‘I’m Vicky,’ I announce. ‘Victoria Albert.’

‘Yeah, great,’ he nods, stopping to tick my name off on a list before carrying on. ‘We’ll do proper intros in a mo. For now, I’m Scott – feel free to look around.’

‘Thanks, Scott,’ I smile, watching him playing with his papers before ambling across the room to a poster giving info on the local area. I know I’m early, but seeing as I’ve travelled across the world to be here and spent a ton of money doing so, you’d think this dude would give me a little small talk.

His beard makes me think of Nick. When we were younger he’d often try and grow one but I always contested the idea. The roughness irritated my skin, especially when we used to spend so much time ‘getting off’ with each other. Do they call it ‘getting off’ these days? Making out? Necking? Either way, when we used to do it and Nick hadn’t shaved or was in a beard-growing phase I’d come up for air with a huge red rash around my mouth. I used to prefer him cleanshaven, not just because of my skin reaction, but because without the hair I could see the curve of his lips. Lips that I used to love watching as he talked, laughed and slept. Chloe has his lips, Barnaby has mine.

I like Nick’s beard now, with its flecks of grey that shimmer in the light. He’s turning into quite the silver fox.

Scott’s beard, however, like the rest of him, is unkempt. From his shoulder-length hair that’s curly and wild down to his dusty sandals and knee-high socks, he looks like he went off on a gap year and never returned to real life. I imagine he wakes up each morning, reaches for the closest pile of clothes and chucks them on in the dark.

As though he’s aware of me looking at him he brushes a hand over his T-shirt, blue with the company logo embossed on the front, and reaches over to grab a woolly hat, which he plops on his head.

‘Aren’t you boiling?’ I ask, the words firing out of my mouth in the same way they do when the kids do something questionable, like deciding they’re going to rehome every single worm and snail in the garden.

‘Erm,’ Scott sounds, raising an eyebrow at me before breaking into a smile. ‘It’s a local design. You’ll have seen loads of the locals wearing similar patterns.’

‘I’m not talking about the pattern, I’m talking about the fact you’ve just put a woolly hat on when it’s super warm and we’re inside. I’m boiling.’

‘I thought you were hot,’ he nods, looking at me seriously.

‘I’m here with my two mates, Mike and Zaza,’ I reply, aware of his innuendo.