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‘Well, well, well.’ Jay arches a brow as I take his arm. ‘And then there were two . . .’

‘What?’ I say, still thrown by the whole experience.

‘Elliot was one of the kisses?’

‘Yes.’

‘But not a romantic possibility?’

‘No.’ I feel a little sad as I say it.

‘So that means we’re down to either Tristan or Ben as the absolute love of your life.’

My facial expression doesn’t change.

He sighs. ‘I think you need to eat that bombolone.’

‘It’s literally all I can think about,’ I confirm.

Jay directs me around the corner to a cafe by the name of Slim Pickings. It’s table service and we’re lucky enough to get the back booth so I can stealth-eat my bounty in this squeaky-clean land of Pilates ponytails and jutting hip bones.

‘So, where were we?’ I say, licking my sugary fingers and checking the box for any last smears of Nutella.

‘Tristan versus Ben – who will win our fair maiden’s heart?’

‘Who indeed?’ I sigh, reaching for my ginseng brew.

‘Is the hesitation in your voice because you are now reconsidering Elliot on the basis of free bombolone?’

‘Definitely not,’ I assert. ‘The flash-forward with his kiss went no further than the throwing of the wine – there is no romantic future for us. Nada.’

‘So why the lacklustre response? We’re a step closer to the big reveal – I thought you’d be on tenterhooks.’

‘I know,’ I say, looking uneasy.

‘You can tell me anything.’ Jay’s voice softens. ‘You know I won’t judge.’

‘I know, it’s just . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Out of all the men in all the world, I wouldn’t have narrowed it down to these two. Which immediately sounds ungrateful, I’m lucky to have anyone be interested . . .’

Jay sits forward, adopting his counsellor pose. ‘I understand your reservation with Tristan because, aside from being visual manna from heaven, he’s kinda moody and a potential psychopath. But Ben seems decent.’

‘Oh, and I like him so much, I really do. But he’s twenty-five.’

‘Ten years is nothing when you’re in love. Look at Tom Daley and Dustin Lance Black.’

‘Okay, so they are completely awesome, obviously. It’s just where Ben is at in his life – the whole nomad thing, moving from place to place. And he’s such a dreamer. Which is really appealing but . . .’

‘But?’

‘I was sort of hoping for someone I could build a life with, not just be enchanted by. Though I definitely feel I could learn a thing or two from him.’

‘Perhaps that relationship is meant to be a slow bloomer. I mean, if this is the person you’re going to grow old with, you’ve got all the time in the world to get together. Besides, tea on a toilet? In Crouch End? I mean, he’s the clear winner for me.’

I smile. ‘I did love being with him. And I think I’d be completely swooning over him now if I hadn’t barrelled straight into bed with Tristan.’ I give a little shudder. ‘So now when I think of him I just feel guilty and a bit sleazy.’

‘Well then, the sooner you can see him again, the better.’

‘That’s easier said than done. He’s got a new dog sit on top of the lunch and dinner shift at a local restaurant which basically means he’s either walking the dog or being a waiter during the only hours I could see him.’

‘So walk the dog with him or go eat at his restaurant.’

‘Doesn’t that smack of stalker – imagine my face appearing from behind the menu: Surprise!’

Jay smiles. ‘Maybe the dog walk is the better bet, work on that.’

‘Will do.’

‘What about Tristan?’

‘He’s invited me to this Mexican street party thing. I’m conflicted because he’ll likely expect us to sleep together again and I don’t want to do that before I’ve given Ben a proper shot. But then again, it’s only happening this one weekend and I do love a churro.’

‘Don’t we all. You said he sent pictures of his?’

I roll my eyes. ‘I’m not showing you.’

He gives a shrug. ‘Worth a try.’

And then I sigh, running my nail along the groove of the wooden table. ‘I just thought I’d be more certain. You know, in that “I just knew!” way. Wouldn’t you think I’d be able to tell which one is my guy? I mean, if he really was my life partner?’

‘I think you’re expecting too many guarantees and love doesn’t work like that. Not even for you.’

I look down at Jay’s taro root crisps. ‘Are you going to eat those?’

He pushes the bowl towards me. ‘Turns out I’m more tarot card than taro root.’

I perk up. ‘I suppose I could go to a fortune teller.’

‘Oh Amy, you’re already your own fortune teller! Besides, I don’t think you should be so fatalistic about this. Don’t you want to feel you’ve made up your own mind about who you’re going to be with?’

‘Yes, but I’ve just got this niggling feeling that my supposed superpower has got it wrong.’

‘You want to go back to square one?’

‘I don’t know! I mean, look what happened when my mum pursued the man her premonition warned her against.’

‘Okay, why don’t you take a breath and give it another week, then see how you feel?’

We’re momentarily distracted as a yoga fan performs ‘dancer pose’ while waiting for her table and then I turn back to Jay.

‘What’s your secret?’

‘Which one?’

‘The one that means you never get riled up about love stuff. I mean, no one is more dramatic than you in everyday life but when it comes to the thing that unravels the most even-keel folks, you’re so zen.’

He shrugs his caped shoulders. ‘It never made sense to me to bet the farm on one person. I mean, the idea that in a world of seven and a half billion people there’s only one way to live your life – paired up like the animals filing into the ark? No. That can’t be right.’

‘So why do so many of us want that?’

‘Century upon century of conditioning? Sex on tap? I’m not saying I’m a total solo artist, you know I like my flings.’

‘That I do.’

‘But I haven’t got time to have a broken heart, there’s too much life to live. Besides, I don’t watch enough TV.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Well, that’s the main point of being in a relationship, isn’t it? Having someone to binge-watch shows with? I’m not home enough to do that.’

He has a point. It’s certainly one of my life’s great pleasures.

‘Speaking of TV . . .’ I decide to move the topic on. ‘Have you settled on your fancy dress costume for the party?’

His face takes on a grave expression. ‘This has been very challenging for me, researching all these sitcoms and having to look at so much shapeless loungewear, not to mention those nineties suits that just hovered over the body – I can’t believe how much excess fabric the men were dragging around.’

I give a chuckle.

‘Anyway. I’ve decided to go as Tahani from The Good Place.’

My eyes light up. I can already picture the bold-print gown and décolletage bling.

‘I’m trying to persuade May to go as Jason, you know she looks great in a tracksuit.’

‘Now that would be perfect.’ I rub my hands together in glee.

‘You?’

‘I still don’t know who I want to be,’ I admit.

‘And therein lies your problem.’

Jay gets to his feet, adjusting his outfit in preparation for sweeping out the door.

‘That’s how we’re going to end our chat?’ I splutter.

‘I’ve got an appointment at the wigmaker’s. You’ve got your character and ideals to assess.’ He pauses beside the table and then gives me a sympathetic look. ‘You’re looking at these men for all the answers but all you really have to do is check in with yourself. When you’re with them, ask yourself, How does being with this person make me feel about myself? If you feel like the bee’s knees, that’s great; if you feel in any way “less than”, move on. It really doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that.’

I sit motionless for a good five minutes after he’s gone. Could it really be that simple?

*

I text Ben on my afternoon break as part of our daily back and forth. It definitely falls short of flirtatious (not for lack of trying on my part) but I do get a thrill every time I see his name pop up on my phone. It started with me requesting pictures of his Saint Bernard charge Nessa and led to him sending me a snap every time she offered a new facial expression or sleeping position. In return, I sent him pictures of me with my childhood cat, which led to pics of him as a skinny little boy out fishing with his dad. He had the shiniest mop of dark hair and looked like a dreamer even at that age. It sounds strange, but I miss him. He seems so elusive. I want him to be the one to suggest we meet up again so I can be sure he likes me but he seems happy to just be text pals.

‘There’s a lot of it about,’ May notes when I complain that I’m not making any progress. ‘People would rather present the cute sound bite version of themselves than bring the 360-degree reality. I mean, you can text and watch TV at the same time, text and eat, text and ride the bus, no one wants to have to stop what they are doing and give their full attention anymore.’

‘First of all, that’s really depressing. Second of all, he was great company when we were together.’

‘So, suggest a meet-up!’

‘It just makes me feel slightly sick, the thought of me initiating it again. I don’t want to come off needy.’

‘So Tristan is too forward and Ben is too laid-back. Don’t you think you’re being a bit Goldilocks about this?’

‘Maybe you’re right.’

And so I try this tack: If you and Nessa ever want company on your walk, I’d love to join you!

He comes back with an invitation to join the pair of them on Saturday morning. It’s just a sixty-minute slot but I decide to tell Tristan that I won’t be able to come to the Mexican street party that afternoon because I don’t want a repeat of last week’s farrago. I mean, imagine if Ben’s shift suddenly got cancelled and I’d have to say I couldn’t hang out because I had another ‘work meeting’. No. I’m going to be grown-up and show a little restraint. I don’t have to fill my every waking minute with potential suitors. Besides, it will be nice to turn up at the nursing home on Sunday sans hangover and looking presentable for once. There we are, I feel calmer already.

Within the hour I have a piñata donkey on my desk.

You know those outsize papier-mâché creations filled with sweets? All colourful and kitschy and cute – everything Tristan is not.

I send May a text saying I’m having trouble reconciling this playful gesture with the wine snob I met at the wedding.

‘You said he was fun at dinner.’

‘Well, yes, eventually,’ I concede.

‘We human beings are complex creatures,’ she replies. ‘Besides, this might be less reflective of his tastes and more about what he knows would appeal to you. In which case, he’s right on the money.’

I can’t deny that I love it. You see these featured in movies but I’ve never seen one in real life. I trace my fingers along the fringed layers of tissue paper and then pick it up and rattle it. I wonder what kind of sweets it has inside. More to the point, I wonder what kind of metaphorical sweets are inside of Tristan. I suspect he’s like that BeanBoozled game where you spin a wheel and you don’t know whether you’re going to be eating a Jelly Bean flavoured as a toasted marshmallow or a stinky sock. Chocolate pudding or canned dog food. I’m not making up these flavours. And they really do taste like their labels! Jay brought the game back from his trip to New York Fashion Week.

I try jabbing a hole in the side of the donkey with my pen, to no avail. I can’t start thrashing at it because my boss recently introduced an afternoon nap hour that is supposed to increase productivity and so everything is on mute.

‘Here!’ Becky from the Art Department beckons me over. ‘Are you trying to find a way in?’

I nod back.

She walks the rainbow donkey over to the guillotine and, in one ruthless move, slices off a leg. She hands it back to me to shake the goodies out.

‘Oh.’ Our shoulders slump in unison.

‘They look like those little hard-boiled sweets that cut your tongue when you suck on them.’

‘I think you’re right . . .’ I say, holding up a tiny purple sphere in a clear plastic wrapper. I can almost taste the grape, with a dash of metallic blood.

‘The person who gave this to you is a real ass, am I right?’

‘How did you know?’ I gasp.

‘What? No! I was just joking – ass as in donkey?’

‘Oh yes, of course!’

And then I walk back over to my desk and shake the sweets directly into the bin.

I really need to concentrate on doing some actual work. I’ve managed to get away with fiddle-faddling for a week but now I have to get a move on with the pitch for our new client. The trouble is, it’s such a blank slate and I have nothing to riff off. Give me a concept, a theme, even a colour palette and the ideas spontaneously ping around my brain but this time all we have is the product – a new skincare range for men. Mid-range. Decent quality. No distinctive smell or trending ingredient. The company wants to target younger men starting to care for their skin for the first time and has a willingness to give a percentage of the proceeds to support a cause because, in their words, ‘that business model seems to be working right now’.

This is actually the most exciting part for me – I’ve been wheedling at my boss to take on at least a couple of non-paying clients a year, to feel like we are giving back. I think it would genuinely help with our team’s morale and motivation. Last year I watched an interview with a former newsman and his theory was that the first surge of your career tends to be self-centred, all about what’s in it for me? But then the older you get, the more satisfaction you derive from there being a service element to your work, as in how are you benefitting others? Typically this doesn’t hit till your forties or fifties but I say the sooner the better.

So this is a good project which could have a positive impact in the world, provided we position it just right. They’ve even given us carte blanche with the name. Something simple and memorable that prompts an emotional response, like Zeus or Adonis but less male stripper. They also want something with a great origin story – like San Diego’s Hydraman, created by a former Navy SEAL. But without actually having a great origin story of their own.

I sit toying with the products, working the moisturiser into the back of my hand as I scroll through the competitors, amused to see how organic ingredients are typically described as gentle when relating to female skin but become ‘powerful’ for the male market. Women get less wrinkles, men get more manly. Women get smaller pores, men get to feel heroic for simply applying SPF.

Within twenty minutes I find myself reaching into the bin. I knew this would happen. I should’ve opened each wrapper and rolled each sweetie on the carpet until they were covered in fluff and street grime. Only then would I be safe from temptation. I opt for a green one. Is that kiwi? I move it around my mouth, rather enjoying the tang on my tastebuds as I return to my screen, sensing too late the crack in the surface. Within seconds it has made a blade-like slash at my tongue. I put my finger in my mouth. Yup. Bleeding.

I shake my head. I knew better and I did it anyway.