I’D MADE PLANS TO MEET my mate after. Now I phoned him, told him I was on my way, and half an hour later I was barging into his house off the King’s

Road.

He took one look at my face and said: What’s happened?

I didn’t want to tell him. I kept thinking: Do not tell him. Do not tell him. Do not tell him.

I told him.

I recounted the entire date, then pleaded: Shit, mate, what am I going to do?

Out came the tequila. Out came the weed. We drank and smoked and watched…Inside Out.

An animated movie…about emotions. Perfect. I was thoroughly inside out. Then I was peacefully numb. Good weed, dude.

My phone rang. Oh, shit. I held it up to my mate. It’s her. Who?

HER.

She wasn’t just calling. She was FaceTiming.

Hello?

Hello.

What are you up to?

Uh, I’m with my mate.

What’s that in the background?

Oh, er—

Are you watching cartoons?

No. I mean, yeah. Kinda. It’s…Inside Out?

I moved to a quiet corner of the flat. She was back at her hotel. She’d washed her face. I said: God, I love your freckles.

She took a quick breath. Every time she was photographed, she said, they airbrushed out her freckles.

That’s insane. They’re beautiful.

She said she was sorry she’d had to run. She didn’t want me to think she hadn’t enjoyed meeting me.

I asked when I could see her again. Tuesday? I leave Tuesday.

Oh. Tomorrow?

Pause.

OK.

Fourth of July.

We set another date. Back at Soho House.