I dismissed the thoughts of Neil the fuckhead – I was getting much better at that. Instead, I let it wander to happier places as I imagined a lifetime of friendship with the cute American. After the trip, we would become pen pals writing actual letters back and forth for years. Then we would go to each other’s weddings and, over the next few decades, share all our major life events via letters and phone calls. During our widowed twilight years, we would live in the same city, in side-by-side houses, all the while denying we were more than ‘just friends’.

The bus groaned to a stop at a marina. I stopped daydreaming and looked out the dirty bus window, seeing a sign that made me smile: ‘Vlychada’. I was in the right place. See? No need to worry.

I gathered up my stuff and got off the bus via the back door, and the cute American got off via the front door, swinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. The bus pulled away, and we were the only two people standing on the pier. We looked at each other for a moment, then I walked towards him – awkwardly, because my wretched backpack was swinging heavily against my legs.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Hi,’ he replied. So far it was an excellent conversation.

It seemed my witty repartee from a few hours before had completely dried up, so I figured I’d get straight to the point. ‘Are you on the sailing trip?’

‘Oh, thank god, I’m in the right place,’ he blurted. Then he seemed to chastise himself. He walked over to meet me with his hand outstretched. ‘Hi, sorry – I was a little worried I was on the wrong bus.’ I shook his hand. Firm handshake. Nice.

‘No worries. I was too, to be honest,’ I lied. ‘I’m Sarah.’

‘Josh.’ I was right, by the way – American. I picked his accent as mid-western, but I didn’t ask. We had ten days to learn about each other. I was sure we’d get there eventually.

‘Shall we try to find the boat?’ he suggested.

‘Good plan.’ My backpack was getting heavier the longer we stood there.

We walked towards the rows of moored boats, discussing how we would know which one was ours, when Josh spotted a flag fluttering from one of the masts and pointed to it. ‘That must be us.’ It had the tour company’s logo on it, so we headed in that direction.

‘Hang on,’ I said, stopping short. ‘There’s two. Look.’ He followed the line of my arm to another of the company’s flags waving at us from a mast.

‘Huh. Well, let’s go to one and if it’s not right, then we’ll go to the other.’

‘Okay.’ By this stage I didn’t care what boat I was on, I wanted to put my cumbersome backpack down – stupid bloody thing.