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I've lucked out on getting to share an office with Cath; spending the entire work week sharing space with someone I didn't get along with would have been awful.

Cath is only a couple of years older than me, but she exudes the air of someone who has it all together, something I despair of ever emulating.

And she's still smiling at me. "What?" I demand suspiciously.

"Nothing." She tucks a strand of chestnut brown hair that's escaped the messy bun fastened by a hair clip back behind her ear. "You just have the same look on your face as Lizzie does when we put a star on her reward chart."

"Shut up," I laugh. I've always had a thing for praise. Sue me. "I'm not that bad." I discreetly check my phone under the table. No messages.

Cath smirks. "If you say so." She swivels her chair over to my desk. "So. Now that drama is over, what's going on? You're very twitchy today."

"I am not," I say indignantly, making a point to ignore my phone now that Cath has noticed something, and rearranging the stationery holder on my desk.

"Ugh, have you stolen one of my pens again?

" I take a replacement from my desk - also perfectly organised - and arrange the pens so that they form a perfect ring again.

Cath rolls her eyes, playing with the buttons on the sleeve of her pantsuit absently. "Honestly, Charlie. Your serial killer desk is the reason the team hates to meet in our office. I thought you were going to murder Mike when he kicked your bin over by accident."

"It's just being organised." I've found it's the easiest way for me to handle the sometimes rapidly shifting demands at work - at least my desk is immaculate, and my work tasks are mapped out at the start of each day clearly enough that I don't have a meltdown the twentieth time an unexpected issue crops up that day.

"It's anal retentive is what it is. I shudder to think what your flat must look like."

"It's a fucking mess." I shrug, a bit self-consciously. "I think I use up all my anal retentive-ness on work. At home I'm completely… what's the opposite?"

"Anal expulsive." Cath laughs as I stare at her incredulously. "No, seriously. Freud's theories are very strange."

"You don't say." I jump as my phone vibrates against my thigh.

Gah. It's just Mum, asking if I've seen the craft video she'd sent earlier of someone carving a watermelon to look like a rose.

I type in a quick response with a thumbs-up emoji and a smiley face, because if I don't she'll just resend it - and more than likely make me watch it again during my weekly visit home.

"Yep, not twitchy at all," Cath says dryly. "You've gone red, Charlie. Spill."

I clear my throat. "One of my friends said he'd try setting me up with someone, that's all. I'm just waiting to hear from either of them."

Cath practically levitates off her seat. "What? Oh my god. Finally! Tell me everything."

"Oi," I say indignantly. "What do you mean, finally? And there's nothing to tell yet. Some guy who is an architect. I really don't know any more. He might not even be interested."

Cath leans back. "Well, his loss if he isn't." She grins. "As I said, I'm very happy to share Pete with you as long as you agree to help us with parenting duties."

"Thanks," I say acerbically. "Last I checked though, your husband is still completely straight."

"Everyone's a bit bi." She waves her hand dismissively. "All the gay romance books say so."

I shake my head. "Anyway," I say, because I don't particularly want to imagine being in a throuple with Cath and Pete. "You were telling me about Lizzie and her star chart."

Cath gives me a wry smile, clearly not fooled by my unsubtle attempt at changing the topic, but understanding enough to go along with it. "Yeah, it was a bit of a disaster at first…"

A message from an unknown number comes through early the next afternoon, and my heart does not skip a beat when I see it.

Hey Charlie, this is Luke. Hope it’s alright that Will gave me your number. How’s it going?

I reach over the back of the sofa for the multi-coloured throw I keep there, wrapping it around myself as if he can somehow see through the text that I’m sitting in my briefs, covered in biscuit crumbs.

Hi! That’s absolutely fine, I’m good. What are you doing with your Saturday? Good gods, I’m terrible at this.

The answer comes quickly, which is gratifying. Just having a quick rest at home in between tennis this morning and dinner with some friends later. You?

Well, I can’t really say that my entire weekend plan consists of chewing through the contents of my cupboards and watching Star Trek reruns. Not too much right now, finalising some plans to go out later. Yep. Specifically, plans to go to get a takeaway and restock my shelf of snacks.

It takes about ten minutes for the next message to come through, by which time I’ve put myself through an impressive range of unreasonable emotions. Nice. He adds a thumbs-up and a smiling face.

Right. I know how to text people. This means the ball is in my court. And I have to be charming, and brilliant, and the next thing I say should be enough in itself to make this Luke combust in passion for my sparkling personality.

So I start typing. And stop. And erase and start again.

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaark.

I've only recently become aware that my reaction towards potential dates is…

complex. I'm not sure I feel the same sort of hopeful excitement that Will and others have described to me.

Nope - the turmoil that these situations creates within me often seems more like dread.

Sure, I desperately want them to like me. But, also… not so much?

Hey, I didn't say I've got it all figured out. Have you? Didn't think so.

I realise after a while that I've hesitated for way too long, and panic, because if he's looking at his phone he's just seen three dots appear and disappear for ages, and knows beyond doubt that I am neither charming nor brilliant.

And so in an attempt to make the best of it I just send him a smiley face.

Those poxy dots start appearing and disappearing on my screen now, which obviously means he's thinking about how to blow me off. So I just wing it and add, It looks like it'll be rainy later so better bring a waterproof out with you!

Oh Charlie. What are you doing? You're friendzoning yourself. Correction. You're mom-zoning yourself.

The response surprisingly isn't 'goodbye forever'. Quite right, you might want to do the same.

And, Would you like to catch up in person at some point? For lunch some day?

YES. Yeah, that sounds nice! When works best for you?

Tomorrow too soon? Half past one?

Sure! I type, before I realise I now have a date in less than 24 hours, and have a small freak out where I start frantically trying to tidy my couch, as if he knows where I live and is coming over right now.

Okay. Maybe I am a tiny bit excited about having a date. It’s been the first in… heck, it’s been months. And it’s been well over two years since I’ve even gone on to have a second date. And sex - let’s just say there have been a few fallow years.

Who knows. Even if this doesn’t work out (and the statistics haven’t been favourable up till now), maybe there’ll at least be a good ploughing in the horizon.

My phone buzzes before I can do much more frantic ineffectual tidying.

Great. I've made a reservation. He sends me the address to a little bistro that I’ve never been to before, despite it being in Manchester city centre.

I do a quick internet snoop. Great. It’s one of those poncy places that is going to charge us an arm and a leg for a small salad.

Intellectually, I know I’m no longer a poor kid living on a shoestring budget, and that I now make enough money that I can afford to go to places like this.

But what’s so horrible about a nice mid-range place, where they serve you hearty portions for half the price?

Well, I’ve been to a few of these places now for fancy meetings; I can power through.

But if choice of restaurant says anything about personality, there’s a fair chance that he'll soon realise I'm from a completely different social class, and just disappear from my life like every other guy since forever.

No. Positive thinking. I'll give this Luke a fair chance, like I promised Will.

Best behaviour. Most believable fake smile.

Fanciest non-work outfit. Freshly shined shoes.

I'll laugh at all the right places, show interest, share my best stories.

Maybe he'll see what he wants to see. Maybe it'll be enough.