THE HOLIDAY BUDDIES

Sienna

There are many things in this world that can make you feel insufferably alone at times.

Witnessing happy couples when you've not long broken up with someone, and that break-up was not your choice, definitely slots right into that category.

At the moment, however, I am experiencing a whole new horrendous twist on that particular type of torture.

I'm trying so hard to concentrate on the book I'm reading, but my furious gaze keeps being drawn again and again to the couple on the other side of the pool.

They can't keep their hands off each other and are trying to share one sun lounger. They already obliterated one earlier and were given a bit of a lecture from a member of staff, but it doesn't seem to have stopped them trying again.

How did I end up in this situation? I wonder angrily.

"This holiday is going to be amazing!" Kate had insisted two days ago as we sat on the plane to Kefalonia. "We'll call it 'Sienna's Big Single Celebration'".

"I'd really rather we didn't," I muttered, wishing my best friend would keep her voice down. "It's not exactly something I want to celebrate."

Walking in on my boyfriend of two years in flagrante with one of his female colleagues just three weeks ago was still, understandably, a bit of a pain point for me. It's bad enough to find out someone has been cheating on you: to have the visual makes it even worse. (It's pretty much imprinted inside my eyelids, and the image has appeared pretty much every time I close my eyes. Sleeping has not been easy.)

Then to discover that he'd actually been shagging her on the side for nearly half of our so-called relationship - a relationship, I might add, that I had thought was about to progress to cohabitation - just really was the kick in the heart I really didn't need. Especially when he then broke up with me to shack up with her.

I suppose I should be glad we weren't actually living together by the time I discovered the truth - it would have been far more difficult to untangle our lives if that had been the case. I really wished now, though, that Greg hadn't given me a key to his flat. It had given me both hope for a future with him and then ripped that future away from me when I witnessed his betrayal.

I was obviously a bit of a wreck immediately after the whole incident, and Kate decided the best way to help me move on was for us to book a holiday.

I wasn't really up for it.

I wasn't really up for doing anything, to be honest. I really just wanted to slob around in my flat, living off a diet of Haribo and rhubarb gin, accompanied by a soundtrack of my own crying and "Modern Family" episodes. This was my life now. I went to work during the day, painted on a brave face, and pretended to be a professional. Then, I came home and wallowed in misery, booze, and jelly sweets.

Kate would not let it go though, and that's why I found myself sitting on a plane with a plastic tumbler of overpriced lukewarm white wine in one hand, and a tiny equally overpriced tub of sour cream and onion Pringles in the other - the ultimate flying cliché - as she excitedly told me the plans she had for us.

"We'll go out for dinner every night," she said excitedly. "I've been looking up some of the restaurants on TripAdvisor; there are so many places with baked feta on the menu, you'll be in heaven!"

I do like my cheese. I felt the teeniest bit of hope unfurl inside me at the thought of baked Greek cheese and realised the tiniest of smiles was creeping onto my lips. At the moment, I grabbed and held on tight to happiness from any source I could. I wasn't ashamed.

"The capital of the island is just over the hill from where we're staying too so we can walk over there - maybe we can even hire a car," she continued excitedly. "Or do a boat trip?"

She pressed her tumbler against mine in a vague attempt at a "Cheers". It doesn't really have the same effect with plastic, but I tried to get into the spirit and took a big swig of wine.

"It'll be such good fun," she finished, smiling contentedly. "We'll get you completely over that wanker, Greg."

I'd almost started to believe her.

We'd arrived in Lassi early enough on that first day to have a couple of drinks by the pool. I started to feel a bit more relaxed, the way you do on a sunny holiday abroad.

I even posted a photo on my Facebook, that old classic "hot dogs or legs" photo of the view from my sunlounger, holding a bottle of Mythos in my hand. (Everyone knows you need to post one of these while everyone else you know back home is still at work so you can rub it in their faces that you're on holiday and they are not - it's an unspoken law of social media.)

After a few hours baking in the late May sunshine, we excitedly put on suitably summery dresses and some light make-up and headed to one of the nearby restaurants. We gorged on baked feta, moussaka, a ten euro litre carafe of white wine, and a wee bit of baklava. It was the most I'd eaten in ages - the only time my appetite goes is when I'm heartbroken.

When we got back to our apartment complex, the pool bar was lit up and full of people and lively music. We danced and drank some more, chatting with some of the other guests, before I excused myself to slip to bed. Our flight had been early and I was knackered. "I'll come with you," Kate offered but she was still full of beans and having fun, so I told her she should stay.

That was probably a mistake, I'm now thinking, as I continue to shoot covert angry looks at the horny couple.

Because shortly after I left the bar, Kate met Jack . . . and they've been all over each other like this for close to a day and a half now.

A happy couple is bad enough... but when one half of the happy couple is the friend you came on holiday with to try to forget men . . . It's even more of a nightmare.