It’s late, and he’s out with some blonde bimbo who posed in Playboy, all fake boobs and Botox, with an irritating laugh and a weird pair of overly plump lips. We fly home tomorrow, so he’s letting off steam Carrero style. Loose women, booze, and a nightclub. So very Jake.

I glance at the clock in distraction, noticing how quiet it is when he’s not around to frustrate me. I don’t get his fascination with nightclubs, all that loud, thumping music, grinding bodies, and stifling ...