‘Oh no, I hope he’s OK.’

He walks over and sits on the arm of the sofa. Joel’s always been one of those people who seem incapable of sitting properly on furniture. He’s always perching on arms or leaning. I think it’s because he can’t sit still but he always looks so good doing it.

We look around the lodge that seems quite big for the two of us. ‘Shall I phone Douglas and see what time he’s coming?’

‘Yes,’ I say with relief.

He picks up his phone and I open up the sliding patio door and go and sit at the large table on the wooden deck. The sound of children laughing and chattering drifts across the air and somewhere in the distance I can hear splashes from the pool. If I close my eyes it almost takes me back seventeen years.

‘He’s at Waterloo,’ says Joel, coming outside to join me. He sits on the table, resting his feet on the bench. ‘He’s having a beer whilst he waits for his train.’

‘Right, so he’ll be about, what, three hours?’

‘Uh-huh, just in time for dinner.’

My head’s starting to feel light and this no longer seems like a good idea. How are Joel and I going to fill three hours alone?

‘Do you fancy exploring the campsite to see if we can find anything that’s still here from our day?’ asks Joel.

‘Yes. That sounds like an excellent plan.’

It doesn’t take us long to uncover remnants of the holiday park we remembered. The little mini-mart might have been spruced up but the shell of it’s still the same. The park where we used to have campfires and late-night parties is still here, even though fancy new coin-fed barbecues encircle it.

I’ve spotted what I think is the old portacabin where the reception used to be. It makes sense that if they’ve expanded so much that they’ve moved the entrance. There are several golf buggies outside and big metal trollies with bags attached that look full of washing, and when I get outside it, I see a sign that says: cleaning and maintenance services.

‘Where are you going?’ asks Joel. He stays by the foot of the stairs, his hands in his pockets.

‘I can’t resist having a peep inside.’ I need to see where I wrote the emails. I walk up to the creaky veranda of the old hut. The paint is peeling off the wooden staircase, just like it had in the day, and I peer through the window into the building.

‘Can I help you?’ asks a women walking out of the cabin. ‘Did you need more towels or anything?’

‘Um, yes, towels,’ I say, jumping in shock.