I knew the desert would be hot but, waiting at the sparse baggage claim, I sweated through the gap between knowledge and experience. A woman with an impeccably blunt blonde bob and practical but chic sandals stood a few feet away from me, looking at her phone. I noticed her delicate tattoos, her muscles. I felt a quickening. I think we're going to the same place.

The same place was a candy-coloured hotel. My taxi driver was born and bred in these grids of a party town. He guessed correctly that I was here for a conference. Maybe he could tell from my accent. Or maybe that air that people have around them when they're in the midst of changing their lives. Open, eager, and a little desperate.

I met my friend in her room. She'd suggested this trip and I loved her for it. We'd known each other since meeting at our - private - secondary school in the south of England. This was the first time we'd done some living alongside each other since I moved out of the flat we had shared in Edinburgh to be down the road in Glasgow. We ordered from the authentically Mexican room service menu, too jet-lagged to get much beyond tortilla chips and dips. I reminded her that I wasn't drinking this year and watched her drink a beer so slowly that my bones hurt. We flicked through talent shows and news coverage with spicy, sticky fingers, grateful for the comfort in our combined silence.

The rain came the next morning. I immediately felt disappointed and more at ease. Surely enough, Blonde Bob was there at breakfast. I was taken aback at how many of us there were - forty? Some in their 20s, like us, many in their 30s and 40s. We were adorably nervous and confessed our introversion. The handful of extroverts swore to adopt us over grits and freshly squeezed orange juice. Despite the weather, we all took turns to snap the perfect square-ratio photos of our venue. I always think grey clouds let the colours saturate deeper.

In the first official session, we took turn introducing ourselves. Our leader was heavily pregnant, and we were in awe of her wit. My friend and I were the only delegates who weren't American. We became known as "The Scottish Contingent". We didn't have the heart to tell them the extent of what a cultural midden it was to call us that. We were each given a notebook, emblazoned in gold, with THIS IS GOING TO BE MY YEAR. It was already August. A few months before I'd walked through my adopted hometown hysterically crying while listening to the Hamilton soundtrack because I didn't know what Brexit meant but now it was going to happen and I could feel that whatever it was was bad, bad, bad. But none of that mattered, not here.

Sessions included passive income guidance, led by a woman who recommended a well-known MLM. I was reassured by the collective's sharp intake of breath and zero confrontation. Later, we were given an emergency scheduled session, with free watermelon daiquiris. I didn't partake, greasing my hand with chips again. The answer: property. Another session revolved around managing chronic conditions and caring responsibilities while also working. We were put in a group with a woman who had a name much more Scottish than either of ours. She was dry and shy - my favourite combination. Her hair was long and a gorgeous shade of natural blonde. I was envious. Growing mine was taking an age and I wasn't sure it suited me but it made me more viable for different parts. I developed a crush on another actor who was reading The Fountainhead and assured me that if you put aside the nastier elements of Objectivism, it was an interesting read about one person's determination against a world that doesn't quite understand what they have to offer. Someone mentioned October and a man getting into office. Our low laughter took the edge of a cackle.

We got our heads down and the time passed all quickly. I was excited to get back home. It had been a while since I'd seen my boyfriend, despite us messaging incessantly everyday, regardless of time zone. He was also someone else's boyfriend, which was a bit inconvenient. I'd left the guy I was with once I'd got back home from the city where he and I first kissed. He was going to break up with her. He was just waiting for the right time, to be the most sensitive, because he still cared. He was considerate like that. He believed in me and I believed him. We were both writers.

Before we taxi-pooled back to the airport, frantically Friend Request-ing everyone and swearing to keep in touch, we gathered to hang out in and by the jacuzzi. Fuck the rain, said the braver ones who had gone in, bikini-clad. I leaned against the side. The bubbles rapidly surfaced and popped over and over. Some of them jumped onto my forearm.

The water was still warm.