It wasn’t often I could catch John off guard, but I succeeded this time. The flat of my hand connected with a sound like that of a large dry branch snapping. The impact sent pain darting clear up my arm to my shoulder.

It felt wonderful.

As the roaring in my ears subsided I heard voices and laughter. The dancing must be over. People were coming out of the lounge. I didn’t know whether any of them had seen us. I didn’t care.

My evening bag had fallen to the deck. I picked it up, took out my handkerchief, and scrubbed my mouth. John had retreated into the shadow, his hand on his cheek. I threw the handkerchief down and walked away.

I didn’t want to go through the lounge. I knew I looked like a Gorgon, my hair straggling, my lip dripping blood and my face set in a snarl. After blundering up a stairway marked ‘Crew Only’ I reached the upper deck and made it to my room unobserved. I closed the curtains, then stripped and examined the damage. I ached in so many places it was hard to tell which hurt most. The reddened spots on my arms would be purple and black by morning. Nice, I thought. Mary and I could compare bruises.

I made it to the bathroom just in time. Kneeling by the commode, in the ultimate posture of humiliation, I faced the ugly truth. After the first split second that kiss had not been one-sided. If he hadn’t held my arms pinned, they would have been around him.

And he’d found the rose pendant. It had been outside my dress when I reached my room. The movements of those long deft fingers, tracing the length of the chain to where the rose rested between my breasts, had been prompted by curiosity and amused malice. What a boost to his ego that must have been, to find another infatuated woman wearing his trinket.

One hard tug snapped the chain. I threw the ornament across the room, stepped into the shower, and turned it on full blast.

I didn’t hear the pounding at the door till I turned off the water. It had to be Schmidt; nobody else would make such a racket. I might have expected he’d notice my absence and come looking for me. I swathed my dripping body and my bruises in a terry-cloth robe and went to open the door. He’d continue beating on it until I did.

He must have used shoe polish or some other water-soluble substance on his moustache. It had run, leaving long black streaks down his cheeks. He looked like Fu Manchu.

‘Ah,’ he exclaimed, looking me over critically. ‘You have been sick.’

‘How did you know?’

‘I know the look,’ said Schmidt. ‘Let me in. I will take care of you.’