The sign above the restaurant door says Nibbles.

This is what Olly has ended up calling it?

It’s … not great.

I mean, I know it’s a tapas place, so the precise idea is that you sit and nibble … but still, I sort of had in mind something a bit more exciting than that.

I’m not going to say anything, though; I’m not going to be anything other than a hundred per cent positive about the entire evening.

Which, to be fair, I don’t think is going to be a very difficult task. It’s all looking absolutely terrific. The plate-glass doors are all open on to the street, and there’s music filtering out, and there’s a (rather pretty) waitress standing by the main entrance with a plate of delicious-looking arancini-type things, offering them to interested passers-by. And if this weren’t enticing enough, there are all kinds of amazing aromas wafting out: fresh herbs, and grilling meat, and something sweet underlying it all that smells like peaches baking with vanilla …

‘Welcome to Libby’s!’ the waitress says.

I must have misheard this; she must have said, Welcome, Libby. Though it’s a bit of a mystery how she knows my name.

‘Sorry!’ she goes on, screwing up her face and looking annoyed with herself. ‘Welcome to Nibbles. The name got changed at the last minute, and I keep saying the wrong one!’

‘You mean … the name was Libby’s?’

She nods. ‘Right up until this afternoon. Such a last-minute thing, and he had to get the decorator to redo half the sign, and the manager had to run to the copy shop and reprint all the menus …’ She lowers her voice. ‘And don’t tell anyone I said so, but I quite liked the name before.’

‘Libby’s?’ I repeat. ‘That was what it was?’

‘Yeah. I liked that better. Still, Nibbles is good, too. Talking of which, would you like one?’

‘Sorry?’

‘A nibble! These are deep-fried rice balls, and they’re great. Some of them are stuffed with mozzarella, and some of them are filled with fresh peas … um … I’ve forgotten which are which, to be honest with you …’

‘That’s OK. I’ll have something in a bit.’

‘Good plan. Get yourself a drink first, I would. The bar is serving Aperol spritzers, or there’s some pretty nice wine being circulated by my lovely colleagues.’

‘Wine,’ I blurt, clumsily. ‘God, yes.’

‘Er – right. Well, enjoy!’

It’s all a bit of a blur as I walk past her and into the crowded restaurant, and not just because it’s filled with noise and people.

Olly named the restaurant after me?

And then … un-named it again?

He must be even angrier with me than I thought.

I can see him, over in the corner near the bar, chatting animatedly to Jesse, his former assistant chef, who is now in charge of all Olly’s location catering operations.

Just for a moment, our eyes meet.

He doesn’t smile.

He simply waves, mouths a ‘Hello’, and performs a quick mime that I think means do you have a drink?

He doesn’t wait for my response before he re-enters his animated conversation with Jesse.

I need to go and talk to him, and apologize, profusely, for not turning up yesterday when I said I would. And then apologize even more profusely for not being around as much as I should have been for moral support these last few months. Apologize, frankly, as much as I need to. Because seriously: how pissed off with me must he have been to … remove my name from his restaurant?

I mean, obviously there’s the other fact that I’m pretty much astounded he’d even have chosen me to name the restaurant after in the first place …

I need to find Nora, somewhere in this crowd, and see if she knows anything about this. She’ll be tricky to locate, being so tiny, but I’m quite sure if I can spot Tash’s tall, blonde head, Nora won’t be too far behind.

I’m just setting forth through the sea of people, eyes peeled, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

It’s Adam. Yep, my secretly gay ex-boyfriend.

I suppose I should have realized that, as Olly’s major investor, he’d probably be invited tonight.

‘Adam,’ I say.

‘Libby!’ he replies, with a lot more enthusiasm, and leans in to kiss me on either cheek. ‘So good to see you … if it really is you under that blonde hair?’

‘Yes. It’s me.’

‘Well, it suits you! You look terrific. That dress,’ he sketches a hand at the pale yellow sundress I eventually decided to risk wearing, ‘is fabulous. And have you lost weight?’

‘Thank you, Adam.’

‘No, no, I’m not saying you were overweight before … you absolutely weren’t. Certainly not that I ever noticed, anyway. And before you accuse me of not paying attention, let me just say, Libby, that I always found you very attractive, even though …’

‘Even though you prefer men?’

‘Well, it’s not just about preferring … I mean, I’m not bi, if that’s what you were wondering. I don’t fancy women in the slightest.’

‘And yet,’ I point out, ‘you didn’t feel the need to mention that to me at all during the course of our two-month relationship.’

‘No.’ He looks a bit sheepish. ‘I get that I screwed up. But I’m trying to be nice here, Libby. I’m saying that even though I don’t find women attractive, I always thought that you were.’

My head is reeling with all this. ‘Are you saying I look like a man?’

‘No! Christ, no. I’m just saying … look, you have a nice personality, Libby, OK? I found you an appealing person to be around. And just so you know, I really did see us having a future together!’

‘As what?’ I stare at him. ‘A future based on me making myself available for jaunts across the Atlantic whenever you had a family wedding or bar mitzvah to go to, and didn’t want to leap out of the closet just yet?’

Adam turns rather pink. ‘I wouldn’t put it exactly like that, Libby, no … anyway, I’d have told you the truth eventually.’

‘I doubt that. Ben might have, though.’

‘Oh, yes, Ben.’ Adam looks relieved to be able to latch on to a way out of this uncomfortable conversation and, to be quite honest, I’m perfectly happy to give it to him. ‘He mentioned that he’d finally managed to speak to you. I’m telling you, Libby, he really loves your stuff. Wouldn’t it be terrific if he does decide to invest in Libby Goes To Hollywood? I mean, I’d just feel really good about bringing the two of you together …’

You know what: I can’t be angry with him any longer.

For one thing, I’m not really angry with him any more. (I’m even, sort of, glad to see him, with his abnormally healthy complexion and his uncomfortable-looking casual wear.) But for another, I don’t really have the time to carry on the conversation, because I really, really want to go and find Nora.

‘Yes,’ I begin, distractedly, ‘and it’s been good to catch up, but actually, I should go and say hi to …’

‘Oh, now, that is a tall drink of water,’ Adam suddenly says, his attention already wandering off me and over my shoulder.

I glance round to see who it is he’s talking about.

It’s Bogdan, who’s just walked in through the door. When he sees me, he raises a huge hand in greeting, and then starts heading our way.

‘Isn’t he the one who came to cut you out of the gate the other night?’ Adam is hissing, in my ear. ‘You have to introduce me properly!’

‘You’re serious?’ I stare at him. Then I stare at Bogdan, who’s looking, well, unique this evening in (why?) pale orange denim dungarees that have more than just a hint of Guantanamo about them, and a Keep Calm And Love Harry Styles T-shirt. ‘Adam, you have a boyfriend!’

‘I’m not asking you for his inside-leg measurement!’ Adam squeaks. ‘I’d just like a chat … Adam Rosenfeld,’ he’s saying, extending a hand to Bogdan before I can even say anything. ‘We met the other evening. I don’t know if you remember …?’

‘Of course am remembering this. Am not being able to forget.’

‘Oh, well, you’re very kind …’

‘Image of Libby with head between iron bars and bum in air is grilling itself on brain for whole of eternity.’

‘I think you mean searing, Bogdan,’ I say. ‘But thanks for reminding us all about it, either way.’

‘Is no problem,’ Bogdan replies, affably. ‘Is good to be seeing you again, too,’ he tells Adam. ‘Am thinking about you a lot since first meeting.’

‘What an incredibly sweet thing to say,’ Adam breathes. ‘And in such an attractive accent, too … what is that? Russian? Hungarian?’

‘Am raining from Moldova.’

‘He means hailing,’ I translate, starting to feel a bit like one of those simultaneous interpreters at the UN. ‘Not raining.’

‘Am apologies,’ Bogdan hangs his head, humbly, ‘for bad English.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ says Adam. ‘Your English is a heck of a lot better than my Moldovan!’

‘Is nice,’ Bogdan says, shooting me a pointed look, ‘to hear somebody saying this.’

‘I mean, I do speak a few words of Russian; I don’t know if that’s similar at all …?’ And to prove a point, Adam drops into rather fluent-sounding Russian, ending whatever it is he’s said with a raised eyebrow in Bogdan’s direction.

‘Am very much liking you to be doing this for me,’ says Bogdan.

Which is a little bit worrying (I mean, what has Adam actually said?), until Adam turns and heads off towards the bar. So I’m assuming that what Adam was suggesting, in Russian, is that he fetch Bogdan a drink.

‘This is very charming gentleman,’ Bogdan observes, the moment Adam’s out of earshot. ‘Is pleasurable treat for me to be treated like king for change.’

‘I’m happy for you, Bogdan, but you do remember that he has a boyfriend, don’t you?’

‘Am not assuming he is giving me measurement of the inner part of thigh,’ Bogdan says, rather primly. ‘Am just enjoying the conversing.’

‘Yes, well, I really need to converse with you, as it happens.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Did Olly really get you to change the restaurant sign at the last minute? To Nibbles instead of Libby’s?’

‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘Yes. This is what Olly is having me to do.’

I feel something sag, somewhere inside me.

‘Wow,’ I manage to say, after a moment. ‘He really must think I’m the shittiest friend in the world.’

‘Am not thinking is to do with your shitness as friend, Libby. Is more to do with the snogging of Dillon.’

Hang on …

‘My snogging of Dillon?’ I ask, in far too loud a voice, before going on, in a more discreet tone, ‘Sorry, how does Olly even know about the snogging of … about me kissing Dillon?’

‘Am here earlier when your sister is calling him …’

‘When Cass called Olly?’ I’m confused. ‘Why on earth would she do that?’

‘She is letting him know that she is not making it for his big opening night party. She is on speakerphone. She has a bit of the nose of toffee, your sister. Am not sure why she is assuming is big deal whether she is coming to party or not.’

‘She is a bit toffee-nosed at times, yes,’ I say, ‘but her calling to bow out of the party still doesn’t explain how—’

‘Because she is telling Olly that if you are turning up to the party with Dillon as your date, he must be calling her and letting her know. This would be good reason for her to come to party after all, apparently.’

‘With her TV crew in tow,’ I murmur, the penny not just dropping, but thwunking down for a crash-landing, ‘for a ready-made moment of high drama.’

‘And Olly is looking a bit – how am I saying this? – blue in the fins?’

‘Green about the gills?’

‘This is how he is looking,’ Bogdan confirms. ‘And he is asking Cass why you would be bringing Dillon to the party when you are breaking up eight months ago. And Cass is telling him—’

‘That she has footage of me kissing Dillon from the other night.’

‘Something like this. Olly is going outside at this point, so am not being able to drop the eaves any longer.’

Right. Well, this all makes perfect sense, now.

I needn’t have worried about adding insult to injury by being late for Olly’s party: I’ve already added plenty of insult to injury by appearing to get involved, again, with the ex that Olly loathed.

Still … to actually go to the lengths of taking my name off the restaurant …

‘Is making me feel bit worried,’ Bogdan is going on, ‘about Dillon coming to party this evening.’

‘Why on earth,’ I ask, ‘would Dillon be coming to the party this evening?’

‘Because I am mentioning this to him.’

‘Because you are mentioning what to him?’ I gaze at Bogdan, ominous dread spreading over me. ‘And when? I didn’t know you were … in touch with Dillon.’

‘He is dropping into salon for trim this afternoon,’ Bogdan says, rather proudly. ‘He is still liking the way am doing his fringe.’

‘OK, this all stops, right now.’ If I had sleeves, I’d roll them up. ‘All this Chinese whispers, and people talking about me behind my back … I’m going to go and find Olly and tell him there’s nothing going on between me and Dillon, and that actually, it’s not really any of his concern whether there’s anything going on between me and Dillon …’ Because he can be as angry as he likes with me about being a rubbish friend: I’ll totally accept that. But to extend that same anger to the choices I make in my romantic life … now, that doesn’t seem completely fair. Does it? ‘And while I’m doing that, you’re going to call Dillon right now,’ I shove my phone at him, ‘and tell him under no circumstance is he to come here tonight.’

(I might be a bit pissed off with Olly for his high-handed disapproval, but I’m not about to have his big night ruined by Dillon swanning in. Not to mention that we’re only feet away from a fully stocked professional kitchen, laden with more meat cleavers and cast-iron cookware than you can shake a stick at. I can’t let Dillon put himself in that sort of danger.)

‘Please,’ Bogdan says, in a low voice, as I start to walk away from him, ‘be taking your time with Olly. Am wanting opportunity for private chat with Adam … and tell him I am being single,’ he hisses, realizing I’m about to walk right past Adam on my way to the bar, which is where Olly is still standing. ‘And ready to be mingling …’

I do nothing of the sort, because I honestly don’t think that either Adam or Bogdan need my help matchmaking the two of them tonight, and because I don’t want to be remotely complicit in any infidelity that Adam might be about to inflict on my (possible) investor.

When I reach Olly, he’s just finished up his conversation with Jesse, and is going behind the bar to grab a couple of bottles of wine that the barman is opening up for him.

I clear my throat. ‘Olly.’

He glances over at me. ‘Oh, Libby. Hi.’

Not the most prepossessing start, what with him talking in this strange, coolly pleasant manner.

‘Everything seems to be going really well!’ I say.

‘It does, yeah.’

‘Great! Um, actually, I wanted to have a quick word with you, Olly …’

‘Right. Now’s not really the time, Libby, to be honest with you.’ He holds up the bottles of wine. ‘I need to make sure everyone’s got plenty of this.’

‘Of course. Sorry. I don’t want to stop you, I know you’re working. It’s just …’

The first, the most important thing I’d intended to do was offer that massive apology.

But this isn’t what comes out of my mouth, as I’d been assuming it would.

‘Why are you so angry,’ I hear myself asking, ‘that I had dinner with Dillon?’

He flinches. It’s slight, but visible.

‘It doesn’t sound,’ he says, quietly, ‘like it was just dinner.’

‘OK, so let’s say it wasn’t just dinner.’ (Where the hell has my planned apology gone? Why am I getting sidetracked by all this ridiculous Dillon stuff, for crying out loud?) ‘Let’s say it wasn’t even just kissing. Let’s say I went back to his flat with him and had torrid sex all night … I didn’t, by the way,’ I add, hastily. ‘But why do you have to end up so furious with me about it that you … take my name off your restaurant?’

He looks right at me, properly, for the first time in this conversation. ‘Who told you about …? Oh. Bogdan.’ He sighs. ‘I thought I’d sworn him to secrecy.’

‘Olly, this is Bogdan we’re talking about. He doesn’t do secrecy.’

‘He’s kept his own bloody sexuality secret from his father for God knows how many years,’ Olly says, irritably. ‘Though quite how he’s managed that,’ he goes on, gazing over to where Bogdan, in his Harry Styles T-shirt, is coyly sipping wine and letting Adam (oh, for heaven’s sake) feel his biceps, ‘remains a total mystery to me.’

‘Agreed. But that’s not what I want to talk about.’

‘Fine. But I don’t want to talk about any of this at all.’ Olly puts one of his bottles down on the bar, picks up a clean white napkin and starts to wrap it, expertly, around the bottle to prevent leaks while pouring. ‘What you do with Dillon O’Hara is your lookout, Libby.’

‘Look. If you’re annoyed because you think I should have told you I’d seen him again …’

‘That’s not why I’m annoyed.’

‘… then you’re right. I should have told you. The only reason I didn’t is because you’ve had such a lot on your plate at the moment, and I know how much even the mere mention of him winds you up. And I know you wouldn’t have been prepared to hear how much he’s changed …’

‘Bollocks.’

‘He has, actually. A lot.’

‘Leopards,’ says Olly, scathingly, ‘don’t change their spots.’

‘OK, well, I always think that’s a ridiculous thing to say.’ I’m feeling pretty irritated now myself. ‘I mean, it’s just pointing out the fucking obvious. You might as well say tigers don’t change their stripes, or penguins don’t change their beaks, or elephants don’t change their trunks …’

‘They probably do,’ mutters Olly, ‘if the ones they’re wearing need a wash.’

I glare at him. It’s not a time for levity.

‘My point is that just randomly observing that living creatures don’t change their essential physical characteristics is no proof at all that people can’t change! I mean, if people couldn’t change, what would be the point of an organization like Alcoholics Anonymous? What would be the point of people going to therapy …?’

‘Libby, sweetheart, I wouldn’t pull on that thread, if I were you,’ says Dillon, who’s just strolled over to the bar to join us.

Oh, dear Lord.

If we all come out of this alive, I’m going to kill Bogdan.

‘Hope you don’t mind the gatecrash, mate,’ Dillon goes on, leaning down to give me a kiss – a rather slow, deliberate one – on the cheek, before reaching over to hand a bottle of whisky to Olly. ‘Just something to say congratulations, about the new place.’

‘Thank you,’ says Olly, accepting the whisky in the sort of way a disgruntled footballer accepts being sent off by the referee.

‘It’s looking good,’ Dillon goes on. ‘Nice décor.’

Olly merely grunts.

‘Decent-looking paintwork,’ Dillon adds, in a tone of deliberately pleasant surprise.

‘You know a lot about paintwork, then, do you?’

‘Sure do. Worked as an apprentice to a painter and decorator for two summers when I was a lad.’

‘Well, the decorating world’s loss is the acting world’s gain—’

‘OK!’ I interrupt, brightly, all ready to lead Dillon firmly away from the bar and out of the restaurant (and, ideally, as far from Clapham as he’ll let me take him), but he’s rooted to the spot.

‘So what did you use on these walls, then?’ he asks. ‘Looks like that overpriced slop from Farrow and Ball. What’s this one called? Dowager’s Tipple? Weasel’s Belch?’

‘It’s Dulux, actually,’ Olly says. ‘Jasmine White.’

‘This is never Jasmine White,’ Dillon scoffs. ‘I did a whole house in Jasmine White back in Clondalkin. Jasmine White’s got a more buttery undertone. This is Natural Calico, not a shadow of a doubt.’

‘It’s Jasmine White.’

‘I’m telling you, mate, it’s Natural Calico. Less creamy, more peachy.’

‘It isn’t peachy.’

‘Apricoty, then.’

‘Or apricoty.’

‘Jesus, mate, have you never seen the colour of an apricot?’

‘There’s more than one sort,’ Olly says, ‘of fucking apricot.’

Oh, God. Here we go.

‘Have you never seen a Moorpark apricot?’ Olly goes on, eyeballing Dillon as if his life depends on it. ‘They’re fucking green. Or the Red Velvet apricot …’

‘OK, well now you’re just making up apricots.’

‘… which is the colour of a fucking plum.’ Olly shoves a hand in his pocket and pulls out his phone. ‘I’ll Google it for you,’ he says, stabbing at his phone screen, ‘and then you can cast your expert painter-decorator’s eye over my walls again, and tell me they’re apricot coloured.’

‘Hey, look, it’s no skin off my nose what fucking colour walls you have.’ Dillon’s smile has faded. ‘You can paint them in all the colours of the fucking greengrocer’s, for all I care—’

‘Dillon, look,’ I say, stepping in front of him before the apricot paint wars start to become physical. ‘Maybe it’s a better idea for you to head off and get a drink somewhere else …’

‘He can’t have a drink,’ Olly observes, savagely, ‘he’s a recovering alcoholic.’

‘Better a recovering alcoholic,’ Dillon says, ‘than a smug, self-satisfied, apricot-obsessed …’

And now, all of a sudden, Tash appears, like a good fairy in a fairy tale, all blondeness and good health and looking lovely in (damn her) exactly the sort of all-black outfit I’d have probably felt more comfortable in if I’d worn it tonight: a black cotton broderie anglaise sundress, with her hair in two annoyingly cute farm-girl braids.

She puts a hand on Olly’s shoulder.

This is it. This is all she does.

But I can see, immediately, what it does to Olly.

He cools down.

And then he gives Tash a brief touch of his own: just one hand, cupping the small of her back.

It feels like the temperature, just around me, has dropped by about fifteen degrees. While over in the Tash and Olly corner, it’s pleasant weather: idyllic, in fact.

I may not know much about relationships. I may not even know much about men in general.

But I know Olly.

Something has started to happen between him and Tash. It’s as clear as day.

‘Everything OK?’ she asks him.

‘Everything’s fine,’ Olly tells her.

‘I’m Tash,’ she goes on, in her smiley, confident way, extending a hand to Dillon. ‘And don’t worry, I know who you are, I’ve seen you in loads of stuff on TV!’

‘Don’t stoke his ego any more than he already does himself,’ I mutter, as I grasp Dillon firmly by the elbow and finally – finally – succeed in manoeuvring him away from the bar, through the throng, and out on to the street.

‘What the fuck,’ I say, ‘are you doing here?’

Dillon opens his mouth.

‘And don’t give me some crap,’ I go on, ‘about Bogdan mentioning the party and you just thinking it might be lovely to pop along and give your old pal Olly a nice bottle of whisky you can’t drink any more.’

‘Who says he’s not my old pal?’

‘Everyone on the entire planet. Especially if they’d just heard the two of you bickering like schoolboys over shades of apricot, for Christ’s sake. And were you ever a painter and decorator in Clondalkin, by the way, or is this just another of your many fantasies about your old life back there?’

‘Hey.’ He’s serious again, now, in the blink of an eyelid. ‘I don’t lie, Libby. I never lie. Not about stuff that matters.’

‘Oh, so deliberately coming all the way here to wind up Olly doesn’t matter?’

‘That’s not why I came here. I came to see you.’

‘You could have called and asked me to meet you after the party.’

‘I didn’t want to wait until after the party.’ He reaches out a hand and touches my face, with a hand that feels light as a feather. ‘I wanted to see you now.’

‘Dillon …’ I take a small step away. A very, very small step. OK: so small a step that his hand is still touching my cheek. But still. It’s the principle of the thing. ‘We agreed we couldn’t make it work between us.’

‘You said that. I never agreed it.’

‘Point taken.’

‘Great. Now all I have to do is persuade you to be.’

I blink at him. ‘Me to be what?’

‘Taken.’

The pavement feels as if it actually just shifted under me. Which could mean that Clapham has just been the epicentre of a small earthquake. But, more likely, means that Dillon, and my all-consuming, unstoppable desire for him, has just made my legs turn to trifle again.

‘Can I hope that your silence,’ Dillon says, with one of his most devilish grins, ‘means that you’re at least thinking about it?’ He lowers his voice. ‘And the fact you’ve turned shocking pink and look as if you’re about to expire …?’

‘No.’ Arrogant bastard. I swallow, very hard indeed. ‘Or rather, yes, OK? I am thinking about it. But thinking doesn’t have to equate to doing. Now,’ I go on, ‘I need to go back inside and apologize to Olly, on your behalf, for all that apricot nonsense a few minutes ago.’

And, way more important even than that, I need to go and make that hugely important apology I got sidetracked out of doing earlier. If I can get Olly alone for a moment to do so. If I can disentangle him from Tash …

‘I don’t think Olly gives two shits right now whether you apologize to him or not.’ Dillon pulls his hand away from my face. ‘Or didn’t you notice that he and Blondie are seriously into each other?’

So Dillon spotted it too.

‘Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair,’ he goes on. ‘Get a cab home. I’m sorry I can’t persuade you that my intentions towards you are … well, not honourable, obviously. I can’t possibly claim that. But they’re genuine. And I’m sorry, Libby, but where you’re concerned, I just can’t help myself. I’ll never be able to help myself.’

He turns away and starts to walk in the direction of Clapham High Street.

And I turn the other way and – on legs that are still pretty trifle-like – head back into the restaurant.

Olly and Tash are still standing over by the bar.

They’re talking, and smiling. Their heads are very, very close together; her hands are resting on his arms; one of his hands is resting on her waist.

I think it’s best if I just leave them to it.

Best, in fact, if I just leave the party altogether.

Though what part of me it is that thinks it’s also best to leg it out of the front door, out on to the street and after the retreating back of Dillon in such a hurry …

The stupid primitive part, I’ll wager.

I catch up with Dillon just as he reaches the corner with the High Street, and holds his arm out for an oncoming taxi. When I reach for his other hand, he turns round.

‘Fire Girl,’ he says, looking surprised for a moment. ‘I thought you said …’

The taxi’s not even pulled up to the pavement before we start kissing.