I tossed my phone back into my bag and sighed deeply. Yep. I was over men, altogether. Forever. Once the boat docked in Sydney I planned to retreat to a convent to knit my own yoghurt and do a little light whittling. Apart from my son – okay, and my nephews – oh, and the cute guy who serves coffee in the surf shack on the promenade – I pledged there and then that, from this day forward, I would never spend time in the company of the male of the species. Not ever again, never, ever.

13

I despaired as I heard a male voice call me in from the waiting room with a gruff ‘Next’. Clearly my late-onset allergy to the male species had not been made clear to the onboard medical staff. If only there’d been a tickable box on my form. Allergies to penicillin – no. Allergies to male doctors – yes.

‘So, what ails thee?’ the medic asked without looking up from the paperwork in front of him. He was sitting behind a steel desk shaped like a kidney. His voice was brusque and he chewed his words. The crumpled trousers of his scrubs were mint green. His matching shirt wasn’t wrinkled, but he wore it as if it were. Somehow simultaneously youthful and grizzled, he was in his late forties and showing every minute of it.

‘I think I’ve pulled a muscle,’ I said, to the top of his tousled head. ‘In my groin.’

The doctor glanced at me sideways in a brooding, half-amused way.

‘No. Not like that,’ I hastened to add. ‘I think it’s an ABBA-related dance injury. It’s so easy on a cruise to forget that you’re no longer twenty-six, you know?’

I examined the doctor more closely as he scribbled on his notepad. His thick wave of dark hair, flecked with grey, was swept back from his broad forehead in a somewhat theatrical pompadour. Haggard and world-weary, he had a touch of the dissolute Irish poet about him despite his broad Aussie accent. The doctor definitely gave the impression of being a tall, dark and handsome type. He then stood up – and up, and up – and confirmed this.

‘With no responsibilities, well, it’s like being a kid again.’ Disarmed and annoyed in equal measure by his silver foxiness, I found myself prattling. ‘The hardest decision I’ve had to make since coming aboard is how many umbrellas to put in my cocktail. Anyway, my first time at the disco last night, a bit of impromptu choreography to “Waterloo” – and, well, here I am.’

‘At our age, it’s safest to do those manoeuvres horizontally,’ the doctor growled, stretching his back. ‘That’s my advice. Though, why any woman with half a brain would waste time fraternising with these macho hottie-hottie-dumb-dumbs is completely beyond me. Hop up onto the couch.’