Alerted by a noise at the door, I stood up and there he was: Mr Quinlivan. Abandoning his wheelie case, he crossed the floor, swept me into his arms and kissed me. His macho presence was a huge comfort—he was real, my life now was real—but as the kiss went on I couldn’t help thinking, Just say Luke happened to be getting a private plane back to Denver and he saw us? That would show the fucker!

I put my face in Quin’s neck. ‘You smell fancy!’

‘I had a shower.’

‘On the plane?’

‘Yeah. I know!’ His eyes sparkled. ‘I’ll tell you everything. So? We right?’ He scanned the room. ‘You get yourself any free things?’

‘There are some chocolates…’ I indicated the stack.

‘Go for it.’ He picked up two extra boxes. ‘Give these to your mum,’ he urged with a sly smile. ‘After she’s eaten them, tell her they’re from me.’

I laughed. ‘Stop it, come on now.’

Another benefit of the private terminal was being able to park literally right outside the door, instead of the usual four-kilometre, concrete-coated trudge. Quin slung his bag onto the back seat and we hit the road; we had a plan, one that Quin had lobbied hard for: going swimming in the perishing March sea in search of the famous Cold Water High.

Two years ago, at the meditation weekend, my initial impression of Quin had been correct: he was an adrenaline junkie, his particular poison being rock-climbing. Two or three times a year he, with a group of friends he’d had since junior school, went off to a granite-y part of the world to place metal things into cliff-faces, hang off ropes and generally put his life in danger.

But he was also an endorphin stalker, convinced that constant happiness was achievable if he could just assemble the correct life ingredients together in the right way. He was always suggesting stuff and trying to involve me: ‘People swear by ayahuasca’ or ‘Should we join a choir?’

Sometimes I obliged him. Let’s be clear here—Quin wasn’t for everyone. But my interests frequently overlapped with his because when you don’t drink or take drugs, you have to generate your own dopamine—and shopping, while wonderful, can only do so much.

Despite it being 7.50 a.m. on a bitter March morning, business was brisk in the narrow roads around the Forty Foot. Salt water hung in the frigid air, people with rolled-up towels were disappearing through a gap in the stone wall and others were coming out, looking wet but elated. Several were wearing strange coats—huge, padded, poncho-like things in waterproof fabric.

There wasn’t a parking space to be had but then Quin spotted a woman wrapped in a towel approach a car.

‘Hey,’ he called from the open window. ‘Can we have your spot?’

‘Sure.’