‘I think I’m done now,’ she says, taking a deep, cleansing breath. ‘So how about you? How come you’re so distracted today?’

We reach the café and I hold the door open for Layla to walk through. We wave at Sue the owner and plant ourselves on a table in the corner.

‘It’s a little weird.’

‘Like, what kind of weird? Like sexually weird? Is Miles into something?’ Her eyes light up.

‘Um, no.’ I try and stop disturbing images of him in rubber popping into my mind.

‘If it isn’t Miles then, what is it?’

I’m hesitant to tell anyone but at the same time if I don’t tell someone I’m going to lose my mind.

‘I got an email from myself that I wrote seventeen years ago,’ I say in a hurry like I’m ripping off a plaster.

Layla looks at me, confused.

‘Who wrote it?’

‘I did, seventeen years ago. I used this website where you input the date in the future that you want it sent, along with the email address of the recipient, and I guess it stores the info on a server and sends it at the requested date.’

‘That sounds like something out of a film.’ She doesn’t look any less confused. ‘Well, come on then. What did the email say?’ She’s raising her eyebrow so much it’s almost lodged in her hairline.

‘It was pretty cringey. It was supposed to be this whole inspiration-to-your-older-self thing. I was only eighteen. It was when I was working at a holiday camp.’

‘You worked at a holiday camp? I didn’t think you’d ever worked anywhere other than Porter’s.’

It’s the first time in a long time that Layla looks genuinely surprised at something I’ve said.

‘It was the only other job I’ve had. I worked there for a summer.’

‘How did I not know this? Where was it?’

‘Westerly in Dorset.’

‘Oh, I’ve heard that part of the world is supposed to be lovely. Tim’s always saying we should go on holiday there with the boys.’

‘You should. It’s a gorgeous area. Westerly itself is on the river and has all these different colour houses that line it. Then there are the quaint villages that have chocolate-box cottages covered in thatch and pubs with those crooked wooden beams. Not to mention the nature reserves full of heather and the beaches.’

If I close my eyes, I can smell the heather and hear the waves crashing against the rocks.

‘Sounds wonderful.’

‘It is.’ I almost choke on my words. I haven’t been to Westerly since that summer and my heart almost aches thinking about it.

It’s probably changed so much over the last seventeen years. I’ve often thought about going back, but I’ve always chickened out at the last minute.