The bed is huge. Two towels have been made into swans, but, thank God, there are no rose petals. I haven’t slept in a bed since the day before Jack died. I slip off my Converse and strip off my t-shirt, my bra, my joggers. This is one hell of a first. One. Hell. Getting on the plane was one, but a mild one, thanks to the uncomfortable memory. Arriving in Bangkok was another, but I was pushed along by the speed of the taxi queue. I’m not ready to go outside and explore yet, and the only other furniture is a single wheelie chair next to a small dressing table. I can’t sleep on that, can I?

I give the bed a shot.

Once I’m under the sheets, my head heavy upon the white pillows, I stare out of the window and watch the sky thicken. I don’t move until it’s dark. Night has fallen, and although I still can’t sleep, the first of all firsts comes to me. The first time we met.

17

My mum was right about last Christmas. I was knocking about with a lad I went to youth theatre with. Except, being thirty-six and not sixteen, I preferred to call it ‘casually sleeping with’.

His name is Dan Finnigan; once an angelic tenor with a flair for accents, and now a chartered accountant. We hooked up over the festive period, almost two decades after I first slept with him. By New Year’s Eve, we’d spent every night either at his place or mine, and even went to the Philharmonic to see Home Alone with a live orchestra playing the score. Rather datey for a matey.

Then I made a bold move. I booked two tickets to see a new musical premiering in Liverpool at the Everyman Theatre. A mutual friend from youth theatre, Vicki Richards, had landed a starring role and plastered it all over her social media. It was impossible to ignore. This musical, The Book of Brexit, looked set to be her big break. I told her I’d be coming with Dan Finnigan to support her.

A-MAZING. I’ll get you both into the after-show party! she replied.

Just what I’d been hoping for.

Dan didn’t thank me for the ticket, or for the after-show invite. Instead, he told me his girlfriend was coming back from Japan. Now here’s the thing. He’d one thousand per cent not mentioned this before in any way, shape or form. Nothing in his flat hinted at a serious attachment in his life: no framed photo, no perfume bottle beside his range of aftershaves, no spare toothbrush. And I’ve got to admit I was upset.

Angry.

No, upset.

Look, I didn’t love Dan Finnigan. The appeal of whatever we were doing definitely stemmed from nostalgia. But he was nice. Nice enough to want more; mainly after a few drinks.