It was the final day of our holiday and if I didn’t make a decision soon, it would be too late. Our flights home were booked for the early hours of the next morning. On sunbeds on either side of me, the others were lying flat, asleep.

The smell of sun cream, cigarettes and chlorine lingered. I glanced to my right. Camilla’s pale pink sarong matched her bikini and towel. I turned to my left. Nina was lying on her stomach, an arm dropped to the side, her fingers curved awkwardly against the concrete.

I picked up my camera, but the memory card was full. I put it down again. I couldn’t settle. Burgeoning dread had returned. I needed a distraction. I hadn’t planned on having a drink, yet I stood up and walked to the water’s edge and eased myself in.

I swam over to the pool bar and ordered a fruit cocktail. As vodka and pineapple chunks were mixed and chopped in a too-screechy blender, I looked ahead, past the bar. A man, his back to me, placed a towel on his sunbed and smoothed it down. For a hopeful second, I thought it was Charlie. But it wasn’t. Too tall, too broad. He still hadn’t turned up after our row and it was no wonder after what I said.

I stop. Mum has closed her eyes. Unsure, I sit and watch her. She looks at peace. Maybe she likes the sound of my voice? Perhaps it offers small comfort? There’s not much more left to read.

After drinking my cocktail, I swam back to our spot. The other two were awake. Camilla was sitting next to Nina. They stopped talking as I approached.

“Hi, Marie, we wondered where you’d got to.”

“I went for a swim,” I said, picking up my towel and wrapping it around me. “What were you two talking about?”

Paranoia isn’t paranoia if you know, rather than suspect, that people are talking about you.

They fobbed me off with dismissive smiles. “Just comparing hangovers, such a comedown,” Camilla said as she went off to buy drinks. “Hair of the dog.”

It should have felt nicely familiar, just the two of us. Me and Nina. Instead, a horrible sense of foreboding mushroomed. I took a deep, audible breath. Nina clearly sensed that I needed comforting.

“I’m sorry,” she said, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.

She so rarely apologized. It wasn’t her thing.

Reassurance replaced some of my anxiety. There was no dilemma, not really, because there could only be one reasonable conclusion. Charlie and I were over. There was no point in looking for him. Where would I even start? His phone wasn’t switched on. He’d only be even more annoyed when he did show up, and his lack of interest in me was plain. I got the message. My place was here, with my friends. I needed to draw a line under the previous night and take a leaf out of their book: be cool and nonchalant.