And then I heard his voice.

I looked over, trying to suck back a few thousand tears.

He couldn’t’ve been there long, because he hadn’t even unwrapped his straw yet. He was leaning towards me, holding out a pocket packet of tissues. He looked embarrassed.

“Are you all right?” He jabbed the tissues in my direction. “Your—I—”

I couldn’t speak.

Partly this was because I was trying to stop crying, but partly it was because of him. He wasn’t Leonardo DiCaprio, but he wasn’t bad. He was tall, dark and slim. He didn’t have spots, or wear glasses, or dress like his mother still bought his clothes. In fact, he was a pretty sharp dresser. I’d seen John Travolta on a chat show wearing a shirt almost the same shade of blue as his. And he was wearing a top-of-the-range Baby G. Plus, he was well over twenty. It was like Sleepless in Seattle the first time Tom Hanks’ and Meg Ryan’s eyes meet. It was a dream come true.

He leaned a bit closer, still waving the packet.

“Your make-up,” he said. “I thought you might need these.”

I was so touched by his incredible kindness and sensitivity that I nearly started crying again. I took a breath and smiled. It was the smile I always practised in the mirror: sunny but sexy. It was the best smile I had.

“Thanks.” I kept the smile, but looked down at the table so he’d know I was shy and embarrassed, too, and not in the habit of having nervous breakdowns in public. “I’m sorry—”

Our fingers touched as I took the tissues from his hand. Maybe if they hadn’t, I’d’ve mopped my eyes with his tissues and that would’ve been the end of it. But they did touch. Electricity shot through me. I didn’t want him to go.

“It’s my birthday,” I snuffled. “I had a fight with my mum.”

“Your birthday? Really?” He smiled. “Well, Happy Birthday—”

“Lana.” I laughed and snuffled at the same time. “Lana Spiggs.”