‘Ah, yes,’ she replied. ‘That’s because they’ve gone.’

My heart hit the floor, landing right next to the sad little pile of dented San Pellegrinos.

‘What do you mean “they’ve gone”?’

‘They’ve gone,’ she repeated, speaking more clearly for effect. ‘Juliette has decided she doesn’t want to perform tonight, so they left.’

‘I-I don’t understand,’ I stammered. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you mean, what do I mean?’

‘I mean, what do you mean? How can they be gone? How can she decide she doesn’t want to perform? How could they leave me here?’ I craned my neck to see past all the other yachts, looking for The Songbird. Surely they couldn’t have got that far in the time it had taken to destroy a very small local supermarket.

‘Fran, do you remember when you told me you could be calm in a crisis?’ Sarah asked, the angry sound of fast fingers striking a keyboard clacking down the line. ‘Juliette called me half an hour ago to say she wouldn’t be performing. I called the captain and told him to get her out of there, Lenny said you weren’t answering your phone, so they left without you.’

‘Lenny didn’t even try to call me!’ I wailed. Calm in a crisis, my arse. I was stuck on a Sicilian island with pink hair, no money, and no passport. My head hurt, my ankle hurt, I was hungry and thirsty, and a deranged teenager with suspiciously impressive staff-wielding skills could be coming for me at any second. This was not how I had anticipated spending my Saturday, this one or any other, ever.

‘I hate to be the one to remind you of this, but you’re supposed to be on the boat, taking care of Juliette,’ Sarah said, her voice cool and crisp, a sharp contrast to imminent breakdown. ‘This is not the time for you to lose your temper with me.’

She was right.

A sudden pang of guilt sliced right through my panic.

I was supposed to be on the boat, making sure things were running smoothly. If I hadn’t been hungover, if I’d been thinking clearly, I’d have sent someone else to the island to pick up the supplies. This was entirely my fault.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked, the weight of failure dragging me down, numbing me to any other thoughts or feelings.

‘Go to the hotel and wait for my instructions,’ she replied. ‘There’s a chance she’ll decide she wants to perform after all, so you need to carry on as normal. I haven’t told the organisers she isn’t coming yet, so don’t say anything to anyone. If she doesn’t change her mind, I’ll arrange to get you out, but you’re likely stuck there until tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ I looked at the sad stack of San Pellegrino cans by my feet and strongly considered booting them into the sea.