Over time, he’d started to feel better. And then he’d heard Our Tune.

Had he been subconsciously waiting for it? Was this the big romantic gesture he’d secretly been hoping for to make everything OK again – the missing piece? Did he even know there was a missing piece? Had he just got used to a Lana-less life and suppressed any notion that they could get back together? Or had he in fact finally mended his broken heart?

Revelations, he’d realized, could come at the most unexpected of moments. There he was, sat on his bike at Cardiff airport, the engine ticking over, the planes taking off and landing, watching Judith walk towards Departures, and it couldn’t have been clearer.

He’d enjoyed the excitement of it all. Getting the flight from the little travel agent the next day on Coed Celyn high street, packing his rucksack and heading off. He never doubted he was doing the right thing. He meant it about the holiday – he needed one. And Judith had invited him, after all. He was right not to doubt: the shock and thrill on his friend’s face when she saw him in Sofia’s kitchen was priceless.

And he couldn’t have been made to feel more welcome. Sofia made up a bed for him in the living room, and he ate everything she put in front of him and more.

‘Oh man,’ he said, rubbing his tummy after yet another spectacular Greek meal. ‘Jude wasn’t lying about your cooking,’ he said to Sofia. ‘It’s ace!’ And George translated, laughing.

It had been good getting to know George.

On their final evening there, he’d sat out on the terrace sharing a Metaxa with him and smoking one of his rollies. He was waiting for Judith to get changed. They were off to see a local band playing in the village square, keen to try some authentic Cypriot nightlife.

‘This is Kakopetria, remember,’ George had smiled, ‘not Limassol. Don’t get your hopes up!’

The evening was balmy and peaceful, with a cool breeze from the mountains freshening the air. They sat in silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts.

‘Ready?’ said Judith, interrupting. She was wearing a cream cheesecloth top, a gypsy skirt and strappy espadrilles. Her hair in glossy brown curls was loose around her shoulders – different from its usual style, scraped back into a modest ponytail.

Gareth was thrown for a moment. ‘You look …’ He struggled to find the right word.

‘Is it weird?’ she asked, alarmed, looking down at her clothes. ‘I borrowed the top off Sofia.’

‘No! No. It’s cool.’

‘Right.’ But still he didn’t move. ‘Come on then,’ she said.

The band was strange. And that was being kind. A mix of traditional Cypriot instruments playing current pop tunes, and fronted by a lead singer who was a cross between Sid Vicious and the guy from Bucks Fizz. But despite this, the atmosphere was joyous and buoyant and they spent most of the evening dancing or laughing. Gareth hadn’t had such a good night in a long time and they weren’t even drunk – they’d stuck to home-made lemonade, neither wanting a hangover the next morning at five a.m. when they would have to leave for Nicosia airport.