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I had no idea what to wear to go shopping with Owen. I’m going to be trying on dresses, so I’ve gone for a curved-hem, cotton maxi dress in emerald green that I can slip on and off easily without having to take the whole thing over my head. And since we could be covering some distance, I’ve paired it with my trusty Chunky Boston Birkenstocks.

Owen asked if we could meet when the shops first open at ten o’clock. I suspect he chose this time as it won’t be as busy, which it isn’t, judging by the number of vehicles I can see as I pull into the car park.

I spot his silver VW Golf all the way at the back, and I chuckle at the thought that he’s even parked as far away from the shops as he can.

Conscious that my red Fiat has seen better days and has numerous items of clothing, reusable bags, and blankets on the seats, I pull up next to Owen’s car, noticing that he’s wearing sunglasses.

I’ve only ever seen him in his crisp white shirt and dark suit trousers, so the sunglasses are a first. I find myself a little flustered by this, not only to see him out of his workwear, but also out of Kitchen City, which sometimes feels like a controlled environment.

Here, I feel like I’m seeing Owen in the wild.

“Morning,” I say, climbing out of my car. I close the door, trying not to stare too hard at what he’s wearing. “Wow, you look far too good to just be shopping.”

And he does. In blue denim jeans that are faded at the knee and rolled up at the bottom, a dark blue pullover that hugs his skin so tightly I wonder if he can breathe, with a matching dark blue blazer and light grey suede lace-up shoes, I’m drooling.

“Morning,” Owen says. “You’re dressed for the weather.”

Is this a compliment? I’ve no idea, but I launch into the whole drama on how difficult it was to find something to wear when you know you’re going to be trying on dresses.

Owen appears to be nodding as we settle into step and make our way over to the shops.

“So, how do you want to do this?” I ask. “Is it easier to buy your suit first and then match my dress or the other way round?”

“We’ll do your dress first,” Owen says. “Did you speak to your friend about what the rest of the men will be wearing?”

“Yes. The groom is in dark blue, and so is his best man, and there was mention of one of Drew’s friends possibly wearing a top hat and tails in pale blue, complete with a cane because he likes to make an entrance.”

Owen stares at me, so I add, “No joke.”

“Okay, so there’s no theme with the men?” He scratches his chin as we near the first shop.

“It’s only a small wedding with a handful of guests. I asked about a dress, and she said to wear whatever I felt comfortable in, so we have free rein.”

“Great.”

We reach the front of the central shop, which happens to be Freeman’s, one of my favourite stores.

“After you.” Owen holds the door open for me, and I slide past him, getting a whiff of his spicy cologne as I do.

As we step over the threshold, the air-con hits, and goose bumps erupt on my arms. I look at Owen, all snug and warm in his jumper and blazer, and wonder if he knew how cold it would be in here and planned his outfit accordingly.

How does someone even think of these small details? I’d love to be that organised.

There’s a second where I wonder how this is going to work. Is he going to do the typical man thing and hang about near the chairs or loiter by my side as I scour the rails? But then I look at him and remember he’s a style icon, even at work, so it doesn’t surprise me when he heads straight to the evening wear and begins to assess the dresses.

“Do you have anything in mind? Any colours you want to avoid?” he asks.

“Not really,” I say, scrunching my nose up at a lime-green dress. “Obviously nothing too revealing, nothing too scandalous, and nothing in black, as I don’t want people to think I’m in mourning. It’s a summer wedding, so I was thinking of bright colours, but I don’t want to look garish, and nothing in white or cream. Looking too similar to Sydney would just be tragic.”

“What are your thoughts on a pattern?” Owen asks as if he’s easily filed away the deluge of information I’ve just given him.

“Hm, I need something slimming, so nothing that’s going to accentuate the curves.” I glance at Owen to see if he registers what I’ve just said, but he looks deep in thought as he surveys the dresses.

Selecting a purple one, I slip the hanger over my head and let it fall in front of me.

“This one?” I ask.

Owen looks the dress up and down before saying, “No,” without giving any rhyme or reason, which I don’t know if I like.