She wouldn’t agree with me, but I’m convinced the boob enlargement, the nose job, the lip fillers, the bulimia (which she denies, but our windowless cabin is small and I hear her), plus the regular Botox and fillers, are all her trying to get away from who she really is. Body dysmorphia. I’ve sent her links to articles about it, but she laughs it off and says I’m being ridiculous. ‘The things I have had done to myself are no different to me dyeing my hair,’ she says. She does that too, of course, very regularly, a new colour almost every time. ‘I just want to look nice. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’ she says. ‘No different to you doing all those hundreds of crunches every day to keep your abs in shape.’

She is beautiful, she just can’t see it. And over the years, through the ups and downs, I have always been there for her. A shoulder to cry on. Someone to pick up the pieces.

Being on this ship for a few years has been good for her, I think. Doctor Stuart’s got her on what seems like a good balance of drugs. She seems more stable lately. And with that, a bit less interested in the shagging around, at least as far as I know. She knows how much I worry about her doing that. It leaves her vulnerable, both physically and mentally. And I think over the years she has come to realize that while other people will come and go, I will always be there for her. So she listens to me. At least some of the time.

The door opens and she comes in. She’s wearing the yellow feathery costume she wears for the children’s dance workshop she does where she teaches them simple dance steps based around a story about chickens. It’s very cute and they all love her.

Her face is serious and I feel a stab of panic. ‘Lola, what’s wrong? Has something happened? Has someone upset you?’ I feel anger rising already. If some bloke has done something to her, I’ll …

She shakes her head. ‘No. Nothing’s happened. But I’ve been thinking. I don’t want to do this anymore.’

My heart starts beating faster. ‘Do what?’ I say, but I think I can guess what she means. She’s been weird lately. Distracted. Distant, somehow.

She moves her hand, gesturing around the cabin. ‘This. The ships. Almost always on shift, always at someone’s beck and call. I need some time away.’ She pauses before adding, ‘On my own.’

‘Lola, let’s talk about this—’ I go to take her arm but she snatches it away from me.

‘Don’t touch me. Please. I’ve been thinking about this for ages and I need to get it out. Let me have my say.’