Cold Play

by Winona Kent

  I’m back outside and up the stairs and standing beside the never-out coffee on Lido, logging back on to Twitter, when she appears. Diana. Out for an informal stroll. Incognito. In an expensive hoody, jogging pants and trainers. I’m not going to say anything.

  Too late. She’s spotted me. “Jason?”

  iPhone off. “Diana.”

  “Good God. I thought you were dead.”

  “Well. As you can see…I’m not.”

  “But you disappeared from the face of the planet! Where on earth have you been?”

  “At sea. I’m sure if you’d looked hard enough you’d have found me.”

  “Well—it seems I have. What a delicious surprise!”

  “Is it?”

  “What—delicious? Most definitely.”

  “A surprise.”

  Her smile is fixed. It never wavers. But. She’s an actress. “Whatever do you mean by that, darling?”

  “Nothing at all, Diana.”

  Phone in my pocket. Time for me to make my escape. “Goodnight,” I say, pleasantly.

  “Goodnight, my love,” she answers, still smiling.

  It’s noisy down here when we’re underway. Once you step through this Crew Only door, and over the threshold from subdued lighting and maplewood panelling and lush carpets, and the hushed quiet of a ship asleep, you’re in my world. The stairwell’s old and steep and painted white and lit with bare lights. There’s nothing posh or ornate about it. It’s functional and basic. There’s a real rhythmic throb in here, an industrial hum. The Engine Room, Sapphire’s beating heart, is only a few decks down. The steel steps vibrate and rattle in time.

  Down to Deck A, and through another door on the landing. It’s a maze of cabins, built to old steamship standards, when class structure was still alive and well and thriving. “Downstairs” to the passengers’ “upstairs”. One main thoroughfare, nicknamed “The M1”, with side passageways leading off to crew cabins, stores and utilities, the ship’s laundry. Glaring fluorescents, overhead pipes, lino floors. The ever-present distant roar of the turbines.

  We’re at the waterline, so nobody has portholes. And this is where Sapphire’s watertight compartments start—ten of them, bow to stern, designed to keep her afloat in the unlikely event her hull’s breached. The doors, all outlined with diagonal yellow and black stripes, are shut tight while we’re underway. If they were open—as they are, in port—you could, in theory, see down the length of the M1. But there’s a slight jog to get around the Boiler Room casing. The pipes inside the casing go all the way up through the middle of the ship, to her massive funnel.

  I’ve had training on how to get one of those doors open. They’re hydraulic, and when they slam shut, they’re capable of lopping off a limb. Or slicing a person in two. Which is a sobering thought at the best of times. And why opening those doors is prohibited except in dire emergencies.

  Home.

  And there’s another lilac-coloured envelope, with my name neatly printed on it, in the Perspex bin beside my door.

  How does she know where my cabin is? They don’t give that kind of information out upstairs. To anyone.

  Gigging clothes off and in the bag, ready for Manuel to deliver to the Laundry. A quick shower.

  And back to the envelope. Another card. Identical to the one earlier…but the message inside is longer. And it’s framed with my name. Like a picture frame, except the four sides are made up of Jason, in capital letters, printed over and over in a tidy, tight hand, in purple ink. Inside the frame, a printed note, in blue.

  Dear lovely Jason. I chose this ink to match your shirt. What’s it called? Azure Blue? It suits you. I can’t believe we’ll only have a week together. If I could have afforded it, I would have booked a second cruise, after this one, so we could have two weeks. No matter. I’m here now. Did you see my Blip? It’s my answer to you. Were you singing those words just for me tonight? I believe you were. I’ve written a poem, but it’s not the right time to show it to you. Perhaps tomorrow at lunch. Save me a place at your favourite table on Lido Deck. Sleep well. I wish I was there beside you tonight. xxx

  No Guess Who this time, but it’s a bit of a moot point.

  Laptop open and on. Jilly—Jilly—Jilly—I need you!

  It’s half past nine Sunday morning Over There. Jilly’s out collecting hen’s eggs or bicycling to the shops for milk and bread. She’s not on Twitter, anyway.

  But I can see that Dom’s answered my last email. A school update. A short video of his latest musical feat—a hilariously perfect imitation of Lonnie Donegan doing My Old Man’s a Dustman. Thoughts about a girl he really likes—I have this to worry me for the next six years—followed by a rare request for advice.

  I banish all thoughts of SaylerGurl from my mind while I fire off a quick answer to my son.

  Dom, just be yourself. Just be honest. She has to like you for being you, the way you are now, not for who she thinks you ought to be. If she wants you to change, then it’s not really you she’s interested in. It’s someone in her imagination. Your mum always accepted me for who I was, good and bad. She never entertained thoughts about who or what I should become. From the start, it was What You See, is What You Get. It’s one of the reasons why I loved her so much. And by the way, props for the excellent skiffle. Lots of love, The Dustman.

  Press Send…and it’s gone.

  While I wait for Jilly to come online, I’m going to see what else I can find out about SaylerGurl. Fam_Tripper. Whatever her name is. I’m beginning to feel not altogether comfortable about this week.

  7

  Sunday, at Sea

  I woke up early this morning.

  And I’ve stayed awake, waiting for Jilly. But she’s still not there. Everyone else is. In England, eight hours away, Sunday evening banter prevails.

  Have lost keys. Kitchen window open but too small to crawl through. Now attempting cat flap.

  Home from karaoke. The knicker sniffing was an accident. Honest.

  How was Huddersfield? And what’s all this about a kinky stickshift…?

  Late last night I went back to TopDeck, just as Samuel was closing up. I asked to look through his bar receipts. And I consulted Cora, the waitress who’d served Fam_Tripper and her travel agent friends their drinks. I asked if she could match any of the chits with the fortyish looking lady with the long brown hair.

  Cora wasn’t certain. “That one, perhaps,” she said, with deliberate thought.

  But there were drinks for all three on the receipt, and only one had signed for them.

  “Not her,” Cora said, after another moment. “I remember. It was the young one with the earrings. Alaskan Iced Teas.”

  No luck there, then. And it was too late to bother Sally, to ask her if it was possible to access Security’s database. They’d have the match—face to name—in their gangway scanner.

  So I stayed up looking at Blip. Hunting through SaylerGurl’s tunes. Right the way back to the beginning. May. Three months of what looked like random songs. Except each one seemed to have been chosen for its lyrics, or its title, and accompanying each was a comment on a line of lyrics, or that title, followed by many xxx’s. All directed at me? How would I know unless I’d been specifically asked to look there?

  Blips shot out into the universe, attached to a forlorn hope that they’d find their target.

  I went back to Twitter, and found Fam_Tripper’s account. Also beginning in May. She started following me, Stephen Fry, and someone with a very droll sense of humour tweeting as Princess Diana in Heaven. Coincidentally, May also marked the start of my current contract aboard Sapphire.

  I spent an hour reading back over Fam_Tripper’s tweets. Obviously fond of me, but nothing out of the ordinary. Shared jokes with groany punchlines. Moans about the rain. Observations about places in the world where I’d been, and where she’d been. Best and worst airports. Boiled eggs and Marmite on buttery toast for breakfast. Beef sausages for dinner. My quest for the perfect Spicy Tuna Sashimi.
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  I looked on Facebook and Google+, but without Fam_Tripper or SaylerGurl’s real names, it was next to impossible to search. The same for Myspace.

  I even checked the photo sharing sites where you can put pictures you’ve taken with your phone or camera, and make them instantly available to your Twitterverse.

  The only odd thing I noticed about Fam_Tripper was that all of my followers on Twitter were the same people she was following—and in almost exactly the same order. She had a whole load of others that she’d added, and who, in turn, had added her to their lists—but every single one of mine, was hers as well.

  Does that make her suspicious? No. At least, I don’t think so. And I really want Jilly’s opinion on this. For what it’s worth.

  Meanwhile, it’s Sunday morning and live from the Disco we have Chef Domino wielding his magical knife on six terrified radishes, four carrots, and a very large watermelon.

  He also does soap carvings.

  And if you miss this morning’s demo you’ll be able to see it six times more on your cabin TV. Hosted by the lovely and very professional Alana, who’s been to broadcasting school and who will also, in the upcoming week, teach you how to make your own greeting cards, artfully arrange flowers, concoct your own bath oil, and fold things just like Manuel.

  Towel Origami. Who knew?

  Upstairs in the Officers Mess, I pick out my breakfast from the steam-tray buffet. Scrambled eggs and bacon, toast and tea. I grab a chair at an unoccupied table by one of the portholes.

  I could sit with Kev, but like Campari or Angostura, he’s best taken in small doses. He’s sixty-three years old and trained in anti-terrorism. Spent three years seconded to the Saudi Arabian Army, then spent some further years doing highly classified things with the British Navy. His office is just down from the Purser’s Desk on Aloha, with a discreet door that’s identical to all the passenger cabin doors on Deck 6.

  I visited once, with Sal. Inside, the walls were covered with pictures of submarines and fighter jets. And there was an intriguing 8 x 10 of a dozen men in scuba gear and wetsuits, arranged in two rows like a schoolboys’ sports team, all of their faces obscured by masks and mouthpieces, their arms folded.

  “Your mates from the Secret Navy?” Sal inquired.

  “The ones that are still alive,” Kev answered, darkly.

  “I don’t exactly miss the job,” he’s now telling one of the shoppies, “only some of the things I used to do, that’s all.”

  The shoppie’s name’s Diandra and I’m sure she’ll end up spending the night with him at some point during this cruise. She only came aboard last week and he’s already putting the moves on.

  “It all sounds terribly exciting,” Diandra offers. I can tell she likes a man in uniform.

  “I’ll show you my photo collection, if you like, darling.”

  What did I tell you?

  Breakfast done. I’m up in the passenger areas, skillfully avoiding the Tanzanite and Lladro sale in the shops…but not the special table set up in the foyer outside the Casino.

  “Hello lovely man. I am watching you last night play musics.”

  She’s cornered me, in front of passengers. I must be on my best behaviour. “Hello. Did you enjoy it?”

  “Am enjoying very much.” She’s from somewhere that used to be a part of the old Soviet Union. She has that deliciously thick accent that makes me think of vodka and borscht and women in babushkas scything fields of golden grain. I haven’t seen her before, and I’m looking for her nametag, but it’s obscured by a lot of long black hair.

  “Am called Wahtrina,” she says, confidentially. “Not real name. Was necessary to change when fleeing from gangster boyfriend. Am from Belarus.”

  She holds up a blue jewellery box.

  “Lovely Tanzanite cufflinks. Look good with your nice long fingers. Two pairs for you?”

  Every port on our itinerary is populated with outlets selling Lladro and Tanzanite. If there’s a hell in the afterlife, I expect it’ll be strewn with Lladro figurines wearing Tanzanite cufflinks.

  “Got any earrings?” I ask, humorously.

  “Of course,” she says, momentarily taken aback, then picking up a box containing a particularly garish pair of Diamond and Tanzanite studs.

  “I’ll have one.”

  “Only come in two,” she says, slightly annoyed.

  “Only want one,” I maintain. I learned how to bargain in the Caribbean. I am fearless.

  Ah—here comes Julie. With Bill. They of the Patterdale Terriers.

  “I’m sure you could persuade this lovely couple to buy them,” I tell Wahtrina. “Julie and Bill. Wahtrina. From Belarus.”

  And I make a quick exit through the heavy wooden doors, to the Outside Promenade.

  Time for a quick check of Twitter on my iPhone…

  Mr. Fingers! Where are you? We’re having a discussion about an enormous red funnel. #notaeuphemism

  I’m here. Admiring my funnel. It’s blue. And it’s quite wide. #sizeisnteverything

  How’s life at sea?

  It’s really swell.

  Something’s swelling? You are naughty!

  Me? You’re the one who won’t stop talking about enormous red funnels…

  We do enjoy raising your banner, Mr. Fingers…

  Personal banner raising can be quite pricey, ladies. I charge a nominal fee, payable in G&B’s…

  Still no Jilly.

  I’m off on my daily stroll. Nine times around the Promenade’s a mile. See you later for more choc & chat.

  My walk is undertaken with my iPod, at a leisurely pace not guaranteed to lose weight or improve my cardiopulmonary circulation in any way, shape or form. Early on in my first contract, I joined Jemima and her power-walkers, but her strident, “Come on you lazy slackers! I’m going to make you hurt!” was discouraging, and she wouldn’t let me stop for chocolate, so I soon gave up.

  My stroll this morning is fuelled by impatience and a certain degree of tension. And Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk. I’m certain I won’t run into Diana. Resting actors’ hours being what they are. And jetlag, of course. But I wonder if I’ll see Fam_Tripper. Or SaylerGurl. Because I think—I really do think—that they are two different beings. Not one.

  I’m distracted a little by the view, which is always fabulous. Blue sky and glassy blue water, dark green pine forests rising up on either side of the passage, and hazy snow-topped indigo mountains. The odd brightly painted fishing boat chugging across our wake. There’s a brisk wind, but I know the sheltered spots where you can stand and successfully light a ciggie. I do have my uses.

  And now, I’m being hailed. Earbuds out. There’s an edict we must follow. It’s posted in all the crew stairways and lifts. We must Smile, and Always Greet Passengers in a Friendly Manner.

  “Good morning.”

  I recognize her from last night’s audience. Travelling alone—or, at least, sitting alone. Short blonde hair cut into a fringe, and she’s wearing a knitted tam, which makes her look very cute. Spectacles…but no makeup, no jewellery. Mid-thirties? Younger than me, at any rate. Based on my previous experience, I’d say she’s a book person.

  Who’s obviously been hoping one of our Deck Attendants will appear shortly to unfold one of these nice steamer chairs for her. “I can’t quite get the hang of this,” she says. “Would you mind awfully?”

  I ought not to. It isn’t in my job description. And I’m sure there will be three attendants along in two minutes’ time, one after the other, with nothing else to do. But I’m helpful to a fault. “There you are.”

  They’re good, these chairs. Classic reproductions. You might well imagine you’re back in the golden age of steamships, bundled up in a cosy rug, the adventure of crossing the storming North Atlantic ahead of you. Not sailing in a lazy circle, quick pop round the Glaciers, back home laden with bear claw salad tongs, miniature totem poles and whale tail pendants (most of them made in China). But that’s just me.

  “Thank you,” she says
. “I enjoyed your show last night.”

  “Thank you,” I offer in return.

  She’s got a book bag with her. It’s lilac. And I can see it holds, as well as books, a notepad and a pencil. She takes the notepad out. The pages are edge to edge with neat, concise printing. Very similar printing, in fact, to that in my two flowery cards.

  “Research,” she says, making herself comfortable on the chair.

  “What are you working on?”

  “At the moment, a character study.” She unfolds the blanket that came with the chair. “I write novels. Thrillers.”

  “So does my sister,” I tell her.

  “Lovely. Published?”

  “Taylor Feldspar.”

  It’s a pseudonym. She guards her privacy. I don’t think even Wikipedia’s been able to suss her out.

  “That’s your sister? My goodness. I’ve read everything she’s written!”

  “So have I. I’ll tell her. She’ll be pleased.”

  “I enjoyed your demonstration during the Passenger Muster yesterday, too.”

  “My secret sideline. Jumping off the side of a ship.”

  “Do you actually know how to launch one of those?” She’s nodding up at the lifeboats, the bottoms of which are hanging over our heads.

  “I do. We practice it in port, when most of the passengers have gone ashore. In Skagway. Though I’m better with the inflatables. I’ve done a course.”

  It’s true. I went with Sally. We learned how to climb into a blow-up raft from the water and everything.

  “Absolutely fascinating,” she says. “We must meet up and talk later. I’m Annie. Baysting. B-A-Y Sting.”

  It’s a fabulous name. And I tell her so.

  “It is quite unusual, isn’t it. I’m trying to find out its origin. I hated it when I was younger. In school I was called Annie Drippings. You know. Basting. Turkey. Drippings. But I grew to like it as I got older.”

  “I’m Jason. Davey. In school I was called Jason. There weren’t any drippings.”

  Annie’s laughing. “Thank you so much for your assistance.”