‘His name’s John Carraway,’ said Devonte. ‘Did either of y’all see him last night at dinner? We’re trying to piece together his last movements.’

‘No,’ said Caro. ‘I think the last time I saw him was yesterday morning, walking around the pool. I was at bridge all evening.’ She looked at me.

‘Yeah, I was…’ Shagging my room steward before actively encouraging the old funt to go shark-side, if you must know. But to save face I said, ‘At the squash tournament.’

‘We’ve sent out three rescue boats. Something’s been spotted nearby,’ said Devonte, ‘and we’ve informed the coastguard so we just gotta pray now.’

‘Yeah, that always helps,’ I said piously.

‘It’s sad.’

‘So sad,’ said Caro.

‘It’s a sad, sad situation,’ I added. But Caro looked at me again with an expression I couldn’t read.

At breakfast, I caught her looking at me in the same way as I scrolled through Mabli’s latest vlog post on the iPhone 4. Her micro pig had got out onto the road and been hit by a car. Kid couldn’t catch a break when it came to animals. And when I looked up, Caro’s steely greys were on me like magnets. ‘What?’

‘You don’t seem all that concerned about John Carraway.’

‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know the guy, do I?’

‘I suppose not.’ She sipped her coffee, flicking through her Cruise Letter.

‘So should I cancel Beatrice if you’ve got cold feet?’

‘I don’t have cold feet. I just don’t think it’s a useful idea for us to meet.’

‘Useful? What do you mean useful?’

‘Well, it’s not as though…’ But she couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘I know what you’re going to say. “It’s not as though we’d have much of a future together anyway because I’m dying and we’re all old and stuff.”’

She was about to argue but stopped herself at the last moment. ‘That’s exactly what I was going to say, yes.’

‘Well, don’t look at it as this important meeting which could impact how you spend the last days of your existence – look at it as meeting an old friend for lunch. An old friend who wants to see you. That’s all.’

‘You seem different today. Sort of happier.’

‘I am,’ I said, chewing toast. Caro looked out to sea and I nicked her Cruise Letter. ‘So what are we doing then? There’s a hop-on, hop-off bus tour of Genoa, a peek at Cinque Terre, a hike through Portofino, a coastal hop ending with the pretty markets of Alassio… Alassio.’

The name rang a distant bell. I couldn’t think where I’d heard it before but the name stuck in my head like a cocktail stick.

‘We can do Alassio if you want,’ said Caro, scooping out her grapefruit.