‘As in, this-this?’ I’d asked, referring to him and me with a pointed finger.

‘Skiing’s my favourite thing in all the world.’

We’d met in the middle, the Hilton in Nottingham, and we were in the pool. Outside was grey and rainy, and nobody else was in the pool except us, but we spoke low, the ambience so clinical that any echo felt like somebody might be spying on us.

‘I can do basic tap dancing or a decent downward dog, but skiing? Me? Never.’

‘You don’t know until you try.’

‘I’m thirty-six, Jack. I do know.’

‘My mum learnt when she was forty.’

‘Your mum’s a national television star. She has spectacular blood.’

‘So do you.’

‘Ha. Don’t flatter me onto the piste.’

‘See? You already know the jargon.’

When Jack was spending his half terms in the Alps and eating fondue, I was in Pontins begging my mum for a Slush Puppy. Learning to ski felt daunting, and catapulted me into a world I wasn’t comfortable with. What if I didn’t take to skiing? I’d have to sit out, like the kid who was crap at sports, while Jack and his pals raced down mountains all day. What would I celebrate during the après-ski? Beth told me that’s the best part, because you’ve survived another day on the slopes; you’re drinking from sheer relief.

‘I go every year,’ Jack had said, opening his legs under the water and catching me between them like a shark’s bite. We’d circled around, stuck to each other, kissed.

‘I’m not stopping you,’ I’d said. I also knew he’d been recently, meaning I had a whole year to ignore it. Maybe he’d back down, or decide against skiing next year. Maybe he’d break his leg before going. Maybe – quite possibly – we wouldn’t even be together this time next year. This was only our third date.

But Jack had never backed down.

His persistence had reminded me of being ten and wanting to go to a Spice Girls concert. When I’d got Jack the canvas print of the man in the shopping trolley as a moving-in present, Jack had got me a ski lesson. An indoor slope, of course, just outside Liverpool. He’d picked a date close to our Kit’s wedding so we could escape to the slopes for a day if (and when) family politics became too intense. But honestly, even with the original email confirmation stuck to the fridge, I’d never had any intention of actually going through with it. Until now.

Beth, however, has other ideas about this weekend.

‘I’m not going there,’ she says down the phone.