I’m thinking about what he said, about finding himself. I’ve never met anybody in real life who’s used the term seriously. Jack went on a gap year, like all the posh kids do, and he told me it was to find himself, but he was totally taking the piss. He was interrailing and getting smashed with his carefully saved allowance, his parents’ credit card tucked into his wallet if things went tits-up. The only thing he found that he previously didn’t know about himself was a tattoo on his left calf, of a pizza slice. But let’s be serious for a second here. If I wanted to find myself – because let’s face it, I’m pretty fucking lost right now – surely all I’d need to do is go home to Liverpool. Thirty-six-year-old Chloe Roscoe had been plodding along fine a matter of months ago. There was no thought of moving to the big smoke, no dead boyfriend to deal with. But would trying to erase the first half of this year be disrespectful to Jack? To what we had? Or would it be a smart move?

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Justin asks.

‘Sorry. I’m terrible company. It’s a symptom of what happened … about six weeks ago.’

The waitress returns with two shots of tequila. Justin impulsively takes one and downs it, grimacing at the taste and sticking out his tongue.

‘Nobody forced you to do that,’ I laugh.

‘So what happened about six weeks ago?’

We’re in danger of having to slag off Sabrina if I don’t open up.

‘Okay,’ I begin. ‘Me boyfriend, Jack, died—’

‘Oh man! Chloe—’

‘Just let me unleash. You can give me sympathy later. Or more tequila. We’d only just moved in together. I met him in January and before the end of June, he was dead. Hit by a van. So the whole relationship never got a shot … I mean, say we were to break up – not that it was on the cards – I never got the chance to find out enough about him to dislike him, to hate him. His faults weren’t as obvious as they would be further down the line. And if we were meant to be together – you know, get married, have kids, well, that’s never gonna happen. Ever. So, where does that leave me? I’m not a widow, but I’m not fighting heartbreak or trying to convince myself I’m better off without him. I’m just … sad.’

Justin’s dark eyes narrow and he cocks his head to the side, intent on listening. An older Thai lady stops at our table and tries to sell us some trinkets from a basket hanging around her neck. He reaches into his pocket and gives her one hundred baht. She leaves a small garland of white flowers – or malai as I recall from chatting to a local last time – beside our beers.