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have pulled out the plug on my computer if I hadn't managed to fob her off by saying I was just finishing up some paperwork for tomorrow's meeting and I'd be following her in five.
    Of course I'm fibbing, and of course she knows I'm fibbing, but whereas normally she would have called me up on it and waited next to me like a sentry, tonight the lure of Pablo and salsa is too strong and she's out of the door faster than you can say, 'Salida Cubana.'
    Which means it's nearly eight by the time I finally put my computer to sleep, gather up my bags and leave the office. And then that's only because Miles has called twice from that new gastropub wondering where I am. I lie and say I'm just five minutes away. It's really ten.
    Oh, all right, then, twenty.
    'Sorry I'm late.'
    As I walk into the pub, I spot Miles sitting up at the bar. He's already ordered a bottle of wine for us and is reading the Evening Standard property supplement. He looks up and smiles, and I feel a warm glow.
    'They've run out of the moules ,' he says pleasantly as I bend across to give him a kiss. He smells of aftershave, and his face is tickly with the soft blond fuzz that's sprouted since he last shaved, which in Miles's case was probably a few days ago. Miles has such baby-fine hair. He's in his thirties and is still trying to grow his sideburns.
    'Aw, damn,' I sympathise, sliding on to the bar stool next to him. You see, this is what I love about Miles. No getting pissed off that I'm late. No big row. Just his usual, calm, composed self.
    'So what else looks good on the menu?' Shrugging off my coat, I reach for the bowl of olives and nibble off the salty flesh. 'Men, these are delicious.'
    Finally I can try to relax a bit. Have a drink. Some food. I rub my stomach. The knot that's been there all day feels as if it might be starting to subside.
    'Well, the fish special sounds interesting…' He squints myopically at the blackboard, his brow creased in concentration, trying to decipher the chalk handwriting. He looks so cute when he does that. Like a little schoolboy, not a successful thirtysomething property developer.
    'Good choice.'
    A male voice next to me makes me turn round. Further along from me, sitting up at the bar, is a man eating alone. He's got short, dark, curly hair and has little round glasses balanced on the end of his nose, which I can't help noticing are all bent out of shape.
    'I'd recommend the fish.' He gestures to his plate and smiles, revealing a faint Joaquin Phoenixtype scar running from nostril to lip, half hidden beneath his five-o'clock shadow.
    'Hmm, no, I'm afraid I can't eat fish.' I shake my head.
    'Oh, right. I didn't realise you were a vegetarian.' He nods and looks a bit embarrassed that he's said anything.
    And now I feel bad. After all, he was only trying to be friendly.
    'Well, I am, but I eat fish,' I confess. 'Only the thing is, I had fish the other day, so I can't have it twice,' I explain, and smile. 'All that mercury.'
    We both look down at his plate again. The half-eaten salmon looks back at us. There's an awkward pause.
    'Well, I guess in that case there's always the macaroni cheese,' he suggests, reading off the blackboard.
    I shrug and wrinkle up my nose. 'Dairy.'
    'Is that bad?' He looks puzzled.
    'I have to avoid it.'
    He eyes me suspiciously. 'Right…' he says slowly, and suddenly I discern the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.
    I feel my guilt at being dismissive dispersing. Hang on a minute, is he finding my food allergies amusing or something? Is he - I feel a prickle of indignation - laughing at me ?
    'I was told to by a nutrionist,' I protest defensively, remembering the conversation I had with Dr Bruce, Melody's nutritionist, when I was doing a press release for one of her books. I'd complained of being tired and she'd drawn up a long list of things for me to avoid. Saying that, I've been avoiding them for six months and I still feel exhausted.
    'I'm not supposed to eat wheat or refined sugars