She placed her scrunched-up napkin on the table and set about standing up. A waiter appeared beside her with her wheelchair, without even being asked but she flapped him away and reached for her stick instead.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To tuck you in, of course.’

‘What about the jazz?’

‘Nobody needs jazz at the best of times. I want to check you’re safe.’

Most people would have left me well alone after my botanical gardens meltdown, but for some reason Caro cared. And that made me want to care about her too. I let her escort me back to my cabin and wait for me to do my ablutions and change into my PJs, and tuck me into my bed.

‘Here you are.’ She handed me a pill and a tumbler of water. I knocked back the pill – it tasted like chalky ink – and the drink. She took the glass and turned off the TV. ‘I’ll call for you before my hair appointment.’

‘You don’t have to. I’ll be all right,’ I said.

‘Don’t turn that TV back on. Start counting sheep jumping over fences.’

I remembered my mum saying the same thing to me once, even though she and Dad had been stupid enough to let me have a TV in my room. They let me have anything I wanted. Maybe that was my trouble.

‘How many sheep do I have to count?’

She hobbled towards the door with her stick. ‘As many as it takes. I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Nighty night,’ I called out.

The last thing I remembered was seeing the hind legs of Sheep Number 57 disappearing over the fence…

I awoke to my floating home shuddering – it was 9 a.m. We’d docked in Mallorca. I’d slept for twelve hours. The pill had been magic. I was still in the same boat, aimless, with stingy hands, a pile that wouldn’t quit, a knackered twat and no sign of any messages on the cracked iPhone but my overall mood was level again. A reset button had been pushed. Another day. A sunny day.

I washed and dressed in my new red maxi dress and baby pink Converse and put some flower slides in my hair for extra girly effect – in the mirror, I was Hilary. Inside, I was Rhiannon.

I headed for the gangway, the endless corridor stretching out before me. And the more I walked, the more I thought: I haven’t been given the right opportunity to test my theory. Liam, the libidinous scrote in Cartagena, hadn’t been the right test subject. He wasn’t a strong enough target, just an oversexed gusset monkey in head-to-toe Sports Direct. Any man’s meat.