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‘Well, could you at least cover up before we run screaming for our lives?’

He gives me a disbelieving look.

‘Well, could you at least stop staring at my genitals while you talk to me in such a patronising fashion?’ he says sharply.

Gaaaah!

‘Well… erm, could you stop… being so sensitive?’

This tit-for-tat sounds incredibly infantile when so many people are burning to death around us. Suddenly, the clanging stops and the wailing increases.

Oliver shushes me.

He’s so rude. And still incredibly naked.

‘Listen, do you hear that?’

I’m not sure I want to hear people dying of smoke inhalation and horrific burns. ‘Shouldn’t we be running for our lives?’ I say, baffled as to why I can’t seem to drag my eyes away from his magnificent torso. ‘I mean… trying to save them. Shouldn’t we be trying to save them?’

‘Wait… The smoke on the wind, it’s no wildfire.’ He sniffs the air and lets out a huge, exasperated sigh. ‘It smells of patchouli.’

He’s right, it does. I’m getting a distinct whiff of wild garlic too.

‘Look.’ Oliver points to the orange glow. ‘It looks like some sort of bonfire.’

I stare at the distant shimmer. ‘But what’s that awful sound? Why are people in pain?’

We listen to the wailing.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ he swears furiously. ‘Of course. It was on the itinerary. It’s some sort of pagan ritual involving a cauldron. Oh, and the wearing of owl masks.’

‘Masks?’ Now it just sounds creepy.

‘An optional extra for the Happy Bunny Deluxe package,’ Oliver explains. ‘Jesus. What have they sent me to?’

My heartbeat slows down at the news there will be no imminent burning to death. I half laugh to myself. ‘What sort of bonkers— Wait, you were sent here? Why? Are you being punished?’

Oliver cups his hands over his bollocks to hide his very large penis. ‘Really? You want to chit-chat about work right now?’ he says rudely, stomping back into his room.

Interesting.

* * *

Unable to go back to sleep, thanks to vivid images of Oliver’s large penis every time I close my eyes and my stomach churning over with extreme hunger, I change into the robes hanging on the back of my door and survey myself in the ridiculously large mirror dominating the bedroom. I glare at the loose smock and unflattering drawstring baggy pants and hope I haven’t just joined a cult by mistake. I grab the induction pack and remove my itinerary. Thankfully, the first morning activity after breakfast for me is a detox massage, which sounds relaxing and exactly what I need.

Just then, there’s a knock at my door and a muffled sound. I open my door at the same time as Oliver does next door, and we lock eyes. I see his gaze travel the length of my body before he stares angrily at my feet. I look down.

‘What’s this?’ I ask, bending to retrieve the stick and tiny pile of nuts from the napkin that’s been placed on the floor.

‘Breakfast,’ he says glumly, before scooping up his own napkin of nuts and slamming his door shut.

‘It can’t be. But I’m starving,’ I yell to the empty corridor. ‘Who left this? This isn’t food. I need proper food!’

Silence.

I take the napkin and stick inside, slam my door as loudly as I can and stuff the nuts down my throat. Then I scour the itinerary. Breakfast day one: tree nuts and liquorice root. Chew slowly to lower blood pressure and to eliminate angry toxins.

I. Am. Fecking. Furious.