n pretty much all of the romantic films I’ve ever seen, there’s always a moment when the hero and heroine meet and the rest of the world becomes a blur. It doesn’t matter where they are; the only thing they can see or hear is each other.

All I can say is: romantic films lie.

There isn’t a convenient fog, misting out the audience. I see thousands and thousands of people: paused, silent and watching me intently.

Quickly, I do my best to wipe the terror from my face and walk like a model into the middle of the ring. I raise my chin and try to get my entirely rigid body to bend into a shape other than that of a stale pretzel.

None of my limbs are working properly. As I jerk awkwardly around the stage, with every movement Yuka’s eyes get narrower and angrier, and Haru’s hand gestures more demonstrative.

Swallowing hard, I turn away and try another pose. Then I move to the left and try again: curving forward with my hand on my hip and my right shoulder pushed back.

At which point I realise that Nick is following me.

OK, isn’t this hard enough without my ex-boyfriend chasing me around the stage? He’s supposed to be a boy-shaped prop. In the background.

Why is he winding me up again?

I flash him a dark look and hobble over to another corner of the stage. He follows, so I move again, but so does he. After a whole minute of being chased in a circle I finally accept defeat. Nick stands close enough for me to feel his breath on my neck, and every single hair on my body immediately stands up.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, bending into another pose. His hand touches my waist and an unwelcome thunderbolt shoots through the right side of my body.

“What are you doing?” Nick whispers. “What are you wearing on your feet?”

“Gloves,” I snap, changing my pose. “What do people normally wear on their feet?”

“This is a sumo ring. You’re not allowed to wear shoes. Especially not heels. The audience is furious.”

It’s as if the entire stadium suddenly goes dark. My brain shuts down in shock, and when I come back to my senses, I can suddenly feel where the eyes of twenty thousand people are focused: entirely on my shameful, painful, sparkling feet. “B-b-but I d-don’t—”

“Take them off,” Nick whispers urgently. “Now.”

I bend down but my hands are shaking too hard. The red straps are too tiny and there are too many of them. All I can do is paw desperately at the buckles while my eyes fill with water and blood rushes to my head.

Suddenly Nick bends down in front of me. “I’ll do it,” he says. “Stay still.”

He calmly takes my hand to balance me, and removes each shoe like Prince Charming in reverse, bows deeply to the crowd in every direction and dramatically throws the shoes off the stage.

“Now,” Nick says with a tiny nod. “Copy me.”