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I order room service and crack open one of those tiny whiskies from the mini bar. I raise a toast to Rose, hoping she has people around her who care and won’t leave her sick and alone. Soon, I open another tiny whisky and raise it to Sal.

Then I text Mum.

I’m here! Everyone is very friendly and welcoming, and the sea is so warm. Already been in! Turtle watch starts tomorrow. Exciting! Xx

She’ll like my message, it’s what she would write. Then I send the same text to Dad and thank him for the money. He replies with a wink emoji—weirdo—but it makes me smile anyway. I should go away more often; my relationship with my parents already feels stronger. I feel stronger.

But I don’t feel relaxed. My skin is on fire and I can’t stay still. I keep pacing, looking out the window, opening drawers. Here I am, so close. I unpack the few clothes I brought, and all of Mum’s pills I’ve been squirrelling away—thirty-three phenergan, forty-six valium, fifty citalopram—then I add my own stash of mirtazapine, propranolol and zopiclone, and spread them across the bed. I could kill myself several times over. I could kill you several times over. My heart races with the thought and, quickly, I push them into a small toiletries bag that I thrust inside my handbag.

I dig fingernails into my palms.

Stop it.

I’m not here to kill you. Or me.

Nothing’s going to be fixed if I do that.

But what if things don’t turn out the way I’ve planned? Or you’re not who you should be? Sometimes it helps to have a Plan B.

After another couple of vodkas from the minibar, there’s nothing else to do but get ready for bed. For the first time in years, I don’t take any of my pills. I’ve been wanting to give them up for a long time anyway, so why not now, when I can feel everything with full force, and see you with the same clear eyes I had when I was sixteen?

I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows and watch the city darken, wondering if I can get onto the roof. Falling would be quick, a certain death, no mess like there would be with pills. I bite my lip and watch the sky, hot pink now, the shade of one of Mum’s lipsticks. The last of the sun turns the Swan River golden, and I scan for dolphins that swim up from the sea. Perhaps I could swim back with them, keeping pace, heading further and further out, until I can’t swim any longer. I’d sink, exhausted, to the bottom—a peaceful way to go.

In the street below, ant people scurry to get to dinner or a movie. I still can’t help wondering: if I did kill you, would people see me as a hero this time, or forever a victim? Is there anything I can do now to get rid of that label?

Then, as if she knew I’d been thinking of her, the ping of an email.

Dear Kate,

I’m excited to hear more about your trip ideas. Perhaps I could take that direct flight to Perth you mentioned, and then onwards to explore the great country! Let’s start with the craziest itinerary you have and work down from there. Sounds mad, but it will make me smile (hospital appointmentstoday, I need something to cheer me up!). Send me the itinerary for your ultimate trip, where would you go if you could go anywhere?

‘Rose,’ I say out loud. ‘Get out of my head. This is my trip, not yours.’

But I’m smiling; I kind of like that Rose is coming with me.