‘Ooh look at these.’ We came upon a small tree whose beautiful trumpet-like flowers drooped towards the ground like they were bowing. ‘Los trompetas de angel – Angel’s trumpets,’ she announced.

‘Pretty,’ I said.

‘Pretty lethal,’ she chuckled. ‘These are the most dangerous flowers here. A botanist did a talk a few months back on the ship – they contain some terrible toxins, like atropine. They look beautiful but they’re killers.’

Kind of like me, I thought.

‘We should take a few,’ said Caro, reaching out to the blooms.

‘Are you insane?’

She plucked some of the flowers and wrapped them in a hanky.

‘No,’ I said, standing my ground. ‘Put them back. Put it all back.’

‘What?’ she said, turning round to face me.

‘I don’t want you to take any of it,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to die.’

She removed her gloves and tossed them in a litter bin. ‘It’s not something you have any control over. Every day I become frailer, more scared. What have I got to live for? Sitting in a wing-back chair, pissing myself to Judge Rinder? You have your life ahead of you.’

‘No I don’t.’

‘Of course you do, silly girl.’

‘I don’t have anything. Or anyone.’

‘That’s silly talk—’

‘—why can’t you live as much as you can for now? Then go home and die there?’ I bubbled with rage.

‘Because my home is the ship.’

‘Your home should be on Capri. With Beatrice.’

‘Capri is in the past.’

‘The past can hurt, but you can either run from it or learn from it.’

‘Is that Rousseau?’

‘No, it’s the baboon from The Lion King. But he’s right, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. And your baboon knows what he’s talking about,’ she laughed.

‘So you just want to die, is that it?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I might die as well too then.’

‘You’re drunk and vulnerable, I’m not listening to this.’

‘I’m serious. I don’t want to live. I wanna die as well. We’ll do it together.’

‘You’re young enough to get over your baby. You’ll bounce back.’

‘I don’t want to bounce back. So if you eat that stuff,’ I marched over to the hemlock and poised my hand, ready to pluck, ‘so will I.’

‘No, don’t touch it!’

‘I will, I swear.’ My hand hovered underneath it. My head swam – I was still so nauseous. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

‘I am your friend. We’ve had a lovely day, haven’t we?’

‘But why do you have to die?’

‘Cancer isn’t terribly negotiable.’

‘I know. My mum and my dad died from it. They both decided OK, that’s enough treatment. Nothing else worth staying around for. I’m off now. Not a thought for anyone else. And you’re the same.’

I zoned in on a bed of lantana flowers, pinks and yellows in bloom too early. I staggered over and tore into them, ripping their heads off left right and centre, throwing them at Caro, wrenching and kicking them asunder.