Ty and Sansa’s faces flittered through my mind. I put my hand to my own neck, with one swift move tearing off the pearl necklace, my hero present, sending the pearls bouncing to the deck. ‘Swine don’t wear pearls.’

And I turned on my heel and I headed back to my cabin.

I was so frustrated that even though I’d tried my fucking best to be Hilary at all times on that boat, and even though I was the hero of the day, he could still see the scumbag beneath. Hilary wanted to cry. Rhiannon wanted to hurt something. So we compromised. We slammed some doors, stabbed a pillow with a plastic knife, watched Downton Abbey and ate room service sliders until we both vomited violently into the sink.

Friday, 11 January – Rome

1. Airport security. At any airport. Anywhere.
2. People who take FOREVER to eat their in-flight meals and leave their bread roll till last
3. Air stewards
4. People who are afraid of flying – don’t fucking fly then
5. Rita Ora. Enough already.

I stewed about Ryan Prosser’s verbal bollocking all night long but I didn’t do what I normally did – go out and catfish some pervert to make myself feel better. Only because I couldn’t though – we were in the middle of the fucking sea for a start. Instead, I waited until first light and went up to the Diamond Deck and knocked on Caro’s door – no answer. There was a slim chance she’d gone to breakfast early so I headed for the dining room but she wasn’t there either. Martin, who’d served us before, knew my question before I asked it.

‘She’s still in the Medical Bay,’ he told me. ‘After her fall.’

‘What fall?’

‘Down some stairs, I heard. Didn’t you know?’

‘No, I didn’t. I haven’t seen her for a couple of days. What stairs?’

‘I’m not sure. Medical Bay’s on Deck 2. Give her our best, won’t you? We’ve all been worried about her.’

I could smell the bullshit before I even entered her cubicle. She was reading her Cruise Letter and seemed surprised to see me.

‘Been sliding down bannisters again?’ I said. The room was windowless, fitted with that shiny, corpse-blue linoleum you only ever see in hospitals.

‘I fell,’ she said, folding up the Cruise Letter and wincing as the Iranian doctor prodded her ankle. ‘It’s probably broken, isn’t it?’ She glared up at him.

‘No, there’s nothing broken, Mrs Wellesley. Just a bit of bruising. I’ll give you something for the pain so you can enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

‘I’m not on holiday,’ she said. ‘I live here. And if they didn’t switch doctors so bloody often you’d know that.’ She flapped him away. ‘Pass me my handbag.’ He did so. ‘Now go away. I want to talk to my friend.’