‘You know,’ said Jonathan, lifting his foot off the gas a little, but still not enough to settle my nerves, ‘you really shouldn’t talk to hotel staff like you talked to that guy at breakfast.’

‘I used to be staff,’ I reminded him, ‘and I know the value of good customer interaction.’

‘Is that what you call it?’

I ignored him. The last thing I wanted was to inflame an argument while he was behind the wheel, his right foot itching to break the current land speed record.

‘And actually,’ he carried on, ‘I wanted to talk to you about your job.’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘I know that,’ he smiled, which I found more disconcerting than his frown, ‘your next one. I think you should look for something different.’

‘A different role in a hotel, you mean?’

The brief job search I had undertaken hadn’t really inspired me at all and I wasn’t much interested in hotel management anymore.

‘No. Something completely different. You’re a great communicator, Hattie.’

I couldn’t believe the change in him. He was carrying on as if we were just idly chit-chatting, the abusive scene back in the hotel room completely forgotten.

‘You’re wasted in a reception role, even a senior one.’

The road ahead was too busy for another risky overtaking manoeuvre so I decided it was time for a little straight-talking honesty.

‘You’re right,’ I said, throwing caution to the wind and saying what was in my heart as opposed to what he wanted to hear. ‘And you know what, I’m loving working at the school. That’s what I want to do next.’

‘What?’

‘It’s something I used to think about a lot.’ I carried on, my chest fluttering, the suggestion surprising me just as much as Jonathan. ‘I think I just went along with the hotel thing because the Luccas looked after me. They offered me a refuge during a difficult time and the job was convenient.’

A bit like me accepting Jonathan’s offer to move to Abu Dhabi. That had been a refuge from the shock of being made redundant, and it was convenient too, wasn’t it?

‘But what I should have done was carry on with my education and then look for work in a school.’

‘Are you mad?’ Jonathan asked.

Was I?

‘You want to be Dolly,’ he frowned, sounding almost disgusted. ‘A teaching assistant at the lowest end of the pay scale.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘I’m not sure. Money isn’t everything, but maybe I could train as a teacher.’

‘You are mad,’ he confirmed, pressing his foot down again and pulling up to the bumper of the truck ahead. ‘I was thinking corporate. Maybe banking or public relations, not wiping arses and mopping up sick.’