You Had Me At Hello, How We Met: 2 Bestselling Romantic Comedies in 1

Oh God, he’s never going to call and I’m going to see Ben and his Olivia of Troy examining high thread count linen in John Lewis and fall backwards over someone in a wheelchair in my haste to escape.

As the patient on TV goes into something called ‘VF’ and the crash team swing into action, I settle on a theory that suits both my fatalism and my knowledge of Ben’s character. He did mean everything he said about it being nice to get together. He asked for my number in good faith, he probably believed he’d use it. Then he thought it through, debated how to describe me to his wife. That consideration alone could make him reassess whether it was a good idea. I can imagine a few memories that might’ve helped him come to a conclusion. And at that moment, he scrolled down to my name in his phone, felt a pang of regret. Then found his resolve, hit delete, and continued with his charmed, Rachel-less life.

Half an hour later, my phone starts flashing with a call. Mum, I think. I prepare myself to be falsely positive for five minutes. I check the caller display: unrecognised number.

‘Hi, Rachel?’

I recognise the warm male voice instantly. I go from someone half asleep at six in the evening to the most awake person in the whole of Manchester. He called! He doesn’t hate me! He didn’t lie! Adrenaline shot with endorphin chaser.

‘Hi!’

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine!’

‘It’s Ben.’

‘Hello, Ben!’ I say this in a voice that people usually reserve for ‘Hello, Cleveland!’

‘Are you sure you’re OK? You sound a bit odd.’

‘I am, I was – I was …’ Christ, I don’t want to admit I’ve been asleep this afternoon, like an eighty-two year old ‘… having a lie down.’

‘Ah. Right. I see.’ Ben sounds embarrassed and I sense he thinks I mean some sort of afternoon singleton lie down, with company. ‘I’ll call back.’

‘No!’ I virtually shout. ‘Honestly. I’m fine. How are you? It’s weird you called now, I was just thinking about you.’

Mouth, open. Foot: placed inside.

‘All good things I hope,’ Ben says, awkwardly.

‘Of course!’ I squeal, with the ongoing note of hysteria.

‘Uhm, I wanted to see if you wanted to meet my colleague after work one night next week to discuss this story?’

‘Yes, that’d be great.’

‘Thursday? I’ll come along, if that’s OK?’

‘Totally fine.’ Totally, amazingly, wonderfully fine.

‘He’s all right, Simon, but he’s a bit full of himself. Don’t let him take any liberties if he starts up about the evils of the press.’

‘I’m sure I can give as good as I get.’

‘So am I,’ Ben laughs. ‘Right, I’ll email a time and a place at the start of the week.’

‘Great.’

‘Have a nice weekend. I’ll let you get back to your lie down.’

‘I’m standing up now, think I’ll stay that way.’

‘Whatever works best.’

We say a stilted goodbye and ring off, with me on a strange, pain-free, woozy high. Onscreen, the patient’s heartbeat has returned.

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