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He shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smile.

“You think I’m a slut,” I launch in, immediately hating this idea he might now have of me.

“I said no such thing,” Owen says quickly, his eyebrows rising in his defence.

“Yeah, well, I had some dance lessons when I was younger. Sydney and I used to attend the same dance school on weekends, although she kept at it longer than I did. And I thought it sounded glamorous. An exotic dancer.”

“But in reality?”

“I only lasted three weeks. I couldn’t handle the attention. The money was great, but the guys always wanted more, always tried to push things, and I just wasn’t comfortable with it, even though I thought it’d be right up my street. Then I worked at a shoe shop, then a delicatessen, after that a theme park—which was the worst job ever—then finally Kitchen City. I’m still figuring out what I want to do with my life at the ripe old age of thirty-six.”

“You mentioned writing,” Owen says softly.

I glance at him, impressed that he’s remembered this, although I shouldn’t be because Owen is the kind of guy who doesn’t forget anything. “I said my mum said I should write stories, but that was when I was a kid.”

“Have you ever given it a go?”

“What? Writing a story?” I almost laugh.

“Sure. Why not?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”

“How do you know if you don’t try?” Owen says.

“What would I even write about? I haven’t lived the most exciting life. God, I don’t think I’ve lived at all, which is a bit depressing.” My stomach sinks at the thought of how little I’ve achieved, how sheltered my existence has been so far.

“With all those jobs, it sounds to me like you’ve lived far more than some other people,” Owen points out. “Besides, you don’t need to have lived something to write about it. You just need a good imagination,” he continues. “Take, for example, the couple you saw the other day at work who were looking at the kitchen. I bet you could come up with a whole backstory about them—who they are, what they were doing in Kitchen City, why they were together, what the woman had in her handbag.”

“Maybe,” I say, but the cogs are already turning, spinning a yarn about the woman who’d brought her grandmother’s ashes with her to shop for a new kitchen because she needed her help. If the units matched the urn, then this was Granny’s way of giving her the thumbs up.

“Definitely,” Owen says, splintering my daydream. “You have a way of looking at things that other people don’t. Your mind runs away with you, and that’s perfect for being a writer.”

“You’ve managed to dress up the fact that I have a blabbermouth that says exactly what it wants when it wants,” I scoff.

He smiles and looks to be considering this before saying, “That as well. But I’m serious. You should have a go at writing something.”

“And who’d read it?” I ask, wondering who would be brave enough to find out what goes on in my head.

“I would.”

It’s hard to read someone’s facial expression when you’re walking next to them, so I’ve no idea whether Owen is being serious, but I already know he doesn’t lie. He also doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who says he’ll do something and then doesn’t.

Needless to say, tiny feet are doing an Irish jig in my stomach at the idea of writing a story and Owen wanting to read it. I’ve always thought my inane chatter was enough to put anyone listening to me off, let alone reading my weird and wonderful thoughts. But here he is, not only suggesting I should give writing a go, but saying he’d read it.

We reach the entrance of Fellows, and he ushers me through the open door, where I’m met by an army of mannequins.

“Formal wear’s upstairs,” Owen tells me as we head for the escalators on the left.

As soon as we reach the upper floor, he scans the rails and scours the aisles like he’s up against the clock.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, trailing in his wake at the same time as a narrow-faced man arrives from nowhere.

“Can I help at all?” He’s keen, overly friendly, and probably working on commission as he clasps his hands together.

I expect Owen to dismiss him, but instead, he stops and says, “I’m looking for a three-piece suit in brown tweed.”

The guy claps his hands together as if applauding Owen’s suggestions and beckons us. “Right this way.”