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‘Some say it’s better to think with your eyes closed. It really focuses the mind. Otherwise, there’s a tendency to drift,’ he says.

The only things drifting are my eyes, from the trees that line the road to his incredibly good-looking face. His nose, the lopsided smile, the laughter lines… all spell danger.

It is hot in the back of this van. Sweat trickles down my spine. Oliver blinks slowly as he holds my gaze and I am suddenly aware of how very, very attracted I am to him. It causes heat to rise up my neck.

‘Being out of work can have a big impact on your self-esteem and sense of identity. If your job has always been a big part of your life, it can make you wonder who you are without it,’ he says, tapping his hand on his knee. He has incredibly muscular legs. ‘I’d say be kind to yourself during this difficult time. Use it as a chance to reflect on what makes you feel happy and fulfilled. To plot a course to the future. In fact⁠—’

Of course he’d have all the answers. The good-looking ones always do.

‘Thanks, but that’s kind of why I’ve booked this retreat. Time to think things through? By myself?’ I glance down to see his beefy biceps are touching me, causing an unnecessary fluttering in my stomach. I shift away from him slightly.

He stares at me with a bemused expression. I take no notice of his slightly raised eyebrows and sit silently, staring out of the window, pretending to think things through instead of wondering whether he can sense the effect he is having on me.

I bolt out of the van as soon as we arrive at our destination.

‘Here, I’ll help you with your bags,’ Oliver offers.

‘No thanks.’

‘Suit yourself,’ he says, marching off slightly ahead of me to the reception. With any luck this place will be big enough to avoid bumping into him, while I am here figuring out how to become a convincing life coach, while also contemplating the rest of my life, while also getting to grips with the language, while also trying not to have a massive bloody stroke with the stress.

A serene-looking elderly gentleman in a white kaftan floats towards us, gently flicking his long grey hair over his shoulder. ‘Velcome, velcome, velcome. Vee heff bin expecting you. Pleez follow me.’

We walk into the 1970s-style orange and brown reception, drop our bags and bask in the cool waft of air from the huge ceiling fan as Gandalf the Grey (real name Starbeam Night Sky) pushes two shot glasses of green sludge into our hands. Oliver is deliberately not looking my way. Hopefully, our rooms will be at opposite ends of the complex.

‘Leave begs. Begs vee take to rooms ten und elewen,’ he instructs before he misconstrues my disappointed expression, and his eyes widen. ‘Ah, I no realise you couple! You vant same room?’ He looks Oliver appreciatively up and down. ‘Big, big bed, yah?’

‘NO!’ I blurt out at the same time Oliver says, ‘Absolutely not!’

Which to me is a fraction too forceful and rude sounding, if entirely honest. It causes me to childishly glare at him and add, ‘Never in a million years!’

After a moment’s hesitation, Gandalf chooses to ignore our vehement outburst. ‘Drink these. Vee start in ten minoots. You refresh in rooms. Then you come to Serenity Fountain for evening induction,’ he says, swinging his arm towards the hotel gardens before floating off. ‘Come. I show you fountain.’

I slide my eyes over to Oliver. ‘Well,’ I say, raising the shot glass, ‘up yours?’ and knock it back.

Oliver stares at me, runs his hand through his thick, glossy hair and suddenly bursts out laughing. It transforms his face. His navy eyes are twinkling, his teeth are perfect and somehow he’s even better looking. The first thing I’ll insist on is a room change as far away as possible from this distracting, beefy-armed giant.

We follow Gandalf out through some patio doors to a delightful terrace, dotted with tables and chairs, white parasols and twinkling lights perfect for fine dining and sipping cocktails under the starry sky. A vision pops immediately into my head of what needs to happen tonight. A luxurious bath. An exquisite, celebratory five-course meal for my birthday. And a crate of delicious wine. Perfect.

While Oliver follows Gandalf to the gardens, I dash back to reception to make sure they change my room. I’m dismayed to see Gandalf has teleported himself, via dark arcane magics, back to behind the reception desk.

‘It’s very important that I am not anywhere near the man I came in with,’ I stress as quietly as I can.

Gandalf smiles serenely at me and hands me an old-fashioned, heavy brass key from the 1800s. There’s a tag hanging from it. It has the number ten written on it.

‘No, you don’t understand,’ I say out of the side of my mouth. ‘I need to be away from⁠—’

‘Problem?’ Oliver asks, coming up behind me.

Typical. I let out an exasperated sigh. ‘No. No problem.’

I watch Gandalf hand him a similar key with the number eleven on it. He smiles at Oliver, saying, ‘Vee place good energies in your rooms.’

He turns to me and declares that they have placed many, many calming crystals in mine. ‘To combat your frazzled mind und… how you say? Your difficult nature, yah?’

Difficult? This morning I was too nice. Now, apparently, I’m too difficult.

Oliver is visibly trying not to smirk. ‘Don’t worry, I will keep a respectful distance.’