When we start the final run, she tells me to go on ahead. But what kind of scumbag would do that?

We cross the finish line together. When we hug, our bodies sweaty and smelling of pondweed, the warmth of her gives me this rush of something that . . . well, feels like love. And lust, too. I break away before she can notice.

‘No offence, but you need a shower, Kerry!’

‘Piss off. You stink way worse than I do.’

As I shower, the water running over my body, I think of hers as she emerged from the lake. I think of her now, in the room next to mine. Imagine knocking on her door, kissing her, telling her how I feel. After the triathlon, anything seems possible.

No. I’m damaged goods.

She’s waiting for me in the bar. She’s never looked prettier, though I don’t think she’s wearing any make-up. It’s just the euphoria, the happy chemicals she says exercise produces.

‘What a rush!’ Kerry says as she opens her quarter bottle of cava and takes a huge gulp.

‘Here’s to us. The mini-triathletes.’ I hold up my glass of Diet Coke – no booze for me, and I don’t need it when I’m with her – and we toast. ‘But we’re going to ache tomorrow.’

‘Let’s not talk about tomorrow!’ Her eyes cloud suddenly.

‘Did you call Tim?’

‘Yeah. He was pleased for me.’

‘So why didn’t he come up here? I’d want to support my fiancée if she was doing something so huge.’

‘I’m not his fiancée anymore, OK?’ she snaps. ‘Look, there’s a lot I haven’t told you because it’s private. But things have been difficult. I told him I needed time to myself this weekend. To think.’

It takes my brain a few seconds to make sense of it, but my heart has already understood. ‘Do you want me to leave you alone too?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. You don’t count.’

‘Charming.’

The pause goes on too long.

Now we speak at the same time:

‘Kerry, I need to tell you—’

‘Joel, I wish—’

I smile. ‘You go first.’

‘I wish I could feel like this all the time. I’m so sick of life passing me by. At home, I feel about a hundred years old, but here, it’s different.’ She takes another gulp of cava. ‘I think I might need something stronger. And steak. I need steak.’

As I queue at the bar, I feel closer to her than ever. Images of us making love are running through my head. I want her so much—

STOP.

I don’t want to be that man: the sleaze who takes advantage of someone who is having a tough time.

‘Two steak and chips, please, mate, on my tab. And a big glass of red.’

‘What do you want? We got merlot, shiraz, rioja . . .?’