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‘That he is,’ Trevor agrees. ‘It’s just a shame about his mother, but what can you do, eh?’

‘She looks fine to me,’ I observe.

‘Oh, she does in a photo, and she’d probably be all sweetness and light if she met you, but she’s completely different when it’s just the two of us.’

‘You cheated on her. That would make any woman angry.’

‘Under duress.’

I can see that we’re not going to agree on this, and part of me would like to end this conversation and move away from him, but a quick glance around the room doesn’t reveal any other obvious groups I could join.

‘Tell me more about your executive coaching,’ I say instead. At least this should be safer ground.

‘There isn’t much more to tell, really. Like I said, it’s mainly helping people identify where they are now, where they want to be, and then planning a way to get them there.’

‘Are you part of a firm, or do you do you work for yourself?’ I ask him.

‘I’m part of a firm. I did think about it and decided the self-employed route wasn’t for me.’

‘How come?’

‘Well, when you work for a firm, everything is provided for you. They source the clients, provide you with the equipment you need and so on. Yes, you don’t earn as much, but it’s a lot less stressful. If you’re on your own, you’ve got to do all that stuff for yourself, haven’t you. Plus you’re responsible for keeping your qualifications up to date and so on.’

‘I get that,’ I agree.

‘How about you? How did you end up in retail? I thought you wanted to work in the media.’

I think back to teenage Athena and how simple life was then, although we never realised it. You could be whatever you wanted to be and nothing seemed out of reach. To my knowledge, Troy is the only person I know who realised his teenage dream, and it almost destroyed him. Mine went in the bin, along with any remaining naivety, before I had a chance to pursue it, courtesy of a boy named Tim. But I’m sure as hell not going to tell Trevor about that.

‘Annoyingly, the media giants never came calling,’ I say instead. ‘But my current employers did, and it turns out I’m not bad at what I do.’

‘Oh, OK. Do you want to dance?’

I don’t, really, but at least I won’t have to make conversation with him any more if I do. Somehow, even supposedly safe topics are leading me onto dangerously thin ice. How the hell did talking about my career dreams open the door to Tim? I need to close that, and fast. Maybe a few cheesy dance moves will do the trick.

‘Sure,’ I tell him. ‘Lead on.’

7

Eleven hours in Premium Economy does not count as winning at life, I’ve discovered. I mean, it was a lot better than being crammed in the back, but my joy at being able to stretch out a bit was swiftly curtailed when the seat next to me was occupied by a man so large, he not only managed to overflow the armrest, but somehow invade my legroom as well. So, despite the extra space, I still ended up jammed against the window for most of the flight, while he snored like a stuck pig next to me. To make matters worse, the lack of sleep gave me ample opportunity to go over and over the frankly weird emotional rollercoaster of Hebe’s wedding in my head.

Trevor had turned out to be a pretty good dancer, and I was right that it saved me from further conversation. There was a slightly awkward moment at the end of the evening where I got the distinct impression he was hoping for a slow dance and repeat of the kiss, or even an invitation up to my room, but I think I managed to handle that without puncturing his ego. Even if I’d fancied him, which I’m afraid I still don’t, a one-night stand with Trevor would only have added another layer of complication to an already difficult day.

Mum, having delivered her pearls of wisdom in the bathroom, stayed broadly out of my way for the rest of the evening. We’d exchanged idle chit-chat over breakfast on Sunday morning before heading our separate ways, but I think we’re both glad this trip has come when it has; we probably need a bit of space away from each other. If Dad picked up on any awkwardness between us, he managed to hide it extremely well. He’s a mystery, really. On the one hand, he seems to glide through life without having to deal with anything approaching reality but, on the rare occasions that he does say something, he reveals that he’s got his finger much more firmly on the pulse than we give him credit for. No wonder he drives Mum mad.

Hebe and Mark should have arrived at their cottage in the Lake District by now. I wonder if she’s managed to forget Troy’s remarks about the hot tub. I hope so. I don’t imagine it will be long before they’re starting a family. She’ll make a great mother, and Mum will love having another grandchild to fuss over. Whether that will distract her and get her to back off me, or just focus her mind further on my lack of ability to find a partner and breed, is anyone’s guess.

In the meantime, I have Cape Town to distract me. I really wasn’t sure what to expect, but stepping out of the terminal building in January to feel the warmth of the sun is certainly not a bad way to start. I tilt my head up, bathing my face in the light.

‘Take your bags, miss?’ a voice asks hopefully.

‘Umm, no, thank you,’ I tell him as I refocus on my surroundings and realise that I’m in a sea of people obviously all touting for business. Nothing in my trip research prepared me for this and I’m unsure what to do. I don’t want to be cruel, but equally, I don’t know how much this is likely to cost me or even if I can trust any of them not to run off with my bags. I’ve heard countless tales of naïve travellers being scammed by fake taxi drivers and the like, so in the end, I decide to play it safe. Taking a firm grip of my trolley, I set off towards the car hire kiosk, with a few of them following me, calling out to me in the evident hope of either getting me to turn back or accept their offers of help. It’s actually a little intimidating and I quicken my pace, eager to get away from them.

The car hire kiosk is an oasis of calm compared to the chaos outside, and I take the opportunity to study a leaflet about driving here while I queue for the desk. At least they drive on the same side of the road as the UK, so that’ll be one less thing to worry about, but the warnings about keeping safe are a bit disturbing. Apparently, car-jackings in Cape Town are considerably rarer than other parts of the country, but I should still be careful where I go. Just what you don’t need to read when you’re in a strange place. The woman behind the desk is efficient to the point of brusqueness, and waves away concerns as if they were no more than a minor inconvenience.

‘Keep the doors locked, windows shut and ignore the beggars and traders at the robots,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Some of them will point at your tyres and try to imply there’s something wrong with your car. Just don’t engage with them. Drive to your destination and check the car there, OK?’

Unsurprisingly, I don’t feel particularly reassured as the GPS guides me away from the airport onto the main dual carriageway heading for the city. Although the road itself is very similar to a motorway at home, the miles and miles of shanty town on one side is a clear reminder that this is somewhere very different. It’s confusing: familiar in some ways and yet utterly alien in others. As I approach the city itself, and the first of the dreaded ‘robots’, I can feel my pulse quickening.