It seems only five minutes later I am awoken by a quiet voice and a torch in my face.

“There you are.”

Disorientated, I forget where I am and try to roll over, almost falling. A hand firmly grips my arm, steadying me.

“Careful.”

“James?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“You gave me a fright.”

“I’m sorry. But, in my defense, you gave me one too. You left dinner so suddenly I was worried you might be unwell. Then there was no answer when I knocked on your door.”

“How did you know I wasn’t just asleep? And can you please get that torchlight out of my eyes?”

“Of course. Sorry.” He switches it off and we are plunged back into darkness. For a moment I am completely blind, unable to make out anything. I realize that all the internal lights in the hotel have been turned off, apart from a dim one in the reception area.

“I didn’t know,” he continues. “But I was worried when you didn’t answer, so I bribed the night concierge into opening your door.”

I blink in the direction I last saw him standing. “You what?”

“I didn’t really have much choice.” His voice is now on my other side and I jump. He moved stealthily, like a cat. “It was that or wake Nadia and have her call the police.”

“Oh my God. Do you always overreact?”

“Do you always fall sleep outside when you have a perfectly good hotel room inside?”

He has a point, I suppose. Still, I am petulant. “Why were you even looking for me?”

“Like I said, you left dinner very quickly. I was worried.”

I lean back against the lounger and stare up at the stars. “I would have thought you’d have been too busy to worry about me.”

I hear him sit down on the lounger next to mine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“I just thought that maybe, you know, you and Kimberly might be busy.” I say her name in a silly voice. He doesn’t answer immediately, and I squeeze my eyes shut, aware I sound like a jealous girlfriend. When he does answer his tone is amused.

“You thought Kimberly and I would be busy doing what, exactly?”

“You know.”

“Nope. No idea.”

“God, do I have to spell it out to you? She’s a gorgeous young woman. You’re a…reasonably attractive, youngish man. You connect the dots and do the math.”

He laughs, loudly, like he did that day in the field.

“Youngish?”

“Yes.”

“OK. So let me get this straight. You thought I was somewhere, senselessly shagging the hot young waitress that I met about, oh, I don’t know, three hours ago? By that math I’d say you put two and two together and came up with five.”

I hate that he uses the word “hot” to describe her; it is another reminder of everything I am not. Before cancer I was often described as pretty, but never hot. At least to my knowledge. Now I stand no chance. Next to her, I am like a pale, shriveled-up worm left too long in the sun.