‘Not if I see you first,’ I reply. Another cringe. ‘Yes, you will see me later – I’ll see you later.’

I just need to stop talking.

‘Okay, bye,’ I say with a wave. An actual bloody wave, to say goodbye to someone a few feet away from me.

I hurry back towards the villa, jet-propelled by embarrassment.

That felt uncomfortably close to the dream I had about him last night. I know he’s just trying to inspire me but I don’t need to write, I need to take a cold shower. And learn how to look him in the eye again, before it’s time for the next round of the competition.

25

Physical education was not my strongest subject at school. In fact, the only record I set during PE was for the most periods in one year, because I had an awful lot of notes to excuse me from taking part, all citing my menstrual cycle as the reason. If my PE teacher had cared at all about her job, she probably would’ve noticed that I almost always had my period or some kind of muscle strain – although muscle strain from what, I have no idea, because I avoided exercise at all costs.

Regrettably my passion for physical fitness (or lack thereof) has followed me into adulthood, and other than the occasional half-hearted trip to the gym whenever I start developing writer’s butt (a fatter arse than usual) I’ve done well to avoid almost all types of physical activity. This has left me low-key unfit, in a way that would only hold me back if I wanted to play a sport or lift something heavy, but it’s never really mattered… until tonight, because tonight apparently things are going to get physical.

We’re all hanging around at the beach bar, waiting for the competition to begin. I don’t know what it is yet, only that it’s a physical thing. I’m really hoping Freddie can carry me, because I’m going to be useless.

Eva is on top form tonight. She’s so sickly and full-on, which is probably why we weren’t that close. She’s kind of like a cross between a hippy and a toddler, with this blank whimsy about her that I’m almost certain she puts on because she thinks it makes her seem cute. She’ll dance around on the spot, like a zombified, flossing eight-year-old boy who has spent too much time on Fortnite, but even when she’s standing still she’s got this sort of sway to her. It’s as if her limbs are so weightless they just float off in all directions. She has a similar manner with her lips – if the competition tonight involved talking as much as you could, they would take one look at her and hand her a cheque.

‘Oh, my God, can you imagine if Freddie Bianchi bought me a drink?’ she says, by way of a hint. ‘It would be the weirdest thing.’

Hmm. Would it be weirder than being on another man’s honeymoon with him? I’m not so sure.