The Core Four were not convinced by the whole Patrick shebang, I think mostly because they worried that they’d never heard of him before now – I mean, why would I ever have mentioned a boy I knew twenty years ago, who I’ve never seen since? – and that somehow he’d taken advantage of me. I saw them for brunch the morning after our old-friend-non-date at mini golf, and they’d seen my face when his email had come through on my phone. I’d felt good enough earlier that morning that I’d finally turned it on, deleting every text that came through about the wedding without even reading them. I didn’t care. I wasn’t thinking about the bloody wedding for a second longer. I had a future, and only I could decide how to shape it. In the subject box of what Patrick had sent it said: DOWN UNDER ;)

In good faith, he’d written, I hereby offer you a get-out clause. I had plied you with multiple beers and the heady sense of mini golf victory last night …

I’d explain to the Core Four that I’d rolled over in bed with excitement bubbling for the first time in ages that day – albeit quite hungover. As I’d stared at the space in bed where Alexander should have been it hit me: why not? What was the worst that could happen if Patrick was the buddy Fernanda and Charles had suggested I find? Sun, sea, wine tasting, the good company of somebody who made me laugh? I actually didn’t have a single doubt. A switch had been flicked in my head – in my soul, even – where I understood how I could choose how to frame my life. And I was choosing the honeymoon with Patrick – a man who remembered me as I wanted to be.

‘Aren’t you worried, though?’ probed Jo. ‘Okay fine, you knew him twenty years ago when you were kids, and he’s made you laugh in the handful of times you’ve seen him at bootcamp, but … going on holiday with him?’

‘HONEYMOON,’ interjected Kezza. ‘It’s her honeymoon … but he isn’t her husband!’ she squealed. ‘This is just too good. I love it. I mean, obviously you should have picked me, but whatever. Work is super busy right now anyway, and I’m saving cash for my impending motherhood. I would have come if pushed, but this Patrick fella sounds good enough. Can we see a photo of him?’

‘I did not see this coming,’ mused Bri. ‘This is quite left-field.’ She said ‘quite’ with an emphasis that I knew meant ‘two hundred per cent left field’ but I let it wash over me.

‘What are you going to do if you need a poo and you’re sharing a hotel room?’ asked Jo.

Kezza enquired: ‘What are you going to do if you have to share a bed?’