Meanwhile, I was stuck on the ship, in a Wonka-a-Thon in the Classic Lounge with shrieking children. Ivy was on my mind again and I needed to be where children were not but I was stuck on a ship full of them.

I ventured to the nearest child-unfriendly space – the gym.

There weren’t many people about – two middle-aged lumps in full make-up chatting on neighbouring treadmills, a 60-something woman who’d gone so hard with a tan towel she’d changed race, and a Russian guy doing bench presses and swearing at the FTSE index tickertape on Sky News.

There were full-length mirrors all over the place so everywhere I turned I couldn’t avoid the sight of my strangely shaped new body – my bigger arse, giant tits and disgusting stomach. All the treadmills were facing the mirrors – like what kind of arrogant gimp chooses to watch themselves flap about?

I chose the one treadmill facing the only blank wall and a TV showing Babe: Pig in the City. I stayed there for two hours – sometimes walking, sometimes running – and as the credits rolled I felt slightly better about things; sweaty, but less frustrated. Tired, but less angry. I remembered Mabli saying in one of her videos about her hamsters running their wheels all night long ‘to get their stress out’. It had worked for me too.

Of course when Ryan Prosser appeared, towel around his shoulders, loose-fitting vest and bulge-prominent shorts, new emotions crept into view. He spotted me and lifted a hand to wave and I carried on pedalling my recumbent bike, pretending I was concentrating.

Sandra Huggins’ murder was the third item on Sky News, after the plane crash and ‘the worst cold snap to hit the UK in years’. I tilted my cap to cover my eyes. They didn’t call her Sandra Huggins – they called her Jane Richie, her alias. No link to her paedophile past. Police were on the hunt for the ‘sadistic killer’ who’d ended her life with an axe.

There were tickertape updates of the ‘grisly find’ in the quiet West Country town. Drone shots of motorists slowing on the dual carriageway to hang out of cars taking selfies with forensics teams. A white tent. Yellow evidence markers where her blood had dripped from my coat. Pieces of her being carried out in bags by police officers in HazMat suits.

And finally, an update from an officer who wasn’t Géricault – some keen-bean detective sergeant fresh out of the academy called David Stone. He stood outside the police building where they’d interviewed me.

‘We can confirm that an arrest was made today of a woman who has confessed to organising the adoption of Rhiannon Lewis’s baby…’

Which meant Heather Wherryman.

‘…we can also confirm that the baby is safe and well and in good hands. It appears Lewis gave birth and handed her over before she left the UK…’

Which meant Claudia Gulper.