It is late… after 10 p.m. now… I could go to the bar? Not because I desperately need a drink – I think I’ve had enough for one day – but because it’s something to do. Something other than crying myself to sleep upstairs.

I look down at my tracksuit and wonder whether I can go to the bar like this. It’s not exactly a scruffy hoodie and baggy bottoms, it’s a bizarrely sexy Victoria’s Secret tracksuit, made from impossibly soft black material. And I’ve still got my wedding hair in, which will go a long way to making me look presentable. As for my face, well, it’s probably best I don’t look at it. I haven’t cried in a while, so my eyes probably look fine, and my foundation will still be perfect, because it changed my life when I started spending good (read: too much) money on make-up. I’ll just be rocking a sort of… unnatural natural look, that’s all.

Or I could go to bed. I probably should…

Actually, no, sod it, I’m going to check out the twenty-four-hour bar. I’m not going to waste another second crying over Daniel bloody Tyler.

Not tonight, anyway.

7

If I had to walk the streets of London at this time of night, I’d be terrified. I’d have my phone clutched tightly in one hand and my rape alarm in the other, ready to make some noise and call for help at the first sniff of danger. Here, though… I have never felt so safe walking around on my own.

I suppose it’s the fact that it is a private island. The only people on the island are supposed to be here. Staff are paid to work here, and anyone staying at this place isn’t going to need to mug me for the few Euros I have in my handbag, because if they can afford to stay here, they’re not going to be resorting to petty crime any time soon. Unless they’re like me, with an expensive wedding that is still largely to pay for.

The easy-to-follow map has led me straight to the twenty-four-hour bar, which is inside the main hotel building. Sadly, it is completely empty.

I’m just about to leave and kick myself for trailing down here when a man in a white shirt emerges from the toilets.

‘Oh, is the bar open?’ I say.

‘It sure is,’ he replies. ‘It’s always open.’

The barman has a strong, west-coast American accent. I love how diverse the staff are here; they seem to have acquired people from all over the globe.

‘Great,’ I reply, taking a seat on a bar stool. ‘Can you make me a porn star martini, please?’

‘I can,’ he replies with a laugh.

I didn’t mean to imply he couldn’t.

‘Sorry, of course you can. Thank you.’

The man seems puzzled by my awkwardness.

What is it with me and making a fool of myself in front of gorgeous men? First, it was Angelo on the plane, now it’s this guy here. It’s as if I forgot how to talk to men while I was in a relationship, and now, now that it sort of matters how men perceive me (well, only if I ever want another one, and the jury is still out on that), it frustrates me, just how weird I’m coming across.