‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be OK. I’ll join a macramé workshop or go pole dancing or something.’ She smiled. I looked towards the painting she was still staring at. ‘What’s the fascination with that one?’

‘I was just thinking. About things. About death. How it will be.’

‘If you want, I’ll do it for you.’

She turned to me, her milky green eyes flicking round my face. ‘What?’

‘I did it for my dad when he was in pain. If that’s what you want.’

Her mouth opened but no sound came out. She stared back at the painting, chewing on her bottom lip for a long time. ‘Your own father?’

‘Yeah. He was in hospital, having end-of-life care.’ She reached for my hand. ‘I wouldn’t if he hadn’t wanted me to. He was my hero.’

‘Oh, Hilary,’ she said. ‘That’s awful.’

‘No it’s not. I did it for him, not me. I didn’t want him to go.’

‘I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want that to be my only option.’

She was silent for minutes, staring at the painting. I was silent too. I rubbed at the little rainbow heart on the backside of my unicorn keyring. I thought about buying the matching pencil topper in the gift shop window.

‘I was in Croatia once, in a restaurant with my husband…’

‘Which husband?’

‘Number Two. And he was a number two as well. Anyway, we were watching this cat with three legs, climbing a wall. And it fell off, directly into a cactus. And it yowled and screamed and scurried away, covered in spines. I went outside to see if I could help it. But by the time I got there, it had run directly into the path of a speeding car. I saw it on the road. And I stood watching this cat twitching for the longest time before it died.’

‘Well, this is cheering me up no end.’

‘It made me think – where there’s life, there’s hope. Being alive is enough. We strive for perfect – perfect children, good career, finding The One. But the most important thing is, fundamentally, we’re here, we’re breathing.’

We both looked back at the painting. ‘Until we’re not.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to see Beatrice again though, before you die?’

‘No.’

‘But what if she still loves you?’

‘She doesn’t.’

‘She does.’

‘She doesn’t…’ she snipped, eyeballing me. ‘Why do you keep arguing?’

‘Because she told me,’ I said.

Tuesday, 8 January – Marseille