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the serious expressions on my mates’ faces as their hope of a free drink is put at risk – it’s not like we’re all students, still living off our student loans like the opposition! We all have actual jobs. We can actually afford to buy them – and generously pay for theirs if we wanted to!
    For me, the reason I love quiz nights is not about the free pint or glass of wine (depending on my mood).
    It’s not about winning.
    It’s about being here with my best mates, totally united against the rest of the room. Having my friends all in one spot (especially without certain people) pleases and relaxes me. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be but in their company with this feeling of unwavering togetherness.
    Who would’ve thought that some crappy questions on naff topics could evoke such a powerful feeling?

3
    I’m caught in an unexpected downpour on my way to work. I reach into my bag for my emergency umbrella – always there, just in case (Mum would be proud) – but as I go to put it up I discover the whole thing is made of giant pink feathers. I faff and shake it, trying to get the blooming thing to work and protect me from the rain in some way, but it’s no use. Instead I release a puff of fluff into the air as the feathers become loose and eventually fall to the ground.
    I squirm and shudder as cold water trickles down my neck and finds its way to the inside of my coat – soaking my work clothes and, more uncomfortably, my knickers.
    It’s pouring. Like, torrential rain. Big dark clouds have graced the skies from nowhere and I can hear the rumblings of angry thunder in the distance.
    Looking up, I spot The Barge Café and decide to take refuge. I don’t really have time – I’ll definitely be late – but there’s no way I’m walking to the station in this weather, I decide. Plus I had my hair sorted at the hairdressers the day before – a new head of caramel highlights and an angular sixties bob that Vidal Sassoon would be proud of – so I’d rather get it out of the wet in the hope that it’ll go back to the pristine style it was in when I left the hairdressers and not curl into a frizzy mess. It’s unlikely, but it’s worth a shot.
    At the counter I continue to battle with my useless umbrella while ordering a vanilla latte (full fat, extra syrup). Once the umbrella is finally down (the feathers are all crushed and disfigured, but at least
I won – it’s now compact, at least) and I’m handed my coffee, I look up and realize there are no free tables, although there are the odd spare seats scattered around. Clearly, I’m not the only one hiding from the awful downpour.
    I look around at the other customers and wonder which of them I wouldn’t mind sitting next to. Not being snobby, but I don’t fancy sitting next to the two schoolboys who are clearly looking at some lad’s mag while excitedly munching on their bacon butties.
    Then my eyes land on him.
    Brett Last, flicking his shaggy blond hair out of his face with a quick movement of his head.
    It’s quite a beautiful sight.
    I’m still ogling his perfectly structured face, his square jawline and thinly formed lips when he looks up with his gorgeously sexy hazelnut-coloured eyes, all stripy and golden brown, and sees me staring.
    I’m pretty sure my mouth is open in a gawping fashion.
    I might even be dribbling.
    Yep.
    Just a bit.
    Okay, a lot.
    ‘Sarah Thompson?’ he calls over in surprise, his face awash with delight.
    I nod. It’s all I can manage.
    ‘I’m Brett – we met a few years ago? At that party?’ he says as though it’s a question, perhaps thinking the gawping expression I’m currently wearing means I don’t have the foggiest who the Adonis sat in front of me is.
    ‘Yes, yes. I remember,’ I reply, brushing my soggy hair away from the side of my face with the back of my wrist while I juggle with my useless umbrella and hot coffee.
    ‘Come sit down,’ he insists, pulling out the empty seat next to him and