‘Oh.’

‘You can still have a great time,’ he tells me. ‘It’s summer, and there is plenty to do, even without a man. And it’s mostly tourists, so lots of people who speak English – you won’t be alone.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply.

I don’t know how much of what he’s saying is true and how much is designed just to make me feel better, but I appreciate it either way.

I suppose all I can do now is try and make the best of it, even if I am headed to the most romantic place on earth, absolutely, completely, 100 per cent alone.

6

After clearing up the misunderstanding on the plane, things didn’t seem quite so unbearable. The same went for my time at Napoli airport, where I had Angelo on hand to be my translator.

We made our way through the airport together where we eventually found Angelo’s parents, brother and a few other family members waiting to greet him. He introduced me to everyone but no one else spoke English. His mum did give me a kiss on both cheeks and, not only did she thank me for helping her son, but she invited me to the family wedding (something Angelo had to translate for me). I did consider it, for a moment. It felt like something from one of my rom-com novels, like the kind of scenario where I would meet the love of my life, but I realised the reality of it would probably be awkward. I wouldn’t know anyone or speak the language. People would ask me questions about why I was there and it would be a whole mess of awkward-to-explain.

Before they left, Angelo did offer to help me find the transportation to the island, but I told him I’d be fine by myself.

But then, all of a sudden, after all the noise and the wedding excitement, I felt very much alone – all alone – in a foreign country, where I don’t speak the language, and I kicked myself for being stupid enough to go on holiday by myself. I felt as if you’d need to be a reasonably strong and comfortable person to go on holiday alone, but to do so after having your heart broken, well, you’d have to be an idiot.

Still, I didn’t panic, because that would’ve only made things worse and, after a few conversations with some very kind bilingual people, I worked out how to get the car service, that would take me to the boat, that would take me to Valentine Island.

I do feel a little better now that I’m on the boat, not just because I feel safe and as if I know where I’m going, but because Ciara, our island guide, is Irish. I had a quick chat with her before we set off. She told me that she used to work in Magaluf until she heard about a job on the boat here. Desperate to swap rowdy young people for romantics, she accepted, but it turns out she’s never actually been off the boat. She ships people over, telling them tales of the island, how it came to be and what it’s famous for, as well as showcasing all the different activities it has to offer, but she’s never set foot on dry land there. If it hadn’t backfired so spectacularly for me with Angelo, I might have asked her if she wanted to join me.