‘They say I also got to get feedback from you. The guests. You gotta fill in that form. About your stay. Apparently the last ones said I could offer a’ – he stopped and shuffled through the other cards he had in his hand – ‘more sophisticated range of amenities. I mean, what else do they want? They gotta kettle and them little fancy soaps … Anyway. They made me watch a video about it. So, there you go.’ He passed her a snapped-off chunk of chocolate.

Then he stuffed some dry leaves into her hand, ‘Couldn’t get rose petals. Sorry.’

Thea studied the melting, leaf-studded chocolate in her palm.

‘Umm … I think you’re meant to put those on the bed? The chocolate and the … petals?’ she managed.

He stared at her with his arms crossed, a face of stone.

‘I know.’

The next afternoon Thea stood on the deserted dock, feeling queasy.

A seagull screeched above her and she felt the sound in her teeth. There was a rhythmic slapping of waves against concrete and the sky was the colour of stewed tea.

Harriet had said she could opt out after Phase One, no matter what. And Phase One was just orientation, a “getting to know you”, probably some sleep tracking and questionnaires. This was the social media age! Everyone was now accountable for everything! What could they do? The worst was that any information gained on her sleep would then be passed on to some big data company and for years afterwards businesses would try to sell her mattresses and herbal tablets any time she searched the web.

So, all she had to do was buckle up, get through a few weeks and then go home, dignity, data and brain intact.

The queasiness remained.

That morning she had filled in her accommodation feedback form with the comment “Couldn’t have asked for more”. She had found herself kind of admiring the pub owner for his resistance to hospitality even though that was his actual business.

A plate with a bacon roll on it had appeared by her elbow at breakfast. She had glanced up at him as he had left the room, but his face remained a mask of pitted granite. Maybe the feedback card had softened him up. There had even been a sprinkling of flour on top of the roll – at least she had hoped it was flour and not just more dandruff. She had eaten it anyway. It had smelled delicious and he had been right, the breakfast provided had been kitty litter.

Her thoughts about bacon and anti-social pub owners were interrupted by the confident tap-tapping of someone walking determinedly in heels towards her.

It could only be Harriet. She was the only woman who would wear stilettos to get on a boat.

‘Thea! Early. Nice to see. Raring to go?’