I press play. The bachelor is laying out a blanket for a beach picnic, and a contestant is popping champagne. She’s either blissfully happy about being on a date with the bachelor or someone slipped her mushrooms – I can’t tell which. Either way, I feel a twinge of jealousy that there are people out there experiencing that much emotion. Even during my last relationship, sometimes it felt like my dog, Murphy, was the only thing that could pull my heartstrings. Well, except Millie’s breast lump, Sal, which has shredded my heartstrings into oblivion.

After a few minutes Millie’s phone dings again.

‘OMG.’ She sits straight up. ‘Hugh already commented back.’

‘Isn’t he in Australia?’ I ask, thinking back to what Millie has told me about Hugh Harris. Millie says his accent gives him an ‘unfair and unearned’ advantage when they both go up for lecturing opportunities on the same circuit.

‘It’s morning for them,’ she informs me, furrowing her brow at her phone. ‘Look!’

@MilliePaxton Contrary to your belief, I learnt not to ‘create statistics’ while at university. If you read closely, you would see that I said ‘almost’. Your logic needs work. And, just so you’re aware, ITLOS plans to certify that the butterfly wrasse is extinct in 2026. Good luck finding one before then. Especially considering, as one savvy commenter pointed out, you live in Ohio.

‘He did not,’ I gasp. Murphy barks at my tone. ‘He criticised my grammar again! Learnt?! That isn’t a thing!’ I’m infuriated.

‘Technically,’ Millie reminds me, ‘he thinks he’s criticising me. And he’s gonna wish he never opened his mouth when I find that fish.’

For months now, Millie has been planning a trip to the Great Barrier Reef over her Christmas break. I tune out her rant about the boat she’s booked – it’s small and nimble, stopping at the reefs that had the highest rate of butterfly wrasse sightings in 2018.

Instead, I click on Hugh’s Twitter handle to pull up his profile. His picture is fuzzy – a crop of shaggy blond hair, glasses, and a strong jaw is all I can make out.

‘Is he cute?’ I ask Millie. I’m irked at Hugh’s condescending and haughty tone, but I’m also curious . . . I can’t remember the last time I saw someone get under Millie’s skin.

‘Finally back on the prowl?’ she asks, raising her eyebrows.