Wednesday, 9 January – Genoa

1. People on Twitter who dog whistle for sympathy with ‘I’m not going to tweet for a while’ posts because of their mental health then forty mins later respond to a shortbread showstopper on the series opener of Bake Off.
2. People who climb cliff faces with no safety equipment. Oh, fucking fall off already. Your only skill is not dying.
3. Social media feministas with husbands giving it the full Burn Your Bra act in public while maintaining the safety net of a traditional patriarchal relationship. Oh yeah. I see you.

Dead Boy in the Sand, tra la la la la.

Conan’s body had been found, according to a Spanish news channel. There was footage of the stretcher being wheeled out of the woods near the Drach Caves. No link to me thus far. Olé, olé, I get my way.

Caro came calling first thing with an opening gambit that usually set the cat chasing pigeons around my ribcage – ‘Would you like to join me for breakfast? I’d like to talk to you about something.’

This kind of request was usually followed by Do you know anything about this bleach in my water bottle? Or, Any idea how the fire started? Or, Is that you covered in blood in that news bulletin? but I was strangely serene that day. Almost balanced. Dead calm, like the sea.

We were in the lift on the way up to Diamond Deck – Caro in her gold kaftan and sandals, me in my hot pink shorts, virginal white daps and floaty florals – when she elaborated.

‘It’s about this meeting Beatrice in Rome…’

‘Oh,’ I said, with more than a hint of relief. ‘Yeah, Enzo suggested 2.00 p.m. in a café by the Pantheon—’

‘—I don’t think I can go,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can meet her.’

‘Why not?’

‘I never asked you to arrange a meeting, Hilary.’

‘I know you didn’t.’

The lift doors opened onto the main deck. There were loads of people hanging around the railings, as usual, waiting to see the ship come into port.

‘We can cancel if you want but I don’t know why you would want to. She’s not going to reject you, you know.’

‘How do you know that? How do you know she isn’t having the self-same conversation with her grandson that we’re having now?’

‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘I just hope.’

‘Those days with her – they belong in my head. It’s the place I go to when I need it. It’s my paradise. And I don’t want it to be sullied by modern let-downs and grief.’ She caught sight of herself in the window, but quickly looked away. ‘This is not how she knew me.’

‘What do you expect me to say? Do you want me to blow smoke up your arse and call you young and vivacious and still bearing a passing resemblance to Kaia Gerber in a certain light?’

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Who’s Kaia Gerber?’