‘Oh. I am so sorry,’ he said, relaxing his stance. I copped a glance at the paper – an English one, a few days out of date. ‘Was this recently?’ He didn’t seem to know where to look but at least he’d stopped trying to leave me.

‘Few weeks ago. I came on holiday to perk myself up. It’s scary and painful but we must go through it, mustn’t we? It’s OK to grieve.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to see your wife again?’ I asked.

‘Someday. I know I will. Does that seem silly?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Good.’

‘That day could come sooner than you think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘None of us know when we’re going to die. All you have is today.’

‘Wise words from someone so young.’ The newspaper relaxed in his grasp, fluttering on the sea breeze. ‘I’m John, by the way.’

‘Oh,’ I said, shaking his extended hand. ‘Hi, I’m Rhiannon.’

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.’