the inner layers, I found myself peering with genuine interest, while also trying to guess at the full form of the tattoo playing peek-a-boo with his shirtsleeve.

One minute I was learning about the medical explanation of dead arms, the next we were discussing Stephen King novels (of course, his favourite is Misery). Between the bed samples we did impressions of our morning zombie walk to the bathroom and shared the weirdest things we’ve cried out in our sleep. (‘I can’t, I only have three legs!’)

‘Did you know that swear words feature eight hundred times more often in sleep talk than daytime talk?’

‘Really?’ I gasped. ‘That totally plays into my fear of falling asleep on a plane and shouting something X-rated.’

‘You should probably travel with a roll of gaffer tape.’

‘Yeah, that’s always a good look. Hostage chic.’

He handed me a different pillow to try. ‘There’s even cases of teens sleep-texting now.’

‘Like they don’t have enough problems,’ I said as I stared up at the ceiling. ‘If I had a kid, I’d bring them up in the wilderness. Though I’d need to pack a stack of these pillows – how come it’s so springy?’

‘That one’s talalay latex – breathable, hypoallergenic. It’s actually made from the sap of the rubber tree – perhaps you could become our supplier, if you do end up moving to the wilderness?’

It was all so much more fun than the usual date treadmill of, ‘Sooo, what do you do? Where are you from? Any restraining orders I should know about?’ I didn’t know what he was going to say next and, like a deft doctor distracting a patient before a jab, instead of feeling self-conscious as I tested the mattresses, I found myself lying comfortably on my side, chatting away as he sat on the edge of the next one along. When the female salesperson clocked out and turned out the lights in the other sections, I felt excited by his proximity, not intimidated.

‘Have you ever had a customer ask a bed-related question that made you blush?’ I asked, knowing full well I was inviting a sexual reference.

‘There was this one eighty-year-old woman who was concerned that memory foam might impact sexual performance, since it lacked the trampoline qualities of a traditional mattress . . .’

I chuckled along. ‘What about . . . has a customer ever asked you to lie down beside them, you know, to help them judge if they would be disturbed by their partner’s movement?’

He nodded. ‘Karen prefers not to, but I don’t mind.’ His head then tilted to the side. ‘Why, do you require that service?’

Did his voice just get lower?

I bit my lip and then said, ‘I suppose it would be good to know, for future reference . . .’

So here we are, lying face to face. And it just feels so natural, like we’re under an invisible duvet and he might at any moment reach over and switch off the bedside lamp. This is what I’ve always wanted – someone I can talk to after all carnal desires have been sated. Someone whose eyes dance when they look at me. Someone who gives me best friend security and a bountiful heart.

I don’t know how it’s possible to feel more comfortable with this stranger than any of the men I have ever dated, but I do.

Now all I have to do to preserve this charmed feeling is slide off the mattress, take his card and tell him I’ll be back on Monday to make the purchase. I’d buy it right now but it’s already past closing. Besides, I want the excuse to return after the wedding.

‘I’ve definitely found what I’m looking for,’ I say as I get to my feet.

‘Excellent choice,’ he confirms. ‘I actually have the same one at home.’

It’s a sign! Or a line . . . Either way, it gives me a kick to think our bodies have similar taste. Perhaps we too will create the perfect blend of plush and firm . . .

I smile back at him, so happy to be sent off to the wedding with a little pocket spring in my step. ‘See you Monday!’ I sing-song.

As I move towards the exit he calls after me, ‘Actually, I think Karen probably locked the door when she left. Hold on while I set the alarm, I’ll walk out with you.’

My heartbeat quickens. We’re about to cross from the workspace into ‘anything goes’ territory. I look out across the empty showroom.

‘Wouldn’t it be funny if people were allowed to test the beds overnight and this became one big dormitory?’

No reply. I think he’s out of earshot.

Clunk.

The last light shuts down, the soothing ocean soundtrack ceases and the alarm begins beeping as he makes his way towards me.

My nerves flair. What will I do if he asks me to go for a drink? I don’t think I can resist.

Be elusive! I tell myself, stepping to the side so he can unlock the door. Keep him waiting a few days more . . .

‘After you.’ He ushers me through.

As he jangles his keyring and secures the building, I look down the street towards the tube station. ‘Which way—’

I don’t even get to finish my sentence. He’s swept me into the adjacent alley.

I go to speak but his eyes tell me everything I need to know. My legs feel weak with lust and I fall back onto the wall for support.

His lips are warm and ardent, triggering mini fireworks all over my body. I’d forgotten how thrilling this could be! As I respond I hear him moan lightly and I pull him closer, clasping him to me, feeling his belt dig into my hip. I dial up the passion, desperate to ward off the inevitable but it begins, as it always does when I experience a kiss with someone new . . .

Blackness, a warp-drive surge as my mind gets catapulted from this delicious, heady, all-things-are-possible moment to the very end of our potential relationship. There are times when the visions are muddled or take a moment to decipher but this one is crystal clear.

I struggle to prise myself out of his grasp but he mistakes my wriggling for ardour and leans heavily into me. I wish I could just go with it and sate my cravings but I go the other way and slap him. Hard.

‘Wh – what was that?’ he reels.

‘You’ve got a girlfriend!’ I exclaim.

He looks horrified. ‘What?’

‘You heard me!’

‘Oh my god.’ He looks stricken. ‘Did she send you here?’

‘No, I . . .’ I fumble for a response. Usually I pass off these flashes of insight as female intuition, mostly because premonitions are such a hard sell, especially in amped-up moments like these when I’m welcoming a man’s attention one minute and rejecting him in the harshest manner the next. They already think I’m half psycho. When the truth is, I’m half psychic. Well, not even half. And not exactly psychic. It’s complicated.

In this instance, Mattress Matt and I were in a bar, he was nuzzling at my neck, whispering in my ear and then a petite brunette appeared on the other side of the table, angrily tipping it forward so the cocktails crashed and spilled into our laps, all the while howling, ‘How could you?’ over and over again.

I know this sounds absurd, coming from someone who gets sneak peeks of future events, but I did not see this one coming.

‘You seemed so nice,’ I sigh, crushed to my core.

‘I am nice!’ he protests, hand rubbing at his smarting face. ‘You were just so . . .’

‘What?’ I snap.

His shoulders slump. ‘So lovely and funny and . . . unexpected.’

The way he looks at me, so sincerely, I can’t help but wonder – was there anything in the vision that could suggest he was not meant to scramble up and beg forgiveness? Anything to hint that his girlfriend was awful and snarky and dragging him down? I close my eyes and re-conjure the vision, reliving the profound hurt in her eyes and the way her hand instinctively went to her belly. And then I blanche.

‘Oh my god – is she pregnant?’

‘What?’ he startles. ‘How do you—’

‘Is she?’ I cut in.

He looks terrified and then hangs his head. ‘Yes.’

I feel stunned. Yet how can I be surprised? There’s nothing new here. If I had to sum up the last twenty years of my love life in one word, it would be disappointment.

I shake my head and then push past him, catching sight of a black cab as I stumble out into the street.

‘Taxi!’ I yelp at the yellow light.

It duly screeches to my side, the closest I’m going to get to a knight in shining armour. Better yet, the driver is a woman.

‘Thank you so much for stopping!’ I say as I climb into the back, reciting my address before glancing back at Matt. He emerges from the alleyway, looking emotionally beaten to a pulp.

The cabbie gives me a sympathetic look in the rear-view mirror as we pull away. ‘You two just break up?’

I nod.

‘I’m sorry, sweetie. Were you together long?’

I sigh as I slump deep into the seat. ‘Just a few minutes.’