‘You are a very lucky lady,’ he tells me.

‘Oh, I know,’ I reply.

‘Bye,’ Ali says, encouraging him to leave.

‘Well, at least he’ll know you’re not interested now,’ I say as I dip a piece of bread in the bowl of yummy olive oil and balsamic vinegar on the table.

‘Oh, I am interested,’ she replies, letting go of my hand to grab her drink.

‘You are?’

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘You know, he thinks we’re a couple now,’ I point out.

‘Yeah, men lap that up,’ she replies. ‘He’ll only want me more now.’

‘Oh, Ali.’ I laugh. ‘I’ll never understand you.’

‘You’ll never understand me? I’ll never understand you.’

‘How so?’ I ask through a mouthful of bread.

‘Well, for one, you’re playing house with a movie star, and you’re not going to try and have sex with him.’

‘Right,’ I reply. ‘Because he’s just taking pity on me.’

‘Are you telling me you don’t fancy him?’

‘Well, yeah, but only in a movie-star, unattainable-crush kind of way. I hardly know him.’

‘Who cares?’ she replies. ‘You might not know him, but you know he’s your type.’

‘He’s nothing like Daniel,’ I point out.

‘Yeah, but Daniel wasn’t your type,’ she reminds me. ‘Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, abs for days! And those dimples – I know you like those dimples.’

‘Dimples are technically just a genetic defect, you know,’ I tell her, changing the subject with a fact. ‘Amazing, really, that we find them attractive.’

‘Hmm,’ is all she has to say about that. ‘So do you and Dimples have a good holiday planned together?’

‘Sort of,’ I reply. ‘Although now you’re here, I want to spend time with you.’

‘Lila, you spend so much time with me,’ she points out. ‘I’ll be fine if you spend time with Freddie. I’ve got my eye on a few leads.’

‘Promise me they’re single leads,’ I say.

I wiggle uncomfortably in my seat and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m worried about Ali, or because of my dress.

‘I’m sure you used to be more fun,’ she replies through a pout.

Ali being here on Valentine Island is something that never should have happened. My man-loving, head-turning friend, here, where all the men are supposedly happy – and Ali says they’re always happy, until they meet her – no, no, no. She’s a going to be a real fly in the ointment, I can tell.

Normally I would tell her not to shag where she eats – literally, there are restaurants in London we can never go back to – but it’s preferable to her flirting with the married men, even if she’s only doing it for sport.

‘Oh, he’s on the hook already, the poor boy,’ she says, glancing over at the bar.

‘How old do you think he is?’ I ask curiously.

‘Hmm, maybe twenty-five?’ she says.

‘Just a baby.’

‘Just the right age for me,’ she says. ‘The older ones don’t have any stamina, not any more.’