Maybe it is the wine, or the thick air curling itself up the pub's rotting rafters and hanging down like a death sentence. Maybe I am just sick and tired of living inside myself.

'Excuse me', I say to the girls. 'I think I know that chap.'

I stand up and make two steps towards Mr Lost. 'Oh my God, it is not you, is it?' I coo, with the biggest smile I can manage. Courage, Emma, courage. There is no turning back now. Just do it.

'Er..', struggles Mr Lost, trying to protect his glass of wine from my bear hug.

He is rather tall and not at all skinny. I throw my arms round his neck and pull his face down to my level. 'Shh! Play along!' I whisper in his ear, and giggle.

When I let go of him, Mr Lost has the grace and presence of spirit to look unflustered. He runs a hand through his hair, looking at me. We are a few inches apart and I can see, in his eyes, that he is trying to think very fast: what to say to this mad woman who has suddenly jumped into his evening? What to do?

He could, of course, protest, claim total ignorance of my enthusiasm, profess he does not know me at all, and blow my game. And yet, somehow, he does not.

The danger of pulling the first strings in any relationship is, of course, to be branded early on as the one with the driving power. The one with the total responsibility. The seductive panther pouncing on poor, unsuspecting city guys who are just having a quiet drink in the middle of nowhere.

That is a risk I am prepared to run, no matter how much I despise men who abdicate any sense of ownership to whatever life throws at them. Besides, Mr Lost has already made the first step; standing at the bar with his red wine and nicely cut suit, he has looked at me with a longing I know so well because I feel it too, right here and now.

Yes, Mr Lost belongs to someone; and yet he doesn't belong at all. He is simply lost. He can help me but I don't know how. The contrary may also be true.

'Say something', I pray inwardly. 'Anything!'

The wine seems to have evaporated quite quickly, leaving me feeling slightly foolish in front of this good-looking guy and his friends.

'It is me, of course. It has been a long time. How are you?' His smile lights up the dingy room. And I don't mean the pub.

'Fine, fine. You remember, we moved here over a year ago. It has been a little challenging to adjust, but we are getting on fine', I nod.

'You two know each other?' Our mutual friends ask with bored voices, between ordering another round of drinks and passing the chipped plate of olives around.

'Er, yes. From..you know..a previous life, or so it seems.'

'I bet you can't remember my name, eh? It's Emma.'

'Emma. No, you are wrong, I knew your name. I'm good with names. Come, let me get you a drink, Emma.'

I look back to the table I have left. My friends are sipping their G&Ts, heads together, lost in yet another Friday night chat.

'All right. However, I will challenge you to remember what my favourite drink is.'

I expected Mr Lost to capitulate, perhaps even give me away. Instead, he frowns. He has ginger hair - the kind of hair people sometimes, when they want to be nice, call 'strawberry blond'. I love ginger hair. It has something quite delicate about it, and yet it is rather strong and resilient.

'It's champagne, isn't it? Your husband always used to say that at dinner parties: Emma was born to sip champagne.'

Mr Lost is not completely lost, after all. For the first time that night, I am speechless.