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memory of my hen night comes back to me: Shona and Sharon doing karaoke! That was a fun evening. I should do it again sometime. Do it again? Another hen do? Suddenly I find this thought absolutely hilarious. I burst into uncontrollable laughter.
    ‘I think you’ve had one too many tequilas,’ Marty says, swiftly replacing Rick at my side.
    ‘Correction!’ I say in a comedy American accent. ‘I haven’t had enough! More tequila!’ I shout. ‘Bloody hell, I loved my hen do. We should do it again sometime!’ I squeal out loud to Marty. By now I’m in hysterics.
    ‘I think we need to get you something else to eat,’ Marty says firmly.
    ‘Peanut M&Ms!’ I erupt. ‘Do you remember how Amy and Susan had those on tap on my hen night? Where are they now? They should be here! On THIS hen do! And where’re Allison and Andrea? Where are they? Why didn’t you invite them?’ Out of the blue I feel angry with her.
    ‘Time to get you to bed.’ Marty marches me out of the bar, grabbing a resigned Bridget as we pass. ‘See you in the morning, boys!’ she calls in their general direction.
    ‘You are no fun at all,’ I say as we spill out onto the pavement, right into the path of an oncoming hen, wearing a veil and L-plates. She’s followed by a gaggle of girls all laughing and dressed up to the nines.
    ‘Hey! You!’ I shout as they start to pass us. The bride-to-be gives me a look of surprise over her shoulder. ‘Don’t do it!’ I yell at her, before loudly lamenting: ‘Where are all the GAYS?’
    ‘Shhhhh!’ Marty warns, pulling me away. ‘Ignore her, she’s drunk!’ she tells the stunned girls, who warily move on.
    Without warning, my anger turns to despair. ‘She’s having my baby! MY baby, Marty! It’s not fair.’
    ‘I know it’s not, shush, shush,’ Marty murmurs as she pulls me into her warm embrace.
    ‘Why did he do it?’ Tears start streaming down my face. ‘How could he do this to me? Wasn’t I enough?’
    ‘Of course you’re enough!’ Marty tells me fervently, shaking me at the same time. ‘He’s an idiot! He made a mistake!’
    I start to sob. I’m vaguely aware of Bridget flagging down a cab, and after that: nothing.
    I can’t believe we’re going through with this. I’ve already thrown up twice in the night, and now Marty seems to think it’s a bright idea to put me on a moving boat.
    ‘Have some more Nurofen,’ she says.
    ‘What are you, my dealer?’ I reply sarcastically, but take the tablets from her and down them with a drink of water from my bottle.
    I feel like shit. I wanted to stay in bed, but Marty was having none of it.
    ‘You are not allowed to dwell in your own misery. You need something to take your mind off things.’ Blah blah blah.
    And so here we are at a dive centre a few keys away, getting kitted out for masks and fins – or goggles and flippers, as Marty insists on calling them. Marty and Bridget are talking in low voices – no doubt recounting the events of last night – but I’m happy to ignore them. I really don’t want to talk.
    Under instruction, we head outside and walk around the corner to where the dive boat is moored. Up ahead, Rick, Tom and Carl are barefoot and bare-chested, wearing black wetsuits peeled down to their waists.
    ‘Hello, boys,’ Marty murmurs appreciatively under her breath. I don’t even have the energy to roll my eyes.
    ‘How’s your head?’ Rick asks me with a grin as we approach.
    ‘It’s seen better days,’ I reply, and my voice is gravelly, thanks to the alcohol – and retching. Urgh.
    ‘The fresh air will help,’ he says as he guides me aboard.
    The boat is wide, flat and low to the water. Bench seats line each side, with air tanks secured behind them. A canopy hangs over half of the boat, but the rest of the seating is in full sunshine. There are a couple of other groups of people with us, about half of whom seem to be diving, so the boat is almost full. I sit down next to Marty and rest my elbows on