What had just happened? She was gasping for air, choking out saltwater, pain in her chest – oh God, such pain. A big wave slapped her from the side and now she was swallowing more. No, she wasn’t going under. Wasn’t. She struck out with her arms, strong swimmer that she was, but she could hardly move them for the stabbing agony. She had broken something hitting the water. Cracked a rib, must have done.

She remembered the sea racing up towards her: black, glittering with moonlight. She remembered screaming, at the top of her voice, all the way down.

Then nothing. She spluttered as she gulped the warm air. She tried to yell again, but she could hardly hear herself against the noisy waves. It didn’t matter anyway. The ship was far away now. A little silhouette coming in and out of view, a few tiny lights showing.

How had she got here? Drunk, yes, she had been that, all evening she’d been drinking. Cocktails, wine, brandy, champagne, on and on till she tipped over, as always, into stupid oblivion. But she hadn’t fallen, she was sure of that. She had been holding the rails, looking out at the silver path beneath the moon, when she had felt that sudden push from behind. Hoist, more like. Firm hands on her waist, flip, that thump of her head on the ship’s side, and then suddenly nothing … but the long, terrifying plunge.

So who, who had done that to her? And why? Because she’d had her suspicions about Eve? And Rising Star? That had to be it. She should never have asked those questions. She should have said more to Don …

Useless speculations raced through her brain as she fought to stay on the surface, hyperventilating as she floundered in the huge swell. They would see her. No. They would turn back and rescue her. No. A lifebuoy would be dropped. No.

The choking had stopped. She was going down, a beautiful woman in a gold cocktail dress, sinking into the depths like a scuba diver without a BCD.

Under the water, no longer trying to breathe, she opened her eyes. The moonlight was still strong, shining through the turquoise sea from the shimmering surface above her. She was flooded with memories. Her mother, Luisa, gone when she was a little girl, just a mass of dark hair and a white dress in a green garden. Father Jorge, playing his guitar to her, ever nimble fingers, that silly little song, ‘Chumba chumba cha-cha’, how that had defined her life, taken it over really. And then when he was gone, so suddenly … boys … men … beautiful Diego, all those nights of sobbing. Papita in his white suit, making her laugh again.

Even under water she was crying for her lost life, salt tears into the salt sea.

So this is how I die.