It was luck, pure and simple. He’d messaged me through Facebook thinking he knew me from college – I had the same name as his old friend, but of course, Miller was my married name and he hadn’t realised that. His message had sat in the unread “message requests” box for several weeks as we weren’t friends. I happened across it one evening after an emotionally challenging day with Nick, whereby I’d single-handedly consumed an entire bottle of wine. When I read it, and saw his profile picture, something clicked. It was destiny. Or, so I thought in my tipsy state.

I replied telling him of the mistaken identity, but also added in things about myself and asked him questions in the hope he’d feel compelled to respond. Which, of course, he did, and things progressed from there. We met two months later midway between Devon and Kent – a hotel in Salisbury – and thankfully, liked each other as much in real life as online. We barely left his room, getting room service so we didn’t have to. We’d talked almost all night, falling asleep at around four in the morning entwined in each other’s arms. It was perfect.

I smile, remembering the way I felt the day after. Not just a new love feeling, but a kindred spirit one. We connected on a different level than I’d ever done with Nick. And there’d been no sex involved to cloud my judgement. That came later – and, admittedly, I lost myself completely to him then – his energy and performance going far beyond my hopes and previous experience.

I go to the kitchen to make yet another cup of coffee. I haven’t even drunk the others I’ve made; it’s just something to keep me busy while I wait for him. He texted at nine-fifteen to say he was leaving Kent, and mentioned he’d stop off for a break, so he should be here not long after two. He’s heading home again on Sunday afternoon, so this will be the longest period of time he’ll have spent at mine. I hope it all goes well.

Why shouldn’t it?