I glance up with my food halfway to my mouth and when I see who it is, the sushi falls from my chopsticks and lands with a dull thud on my plate.

“Scott?” Dear God, it’s him. How can this be happening?

“Hey, this is crazy. You staying here, too?”

I nod, unable to speak.

He tips his head at my plate. “I see you went with the unagi. Well done. It’s a little like having the compulsory snails in France – cover the critters in sauce and they’re pretty tasty.”

I want to bring up the critters and puke them over the starched white tablecloth. Since retrieving my suitcase from the carousel and hightailing it to a taxi, I’d successfully wiped my unusual episode on the plane from my mind. Now, it’s back with a vengeance. I’m embarrassed: raging-hot face and cheeks mortified. It doesn’t help that Scott’s looking all suave and sexy and not the least bit hippy-dippy He’s wearing a pale blue shirt – probably had to stuff the T-shirt I soiled with tears in his bag till it could be washed – and dark jeans. His damp hair is tied back in a low ponytail, which somehow he carries off without looking like a woman trapped inside a male body, or a sleazy jewellery salesperson.

“Sorry, Trish.” Scott crosses his arms, clearly aware of my discomfort. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

I nod, hoping he’ll run away quickly while I wallow in silent shame, but the waitress arrives and asks in stilted English, “Would the gentleman like to sit? I bring menu?” Then she waves her hand at the table before pulling out a chair and nodding encouragingly.

I refrain from stabbing her with my chopsticks.

“You can,” I say, half choking. “If you want.”

Scott smiles uneasily, uncrosses his arms and sits. I stare at my plate as the waitress fusses about pouring some water in his glass and asking if he’d like to order. I do look up, though, when he replies in fluent Japanese.

We both silently watch the waitress glide to another table.

“I’ve already eaten,” Scott says. “There’s this alley not far from here where little huts with tiny tables and stools open onto the street. It’s loud and busy and the smells as you wander down looking at all the dishes being whipped up – it’s incredible. I wish I could show you.”

For a second I’d like him to show me, too. “Sounds a tad more exciting than here.”

Scott laughs. “That wouldn’t be hard.”

“You speak Japanese,” I state.

“Enough to get by. I’ve got a mate who’s lived in Kyoto for ten years and he still reckons he doesn’t fully have a handle on the language.”

I appreciate what he’s doing – trying to make me relax and give my glowing cheeks a chance to cool.