The man gives me an insincere grin that puckers his smooth, perma-tanned skin. Obediently, I shuffle out of the queue to open my case and extract what I need for the flight. I take out my mother’s Jersey photo album – it’s too precious to stow in the hold – then I grab Tiger Woman so I have something to read on the plane. Just as I’m trying to close my case, someone bumps me from behind and my open wash bag flies into the air. A value pack of fifty non-applicator tampons hits the ground and explodes across the lounge in a spray of white bullets. My cheeks burn as I fall to my hands and knees to retrieve them. The man who bumped me bends down to help. Why did I bring so many tampons with me for one weekend away? I’m on my fourth day and I should have just decanted the amount I was going to need – ALWAYS DECANT, WOMAN!

‘I’m sorry, that was my fault,’ says the man.

I turn to look at him, doing a double take as I lay eyes on the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in real life. He has soft brown hair, hazel eyes, a tall, broad-shoulders physique and the kind of well-sculpted face that commands attention. He is wearing blue suit trousers and a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Our eyes meet and he holds my gaze. His easy smile suggests someone who thinks the world a wonderful place, which no doubt it is when you look the way he does.

‘I was in the way,’ I say, shaking my head and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Am I drooling? I think I genuinely just drooled. Well done, Laura. Beethoven the slobbering St Bernard is a really sexy look.

I try to retrieve the stray tampons as quickly as I can. Of all the things that had to fly out of my case, it had to be the tampons, didn’t it. The lounge must be on a slight slope, because the seemingly never-ending supply is now rolling down the aisle. I scurry around on my hands and knees, doing my best to fish the strays from beneath people’s feet as they carry on reading their newspapers, too British to acknowledge that sanitary products are being flagrantly bandied about in public.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ I mutter.

When I stand up again, I see the beautiful man standing with a fistful of tampons he has helped to retrieve.

‘I think we got them all,’ he says with a dimpled grin.

Hardly daring to look at him, I take them from him and stuff them straight into my handbag. My forehead feels damp with sweat, and my cheeks burn.

Clocking my embarrassment, he says quietly, ‘Don’t worry, I have sisters.’