Her feelings towards him became more fervent as her departure approached. She wanted to kiss him. Do more than kiss him. She kept recalling her mother’s advice. She was definitely ready. She wanted to make her first time something special, and yes, also be prepared. But how to make it happen?

She tried to get time alone with him, but it was impossible in a busy hotel. She wrote to him instead. She borrowed phrases she remembered from romantic fiction, about feeling dizzy and full of longing for him. She told him she was leaving soon, but it would make her so happy if he’d spend an afternoon or even longer with her? She fantasised constantly about it.

She knew he was having friends over. She slipped up to his room while they were downstairs and left the letter on his pillow, thrilled to be in his private space. She was relieved that she and Olivia were going to a play that night. She needed the distraction while she waited for his reply.

She was going downstairs to meet Olivia when an urge like a drug craving made her want to see him. He and his friends were in the back bar. She could hear laughter. Alex’s voice. She stood at the door, summoning the courage to say hello, meet his friends. She’d already pictured them all out together, Alex’s arm proudly and possessively around her. Then she stopped, and listened.

He was reading her letter out to his brother and his friends, in an exaggerated coarse Australian accent, overlaying it with swoons and gasps. They were all roaring with laughter, wolf-whistling too.

The door she was hiding behind squeaked. They all turned to see her standing there, bright red with shame. She was frozen for a moment, before she ran back up the stairs.

It wasn’t Alex who followed her. It was Rory. She started talking as soon as he caught up with her.

‘Don’t feel sorry for me. Please, don’t talk to me.’

‘Eliza, I’m sorry. He didn’t mean any harm. It was just —’

She didn’t wait to hear the rest. Nor did she go to the theatre that night. When Olivia came looking for her, she pretended she was getting the flu. She hid in her room for the next two days, curled up, feigning symptoms. She was never so glad to get to the airport at the end of a godmother holiday.

She eventually told her mother. Jeannie had guessed something had happened and hounded her until she confessed. Afterwards, she insisted Eliza do a sketch of ‘This Alex’. The two of them took it outside and set it on fire, under the stars. She still remembered her mother’s gleeful face as she lit the match. ‘We’ve cursed him now, darling. Two Australian witches. He’ll never be happy in his life.’

Afterwards, back inside, they’d talked more. Eliza had felt so loved.

Her mother had been as straight-talking as ever. ‘Thank God you didn’t have sex with him. What a waste that would have been. He didn’t deserve someone as special as you.’