My arms feel empty, my heart full of dread. Shockwaves travel up my shins while my sandal-clad feet pound the pavement. By the time I get to the beach, my sundress is plastered to my back with sweat. When I see what’s waiting for me, it’s like running into a wall. Shock slamming the breath from my body.

It’s exactly the same.

Pacifico is a riot of noise and colour. Music and laughter. Red and green bunting hanging between wooden poles that have been pushed into the sand.

It’s exactly the same.

A BBQ sizzles the scent of beef. On the makeshift bar rest goldfish-sized glasses filled with milky pina colada, garnished with chunks of pineapple, straws and pink paper umbrellas.

Boy George’s voice drifts from the speaker. ‘Do you really want to hurt me?’

It’s exactly the same.

‘Ma’am?’ asks a voice to my left. I turn to the man in the navy polo shirt with the red ‘WLY’ logo, who offers me a leaflet. ‘Free trip? It’s the launch of Webster’s Luxury yachts. We’re dropping people off at the island over there, and collecting them later. Trips are every forty-five minutes. You’re too late for this one but—’

I glance at my watch. It’s almost eleven. The yacht sank at eleven.

It’s exactly the same.

‘Adam!’ I scream, running across the beach.

The yacht is leaving. Even before my eyes frantically seek out the Maria in black cursive script, I know that it is the same one.

I pelt into the frothy waves until they cover my thighs, my hips, my waist.

‘Adam!’ I shield my eyes against the sun and stare at the yacht. He’s there, just as I knew he would be. Leaning against the railings, his eyes locked onto mine.

‘Please,’ I turn towards the beach, ‘the yacht is going to sink. Somebody make it come back. Please.’ But nobody hears me. ‘Listen!’ I scream so loudly the skin of my throat throbs in protest. ‘Help!’ A girl wearing a navy polo shirt with the ‘WLY’ logo splashes towards me.

‘Are you all right?’

‘No,’ I cling to her. My knees threatening to give way. ‘The yacht is going to sink. My husband’s going to die. You have to call it back.’

‘Ma’am, have you been drinking?’

I shake my head. Squeezing her arm with my fingers.

‘Have you been out in the sun too—’

‘No.’ I’m a mass of tears. I’m going to lose him. I’m going to lose him all over again. ‘Adam.’ Grief pushes me forward. The sea splashes salt into my open mouth. Wets my tear-damp cheeks. I’m yanked upright by the back of my T-shirt like a marionette.

‘Ma’am?’

I shake her hands off me.

The yacht moves further away. My breath is coming in frightened gasps.