Emma takes her hand…

Emma Watson appears to study her thoughtfully for a moment. Then, with only the barest flicker of hesitancy, she takes the offered hand and clasps it lightly. ‘Yes, it’s good to finally meet. A bit of a shame about the circumstances, but…’

Now it’s Emma Stone’s turn to wince. ‘Oh, God, yeah. I am literally so sorry about that, by the way. I’m seriously not that kind of girl, and I swear I had no idea. Not that I should’ve followed him into the room anyway, because I actually do have standards, are you kidding? But put me in front of a free bar and, well…’ She shrugs ruefully, looking genuinely apologetic. ‘I guess my standards slip a little. Maybe a lot. But yeah, no excuses. I’m sorry.’

To her credit, Emma Watson accepts the apology with a graceful wave of the hand. ‘It’s fine. You didn’t know. He’s the one in the wrong here.’

‘Fucking true, that,’ Emma remarks. Then she slaps the seat next to her with her free hand. ‘C’mon, James, sit down already! You look like a spare part.’

‘This entire place is decorated with spare parts,’ you point out as you squeeze in next to her. Emma Watson takes the seat opposite you both, clearly still reserving some judgment on the exact status of your relationship. Which: fair enough. ‘I probably fit right in. What’s with all the pipes, anyway?’ You indicate all the exposed plumbing and vintage valves fixed on the walls. ‘I feel like a rat in a sewer. Do they flush the burgers to the table, or what?’

Emma flicks the metal can holding the menus with one polished fingernail. ‘It’s artistic, you tasteless, lumbering Philistine. It adds to the ambience.’ She pronounces the last word with an exaggerated French twist. ‘Also, both of you, before I forget – drinks are on me, okay? And food, and whatever. It’s the least I can do. Call it a shitty, belated, edible apology.’

‘No, no,’ Emma Watson protests, but you’re already grinning.

‘Cheers, Emma. I’m going to find the most expensive bit of animal on this menu and order it just to pay you back for that fucking latte.’

‘It was a frappé,’ Emma Stone corrects, rolling her eyes across the table as if to say, boys, ‘and you still got change back from ten dollars, which makes it a bargain in L.A. What are you feeling, Emma?’

She addresses the last part casually across the table, and you can’t help smiling at the way she’s making every effort to include Emma Watson in this conversation. There’s something between you and Emma Stone, wedged together in this booth, that’s just effortless, that just clicks – and it’d be easy to leave your girlfriend out of it.

But, at the same time, you have the feeling you and Emma Stone are coming over way more brother-and-sister than anything else. For what it’s worth, Emma Watson is definitely looking happier. ‘I’ll just have a smoothie, if that’s all right,’ she says shyly. ‘It’s still a bit early for me.’

Emma Stone nods. ‘What about you, James? I can personally recommend this pineapple… thing.’ She swirls the tiny umbrella perched in her glass.

You snicker. ‘On the strength and detail of that review, sure, why not?’

Emma Stone elbows you in the side. ‘I could still tell the server you’re paying, you know. And casually mention you’re loaded.’

You whistle quietly. ‘Touché.’