‘I have met someone,’ I’d said. ‘Chloe Roscoe’s dating days are done. The end.’

‘Since when the fuck do you refer to yourself in the third person?’

‘Since I met Jack Carmichael.’

‘I like his name. Is he fit?’

‘He’s hairy.’

‘How long you been keeping him a secret?’

‘Erm, I’m not you, pal. He’s no secret. I met him last week.’

Beth had rolled her eyes, mocking me with a squeaky, annoying voice, using her fingers to create inverted commas. ‘“Chloe Roscoe’s dating days are done. The. End.”’

I’d chucked a calamari ring at her nose. I don’t recall us speaking of Jack again that night.

With the small suitcase full, I zip it up and move on to the larger one. Opening it out, I spot a lone, creased business card, printed with a photoshopped image of a beach.

Samui Frog Bar & Grill—‘The best seafood in Koh Samui!’

Jack had had king prawns, but I didn’t have seafood at this place; I’d opted for a chicken green curry. Hey, I’ve no regrets. It was delicious. And the setting alone was so magical, we could’ve been eating spaghetti hoops for all I’d cared.

We’d taken a songthaew – a pickup-truck-like taxi – to Bophut Fisherman’s Village on the island of Koh Samui.

‘Mojito?’ Jack had asked as we wandered along, although it was more of an excited observation. ‘Mojito!’

Like a kid to candy, I’d been drawn towards the infinite displays of beaded jewellery. When it comes to bracelets, bangles, even anklets, I can’t control myself. I’d been jingle-jangling so much I was basically wearing a warning bell. Something ice cold had pressed against my upper arm.

‘Mojito,’ Jack had said, again. He’d bought two from a street vendor selling freshly made cocktails. The plastic glass was pint-size, the contents sweet, sour and potent. ‘Cheers!’

We’d meandered through the village sipping our mojitos through straws. The bars had been open onto the streets – no walls, no doors – cosy shacks gleaming with mood lighting in oranges, pinks and yellows. Traveller trousers had hung on rails around market-style shops, rag dresses dangling by their side. I’d been distracted by every trinket, every bamboo coaster. But Jack had been hungry.

‘Let’s just go to the next restaurant we pass,’ he’d suggested.

So we did.

Samui Frog Bar and Grill had a canteen feel to its interior; rows of square tables each with a single flower in a central vase. Mirrors decorated the main wall and a huge ornate statue of a frog stood proud by the bar. We were asked if we’d like a table inside or outside. When in Rome …