‘This is just what we need, isn’t it?’ Isla said, breathing in the sea air.

‘God, seriously,’ Cec said, stripping off her top and lying down in her bra.

‘Can we promise we will always go on holiday together, like, every single year forever?’ Isla said.

‘Absolutely. Always. We’ve not missed one year so far,’ I said, as Bea handed each of us a Calippo ice lolly that she’d bought from a man on the beach.

Later that night, Isla and I sat on the balcony of our hotel, gin and tonics in hand, looking out to a pink-purple sky. I loved these little moments with Isla; the two of us linking arms, feeling close, and reflecting on life. The very attentive barman kept coming out and bringing new drinks. It was happy hour, so we obliged.

It was late now and we could hear Bea and Cec splashing around in the pool below. They’d had a few different cocktail concoctions from the hotel bar, and were doing that thing of trying to ‘whisper’ but doing so very loudly. They had decided to skinny-dip, had thrown their wet bikinis up at us in celebration. Despite their efforts, the bikinis didn’t quite land on our balcony, but on the neighbouring hotel’s sloped roof. Isla and I were bent over laughing, already imagining them having to tiptoe back into the hotel fully naked.

A few drinks later, Isla suddenly started spinning out. ‘I think … I’ve had one too many,’ she said, trying to hold back the sick building in her throat.

‘Oh dear,’ I said. I knew full well how much of a lightweight Isla was. Drinking often brought out a vulnerability in her too. Oops, I should have gone easier on the drinks. I texted Bea and Cec to say I was taking Isla back to the room.

I walked her slowly through the hotel lobby and then into the lift. Her eyes were closing and opening each time the lift made a ‘ding’ as we ascended from one floor to the next. I slid our keycard into our door lock and went straight towards the bathroom. I slid the glass door across and she practically slid down the wall onto the tiles and was almost sick on the floor before I turned her towards the loo seat. She chucked up her seafood dinner, and all the gin. I brushed her hair back out of her face, like I had done countless times before, and found one of Bea’s hair bands next to the sink to tie it back.

‘It’s okay. Let it all out,’ I said, rubbing her back gently as she coughed up the last bits of vomit.

‘I love you … Ol,’ Isla said. ‘You always know how to look after me.’

‘I love you too,’ I laughed, hugging her close.

She then flopped onto me, leaning her sicky face on my shoulder, and fell asleep.

30

2019

I’m on my way to meet Bea for a drink at our favourite cocktail bar near the V&A museum. She has just had a meeting at a gallery nearby and anytime she is in central London we try and get a quick drink in before her train home. I’m trying not to bump into anyone as I walk, simultaneously checking my phone because I have a message from Marcus and obviously need to read it immediately. I don’t know why, but it makes the insides of my stomach do a little dance. I feel fourteen years old again. It’s an old-school dopamine rush.