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I can’t face the confinements of the tube yet so I decide to walk on to the next stop. Oh, this is just excruciating! The look on his face when I tried to make a move. Of course, it’s not a crime that he didn’t want to reciprocate but it just feels so utterly humiliating. I can’t believe I’ve been caught out like this! Ever since the wedding I’ve been on this absurd wild goose chase leading me nowhere and only bringing me more disappointment.

I look at my watch. It’s only eleven a.m. I’ve got the entire day ahead of me. I have to think of something I can do to short-circuit this feeling. Shopping won’t cut it; I don’t want to be around mirrors, it’ll only make me think he turned me down because of my assorted flaws. I suppose I could go to a movie. Sitting in a cool, darkened room and immersing myself in someone else’s life sounds hugely appealing right now.

I take out my phone to google what’s on in the West End. Why don’t I go all out and go to Leicester Square? Maybe I’ll see two on the trot, I’ve always wanted to do that. I’ll load up with Poppets and popcorn and just power through. I’m busily scrolling through showtimes when a text appears.

From Tristan. An image. But not of a body part this time. It’s the menu from his friend’s food truck.

He’s playing to two weaknesses now – hunger and the need to feel desired. I flashback to his hands on me, the depth of his kisses. And then I read about fried avocado tacos with poblano ranch slaw and ahi tuna burritos with citrus ponzu . . .

I mean, a girl has to eat.

And I still have plenty of time to go home and change – no fashion faux pas will hinder me this time. I find myself coming to a standstill. I need to get a grip on this situation – there are only two candidates left in the running now: Tristan and a man of unknown identity. Mystery man has disappeared without a trace and has made no attempt to contact me. (And as one of the bridesmaids, it really wouldn’t be at all hard to track me down.) Which brings us back to Tristan – indisputably hot, into me and offering a fun activity for a Saturday afternoon. And maybe even Saturday night . . .

I still feel a bit uneasy about his weird tantrum last week but if it was a one-off blip, this could be a golden opportunity for a re-do . . . He has been trying to make it up to me ever since so at least he regrets his behaviour.

Still, I can’t bring myself to text him back. Apparently, I need outside permission, so I dial May. She sounds genuinely disappointed about Ben but quickly bounces back with a dismissive, ‘Nice shoes but too young – on to the next.’

‘I feel I might need to give Tristan another go,’ I venture.

‘I bet you do!’ she hoots.

‘Is that wrong, though? He isn’t really my type and I already told him I wasn’t going to see him today.’

‘So don’t.’

Oh.

‘I feel I should probably give him another chance, just to be sure. I have very limited options at this point.’

‘So do.’

‘You’re saying it’s up to me? What happened to my wedding pimp who dictated my every move?’

‘I’m returning to my role as stylist.’

‘Well, in that case – what should I wear to a Mexican street party?’

‘Ha!’ she laughs. ‘Where are you now?’

‘Just about to head into Belsize Park tube.’

‘I’ll meet you at yours.’

‘Really? Do you want to come with me?’ Now that would be fun.

‘Nope. I’ve got a date of my own.’

‘Whaaat?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Unbelievable! You get to be all stealth and yet my love life is by committee!’

‘Well, you are a blabbermouth and obviously need more assistance.’

‘Fair point!’ I faux pout.

May chuckles. ‘See you at home.’

*

I can’t deny, May offers a great service. She has a set of my house keys so by the time I arrive (thanks to sitting in a tunnel for ten minutes), she has my whole outfit picked out, beginning with my Mask of Zorro dress from last year’s Halloween. I couldn’t be happier with that choice – the flounces of lace-trimmed red cotton hide a multitude of sins and make me feel like dancing.

‘How did you even remember I had this?’

‘It’s all logged in here.’ May taps her head as she begins plaiting my hair into two long braids. ‘So, how do you feel about seeing Tristan now that you know the odds are further stacked in his favour?’

I think for a moment. ‘I suppose it makes me more curious, like there may be more to him than meets the eye. You don’t expect people that good-looking to have any insecurities but he does always seem to be trying to prove himself.’

‘Maybe he’s always been in competition with his even hotter brother or had a girlfriend leave him for a Hemsworth.’ May shrugs. ‘There’s really no point in speculating when you can find out for yourself in an hour or two. What did he say when you told him you were coming?’

I reach for my phone and show her the gif he sent of a blindfolded woman hitting a heart-shaped piñata, unleashing a shower of red and pink confetti.

‘Quite the romantic.’

‘Well, it did come with a comment about how he’ll be blindfolding me later but I can’t say the sexual overture was unwelcome after the Ben rejection.’

‘I guess there’s no reason to hold back in that department anymore.’

‘No.’

‘You don’t sound entirely convinced . . .’

‘Enough about me!’ I look back at May in the mirror. ‘Are you going to tell me anything about your date?’

‘Nope.’

‘Where did you meet her?’ I persist. ‘Online?’

‘Pass me the hairbands.’

‘It’s not the Ruby Rose lookalike, is it?’ I gasp.

‘No!’ She looks affronted.

‘Sorry.’

‘Clips . . .’ I watch her fix my two braids on the top of my head and then pull open my knick-knack drawer so she can add a row of pink silk flowers.

‘I knew these would come in useful one day,’ I cheer, delighted with the result. I feel like I’m gearing up to be photographed for a ‘Mexican Summer’ fashion spread.

‘Okay, I’ve got to go but this is what I want you to do to your face.’ May pings over an image of a woman with strong brows, heavy liner and a bold red lip. ‘And here’s the jewellery.’ She points to a pile of my jangliest, most colourful pieces.

‘Got it,’ I say, then give her a pleading look. ‘Can’t you tell me anything about your date? Just one little nugget?’

She holds my gaze and for a minute I think she’s going to cave but then she says, ‘No,’ one last, definitive time. ‘And remember, you can say no to Tristan at any time if he gets weird again.’

‘Right,’ I nod, hugging her goodbye. ‘Have fun tonight!’

Back in my room I decide I need a little music to keep the good vibes going. I grew up with my mum playing the soundtrack to Don Juan DeMarco and as soon as I summon the guitar-strumming, flamenco-clapping sounds on YouTube I feel utterly in the mood for all that lies ahead. Within half an hour the transformation is complete and, I have to say, I love the feminine but foxy look – the abundant layers of fabric definitely give me an extra sass and swish to my gait. I turn the music up and do a few dramatic flourishes around my flat, shaking off my earlier humiliation with Ben and wishing I had a ruched satin garter to wear under my skirts. I’m feeling almost daring now.

It’s a teensy bit of a dampener to ride the tube but I sit there feeling like I have a secret and can’t stop a smile playing on my lips. Mischief is on the horizon and I’m ready for it. When I get within five minutes of the address I breathe in, tighten my belt a notch, push my shoulders back and prepare to make my big, sassy entrance.

My eyes widen as I round the corner. Joyfully clashing fiesta bunting is strung from one side of the street to the other – fluttery paper panels in orange, aqua, purple and red with cut-outs in the shape of hearts, roses, cacti, even jalapeños! I love how the sun is casting stencil-style patterns on the road. I pass a vibrant stall selling Mexican blankets incorporating stripes of day-glo pink, another with heavily embroidered smock tops and a wall hanging that says, ‘It’s okay to fall apart sometimes. Tacos fall apart and we still love them.’ I want it all. As the trumpets toot with almost comical joy from the speakers, it makes me wish my mum was here with me – it would feel like a trip abroad for her.

‘Oh, thank you,’ I say as I’m handed a flyer, delighted to see it’s on tomorrow too. I’m going to try to spring her from the home and bring her. Maybe a little earlier when it’s not so crowded. She needs a change of scene.

And then I stop in my tracks. There he is, as promised – by the Mexican folk art stand opposite the bar truck.

Suddenly I can’t wait to feel his eyes upon me.

‘Tristan!’ I wave, striding confidently up to him, hand on hip, giving it the full signorina sway.

‘That’s a lot of dress.’ He looks me over.

I ruffle my flounces. ‘I thought it was in keeping.’

‘I guess.’ He glances over at a woman spilling out of a tight red top and hot pants and instantly I deflate.

He doesn’t get it.

Suddenly the same fabric that seemed so flirty and floaty feels overly bulky and costumey.

‘Love your hair,’ says a passing girl with eye make-up in the green, white and red of the Mexican flag.

‘Thank you,’ I smile after her. She gets me.

‘You coming?’ My date is already heading over to the bar truck.

I request the longed-for watermelon margarita but Tristan decides the sugar content is too high so opts for a shot of tequila and a Modelo beer. He takes a swig and then looks back at me, hooking a finger onto the elastic of my neckline. ‘Isn’t this supposed to be off the shoulder?’

‘It’s easier to wear like this,’ I say, pulling it back into place. I really must update my underwear.

‘Spoilsport.’

I shrug and turn away, pretending to take in the scene.

‘It’s such a great culture, isn’t it? So colourful, so much energy.’

‘Weird how so many of them are so short.’

I frown back at him. ‘I don’t know that it’s weird—’

‘That’s my mate’s taco truck.’ He talks over me, pointing ahead. ‘You ready to get messy?’

‘At least this time my dress comes with built-in napkins!’ I joke, flipping up the top layer.

He doesn’t reply, just forges ahead through the crowd. I get that urge to run again, like I did at the Italian restaurant. I could let the crowd obscure me then turn and run, skirts hitched up at the front, fluttering in red waves behind me. But then the breeze carries a waft of sizzling flavour to me and I move forward in a trance.

He opts for the carnitas. I go for fish with extra lime. It’s so zesty-fresh with a tingling kick, I actually feel my mood improving.

‘Two more?’

I nod, taking an extra-long slurp of margarita as Tristan drops a piece of braised pork into his mouth. ‘Mmm, so tender.’

‘What are your feelings about mole sauce?’ I ask, as a plate layered in rich brown passes by.

‘Hmm . . . Initially I felt chocolate had no place in any sauce you might have with chicken,’ he begins.

‘Right?’

‘But I’m coming around to it, especially if it’s heavy on the chilli and garlic. You want to share some enchiladas?’

I nod.

As we bandy around words like tomatillo and chilaquiles, I feel my uneasiness subsiding. He does love his food. That’s something we have in common so at least three times a day we could be compatible. We’d be at work most of Monday to Friday. If we found a series we both liked on Netflix, that would take care of our evenings. We’re definitely good to go in the bedroom and I’m sure he’d want to see his friends some weekends. And I could see mine, still go off on jaunts with them. If we went on holiday to his grandparents’ vineyard, we’d have them to talk to as well. I guess it’s doable. If he was The One.

For a while we pause our eating and turn our attention to the stage where a three-piece mock mariachi band has launched into Lady Gaga’s ‘Poker Face’. Their costumes are fantastic – neat black bolero jackets with silver buttons and embroidery, bold red neckties and matching satin cummerbunds, felt sombreros with metallic threads and sequins glinting in the sun.

I look down at Tristan’s trousers – black with silver trim running along the outer seam. ‘You could fit right in with them in your outfit.’

‘Maybe I will . . .’

‘Can you sing?’ I ask.

‘Of course.’

‘Why of course?’ I laugh.

‘You know who my dad is?’

‘No,’ I frown.

‘Seriously?’ he scoffs.

‘Is he a musician?’

‘I can’t believe no one told you.’

I squint at his features. He looks too polished to be rocker offspring. ‘Who is it?’

‘You’ll figure it out.’

I go to speak but he turns away and starts singing along to ‘All About That Bass’. I try to tune into his voice alone but it’s not ringing any bells. It’s also not as amazing as one might expect with that build-up. It crosses my mind that he might be delusional. Like, maybe his mother got pregnant on a one-night stand and she told him his father was Gavin Rossdale or Simon Le Bon or someone.

‘Churros?’ I suggest as the band announce a short break.

He nods and we join the line, watching the crispy, grooved coils of doughnut-like yumminess enter the deep fryer and then get sliced into sticks.

We take our cardboard tray of calories over to the spare corner of a picnic bench and dip them in the silky, chocolate custard.

‘Now this is a chocolate sauce I can get behind,’ I note, relishing every bite. ‘Not too sweet, clings to every contour.’

‘Maybe we should get a little pot for later?’ He leans in and nuzzles my bare neck. It strikes me that this is the first affection he’s shown me today – he didn’t kiss me hello but apparently booze has once again overridden his initial disdain for my appearance and now he’s eager to move on to the next stage. Not so fast, young man. I try to get him back onto a non-sexual conversational tack.

‘Did you ever see that Netflix series where people spent a month living with a group that they had a deep-seated prejudice about?’

He frowns a no.

‘There was this one guy who volunteered to patrol the American border just to keep the Mexicans out and they put him with this amazing immigrant family . . .’

‘Do you want another drink?’

‘Okay,’ I say, waiting patiently until he returns to continue. ‘Anyway, this guy found himself having so much respect for the super intelligent teenage daughter, you could see his mind changing and him gaining an understanding of the other side of the story for the very first time.’

‘Mmm-hmm.’

‘He even went with the father of the family to their former home in Mexico and saw just how desperate their situation had been and why they wanted a better life. And it was all so heartwarming and hopeful but you know what? Just a few weeks after, he was back patrolling the border.’

Tristan gives a disinterested shrug and takes another swig of beer. ‘Are you going to drink that?’ He nods to my margarita.

‘In a minute,’ I reply, feeling a little peeved. ‘Are you looking for someone?’ His attention is all over the place.

‘Andy! Over here!’ He waves over his friend, the trumpeter of the mariachi trio, and then stands talking to him.

I prepare my face to be introduced, making sure I have no chocolate smirches around my mouth, but Andy moves on before I get to give him my most winning smile.

Oh.

‘Come on, I’m up in ten. You’ll want to get a good spot.’

‘Up as in up on stage?’ I say as he gees me up, moving me along with a hand on my elbow.

‘I help them pull in a bigger crowd.’

There’s no denying that the second he steps on stage all the single females start moving in for a closer look, flipping their hair, whispering and giggling. I wish I felt the same. It’s hard to see him as 100 per cent handsome when you’ve had first-hand experience of his personality. He really is a bit of a twat. I’m definitely having second thoughts about going home with him tonight. I know my body is normally of the ‘make hay while the sun shines’ persuasion but right now I feel like it’s saying, ‘Nah, I’m good.’

Of course, that could change if he gets all rock god on stage. I watch with interest as he confers with the guys, confirming the song choice.

An expectant hush falls across the crowd as he takes centre stage. A lone voice cries out, ‘Shake Your Bon Bon!’ but he goes a different way.

‘Oh no!’ I hear myself murmur as the band launch into a mariachi version of Right Said Fred’s ‘I’m Too Sexy’.

On the upside, it’s not like Tristan’s comparing vocals with Tom Jones.

I watch with mortification as he struts and parades, doing his catwalk turns and whooping up the audience while unbuttoning his white shirt.

‘You’re vibrating.’

‘What?’ I turn to the girl next to me. It’s the same girl who was kind enough to compliment me on my hair earlier. I notice now that aside from her Mexican flag eye make-up she’s wearing really cool earrings – gold filigree that look like they came from a street market in Oaxaca.

‘I think your phone is ringing in your bag,’ she tries again. ‘Or something has switched itself on . . .’ She gives me a wink.

‘Oh! I’m sorry!’ I say, trying to rummage with one hand, holding my margarita in the other.

‘Here!’ She offers to hold my drink for me.

‘Thank you,’ I say, managing to locate it now. But my stomach plummets when I see the number. It’s the nursing home. This can’t be good.

‘Are you okay?’ the girl asks.

‘I’ve got to go.’ I turn to push through the crowd.

‘Your drink!’ she calls after me.

‘You have it, I haven’t touched it.’

‘Sweet!’ she says, raising the plastic glass to me.

I weave through the people, continuing to walk even as I press the button to return the call, trying to get away from the noise.

‘Hello, can you hear me? This is Sophie’s daughter, Amy.’

‘She’s had a fall.’

The words halt me.

‘The medics are on their way.’

‘Is she okay?’ I ask, though of course she is far from okay, I just need to know the severity.

They tell me there was a little blood as she hit her head but she’s quite calm.

Blood. Blood from her head. I feel faint with concern. I look back to the stage, trying to motion to Tristan that I need to leave but he’s playing to the girls in the front row and I can’t get his attention.

With hands shaking, I call an Uber, relieved to see it will be here in three minutes. I think ahead to my arrival. Saturday is Lidia’s day off. I need someone I trust to watch over Mum until I get there.

‘Gareth?’ I blurt.

‘This is Dharmesh.’

‘Dharmesh, I need to speak to Gareth.’

‘He’s just with a customer, can I—’

‘Tell him it’s Amy, my mum’s had a fall,’ I cut in.

The phone is muffled for a moment and then Gareth’s voice comes on the line. ‘I’m on my way.’

‘I’m not even there yet,’ I bleat. ‘Can you—’

‘Of course! I’ll keep you updated.’

‘Thank you.’ My hand goes to my heart. ‘I should be there in twenty.’

‘Okay. Be safe.’

I allow my first exhale. It’s so reassuring to reach out and find something steady to hold on to. I begin pacing as I wait for the car to arrive. Oh Mum, how did you fall? It makes you sound so frail, so unstable. I can’t bear the thought of her being in any pain. What if they have to take her to hospital? I wonder if I should divert the ride there? No, Gareth will let me know if there’s a change.

Here’s the car now.

I slide into the back seat and then look at my phone again. I suppose I should let Tristan know where I’ve gone.

Had to leave, I text. My mum has had a fall. Speak later.

I stare out of the car window, feeling such a jumble of emotions. I wonder if it’s the new medication they are trying her on. I wish I’d taken more time off work, just to sit with her, and make the most of the times she is present. And I wonder, as I always do, how I will be able to take a breath when the time comes that she leaves me for good. Just don’t let it be now. Please don’t let it be now.

I jump as my phone buzzes. Tristan calling. I turn it face down. I’m not answering. I need to keep the line clear.

In fact, I want to clear that line for good. Even if he is my destiny, that’s not a destiny I want a part of. I can’t keep ignoring the uneasiness I feel around him. I shudder as I recall the scornful look he gave me when I arrived . . . I want someone who looks pleased to see me, not as if they are grading me in a contest.

But right now, all I really want is for my mum to be okay and for life to feel safe again. Romance can wait.