“Erm, Zeb,” I say consolingly, moving to him and patting one very wide shoulder. “Please don’t be upset. I’m sure it’s not you and I’m really positive it’s her and–”

I break off as he raises his face. His eyes are wet, but he’s laughing, almost silently heaving with the chuckles, and when he sees my face, he bursts into peals of laughter. “Oh shit,” he gasps. “I couldn’t have held that in a moment longer.”

I fall back against the wall. “Oh, thank God. I fucking thought you were upset.” I smack his arm. “Give me some sort of sign next time.” I watch him laughing, my own mouth tipping into a smile. It’s so rare to see him uncontrolled. He looks young and untroubled.

The lift dings and the door opens, and he tries to sober up, but chuckles burst out as we walk towards the door of our room. I take the card he offers me and insert it into the slot. “You okay now?” I ask. “I can’t believe you’re not mad at me.”

“How could I have been mad at you? I haven’t seen a takedown like that since Marquez and Pacquiao.”

“I’m Marquez though, aren’t I?” I say, shrugging off my jacket and slinging it over a chair before hastening over to the balcony doors to open them. Fresh air scented with the fragrance of freshly mown grass hits my face, and I sigh happily and stretch. “That’s better.” I turn only to stand still, caught in his fixed stare. “You okay?” I ask.

He jerks and looks slightly awkward. “Yes, I’m fine,” he says hurriedly.

“Okay.” I wander over to the table where the room service info is. “I’m going to order some food.”

“You’ve just had a meal.”

I fix him with a hard stare. “Zeb, that wasn’t a meal, it was an amuse-bouche in four fucking courses. That wouldn’t have filled me when I was ten, let alone now.” I look down at the menu and smile contentedly. “I’m having a burger and chips. What do you want?”

He stares at me for a second. “Eating a huge meal after what we’ve just eaten is guaranteed to give you heartburn.” I gaze at him and deploy the big eyes, and he sighs. “Okay, I’ll have a salad.”

I make a moue of disgust, and he shakes his head. “I’m going to get changed,” he says, moving towards the wardrobe. I place the order on the phone while watching him open the doors and look at the neat row of his clothes hanging inside. I look guiltily at my suitcase which hasn’t been unpacked yet. Instead I’d dug through it earlier and now it looks like a very small bomb went off in it, strewing clothes around the vicinity with abandon.