A Leap of Faith-a FREE to read COVID-19 love story (15+) COMPLETE

What's a missing apostrophe between friends?

As I pushed open the door to the café, I spotted Tom straight away. He turned his head and saw me in the doorway, an enormous smile splitting his face in two. He looked just like his photo, making my heart soar. (It was astonishing how many men on dating sites didn't.)

He wore his clothes, rather than them wearing him. A tight-fitting black shirt, grey jumper tied around his shoulders and jeans. The fashionista in me knew they weren't designer, but somehow, they fitted him so well, they could have been. As he stood up, he had to duck to avoid bashing his head on the lower level of the ceiling.

Feminism's last taboo. Most women still hanker over a tall man, an age-old prejudice that refuses to die.

I returned the smile and hurried over.

He pulled the chair out for me, hands making for my shoulders to take my coat off for me. The old-fashioned manners charmed me.

"Sorry I'm late."

"Sure, you're not. This isn't me usual neck of the woods, so I set off far too early."

Thanks to those phone calls, the voice was familiar and at the same time not. It sounded deeper; the Irish lilt stronger when spoken in actual life. We sat opposite each other—scrutiny mirrored on each side. Tom's eyes were enormous, dominating a sharp, triangular face, and a greeny-blue colour fringed with eyelashes any woman would kill for. Mine came courtesy of my local beauty salon—two layers of super-long spidery falsies. His eyes swept over me.

"Do you live near here then?"

"Yes—I'm only fifteen minutes away. You?"

"The east end. A flat in an area the landlord said was 'up and coming', by which he meant 'a shithole'. He must have decided that I'm not from Glasgow and a daft laddie from the backwaters of Ireland, so he could get away with dat kind of creative language.'"

Eyes widening in comic dismay, he put his hand in front of his mouth. "Excuse me French. Me mother would be horrified if she knew I'd sworn in front of you."

Blame it on heightened emotions and the shock of that email earlier in the day, but the word 'mother' made me blink several times. My eyes watered—the reaction too quick for me to hide.

Tom leaned in closer. "Hey! Are you all right?"

A waitress appeared, neat grey apron across a black T-shirt and cargo pants. Did we want to order? Soup of the day was that old Scottish favourite, lentil and bacon. Tom waved her away. "Can you give us a few minutes?"

He clasped my hands across the table. I flashed him a watery smile.

Go away, Richard, piss off and don't come back out from whoever rock you crawled out of.

"Honestly, I'm fine. Allergic reaction to something, probably! Do you want anything to eat? Their sandwiches are amazing. Or what about the soup? They serve it here with cheese scones."

His eyes held mine for a second or so—a man recognising someone desperate to change the subject. But he accepted it, turning to the waitress who made her way over once more.

"A black coffee," I said at the same time as Tom asked for a roast beef baguette.

He expressed dismay when I said 'no' to food. "Aw c'mon. Please eat. I'll share something with you. What about that hummus platter thing? Don't all women love hummus?"

The waitress nodded. "Yeah! It's like crack to us! The stuff here is made fresh on the premises."

A test. Me and my hygiene rules winced at the thought of shared cutlery, ridiculous as that was. Darla's advice on Friday afternoon when she'd called me at the hairdresser? The gem, "Don't let on how obsessed with cleanliness you are, Aunt Sophs. Or he'll think you're a weirdo."