“Love, we discussed this,” I tell her. The candlelight swims in her eyes. The reflection bells outwards with the swelling tear. She says nothing.

“This was supposed to be a quick glass of wine. You knew I couldn’t stay.” I’m speaking softly but we’re surrounded by waiters that can’t help listening in.

“We’ll make a big thing of it next time.” She thought she was surprising me but she was just embarrassing us both. Candlelight. Rose petals. Romantic music. Tapas to share, to bond over and feed each other and laugh and gaze into each other’s eyes and realise our feelings.

“Don’t cry.” The tear crests the lip of her eyelid. She’s making a scene, or more of one. She made a stupid mistake and now she’s playing the victim, like I’m standing her up, like she didn’t know I couldn’t stay. Turning all these waiters against me.

“I’m sorry. Look, I’ll just show my face at this thing and come back. We’ll have a night in. I hate office parties anyway.”

I get up and leave. There is no office party.