by Winona Kent
If it’s sunny—which it is, today—I’ll eat outside, sitting at a table which overlooks the pool down on Promenade, as well as the hot tub, which often features elderly gents in baggy swimsuits—and sometimes nicely turned out ladies in bikinis. Today may be a case in point, as the travel agents are all at least thirty years younger than most of our passengers, and I counted fourteen potential bikini candidates gathered in the TopDeck Lounge earlier.
There’s my favourite table, unoccupied. The pool has three swimmers—all in their sixties—and the hot tub contains two ladies in their thirties. What did I tell you? I’ve got my sunglasses on, and I’m about to enjoy lunch.
But first…Having a quick break, I tweet, to my followers. Curious about what’s on the Buffet menu for today?
Chocolate pudding? asks the hopeful one from Wales.
Hello Cold_Fingers! Sunday lunch. Bet there’s Alaska smoked salmon!
You could almost be here with me, I tweet back.
Been here with you since the start of your contract, sir. Alaska smoked salmon every Sunday lunch. Ha!
I have no surprises left…
Buffet won’t be complete without your favourite Rooibos tea, will it…
Here comes a tweet from Rachel, whose avatar is a curvaceous lady in a tight leather bodysuit, and black leather wings. I’d like to tie you up and Buffet you. Name your wickedness.
Now now, Rachel. I’ve been a good boy.
You disappoint me. But you may still require corrective guidance. I’ll be waiting.
I’ll try not to be too naughty. No…wait. It’s the other way round, isn’t it…
A DM from Jilly saves me. You thought Geraldine_31 disappeared from Twitter in February but she didn’t. She merely changed her username and profile.
How could she do that? I ask.
She unfollowed you, deleted all of her tweets, changed into someone else, and came back to follow you again starting in May.
And I didn’t notice?
How could you? You have 2,044 followers.
Is she still there?
She’s still there. She’s following you. You’re not following her.
So she isn’t Fam_Tripper…
She may be Fam_Tripper. She may have more than one account.
What’s the name of her other account if it isn’t Geraldine_31?
“Mind if I join you?”
I look up, startled. She’s appeared from the Lido Café, carrying a tray loaded with soup and salad, and at least five different pastries from the dessert counter. Fam_Tripper.
“Hello,” I acknowledge, snapping off my phone. “Yes. Please do.”
My most recent lilac card instructed me specifically to save a place at my favourite table for a meet-up. Was I wrong? Was the card really from Fam_Tripper?
She slides into the empty chair. And in the process tips her tray sideways and loses three of the pastries to the freshly washed teak decking.
“Six second rule,” I tell her, helping to pick them up and return them, mostly intact, to the tray.
“I thought it was a three second rule…”
“Six when you’re on a ship,” I tell her, “because seawater has magical antibacterial properties.”
She’s smiling. She has a friendly face. She looks nothing like a bunny boiler. “It’s Jason, isn’t it?”
She’s checking my name badge, which is now prominently pinned to my shirt pocket.
“It is.”
She’s eyeing my iPhone, which is lying in dormant darkness beside my tea.
“I have one of those, too,” she says, producing hers from her bag, which she’s slung over the back of her chair. “Absolutely mandatory if one has any kind of presence on the internet. Do you Twitter?”
Ah. The crucial question. Shall I lie and pretend I only inhabit Facebook? Or tell the truth. I know what Jilly would say. “I do.”
Her face acknowledges, but her expression doesn’t change. “I know someone who tweets from a cruise ship. About chocolate and high seas. We follow one other. It wouldn’t happen to be you…would it?”
She knows it is. She’s just dancing around me, trying to find out what I know.
“It might be.”
Down at the hot tub, the two ladies are joined by a grey-haired playboy in his cabin robe and flip flops. He’s eyeing the girls.
“I’m Katey Shawcross.”
There. She’s said it. Now I can look her up properly on the passenger manifest.
“Are you Cold_Fingers?”
Moment of truth. Yes or no? “That would be me.”
“Well, hello,” she says, with another smile.
She waits. I wait.
“I’m Fam_Tripper! Isn’t it lovely to meet up like this in the real world?”
“It is an amazing coincidence,” I offer.
I might have called it a lovely coincidence before my chat with Jilly and the arrival of two lilac coloured envelopes. Now I’m just a little on edge. If she’s Geraldine_31 I think I have a problem. If she’s not…then why was Jilly ever worried about her in the first place?
Playboy Gent has taken off his robe, and has now dipped himself into the swirling hot water.
“Have you met anyone else? I mean, there must be a few. You have a huge list of followers.”
“Actually, you’re my first.”
It’s true. There have been a few others from my follower list who’ve come aboard—I’ve read about their adventures, their tweets of anticipation, their packing rituals, taxi to the airport, lineup at Security, departure delays and hurried boardings. I may even have been sitting nearby as they’ve relayed the details of their cruise back to our mutual followers. And possibly even commented on them myself. But I’ve never before broken cover.
“I’m your first!” she exclaims. “That sounds very…” She catches herself. She was about to make a comment that would be funny on Twitter.
“Euphemistic?”
“I wasn’t going to say it.”
“You were.”
She has a nice smile. I can’t think why Jilly was worried about her. She’s a travel agent. These fams aren’t random. Arrangements have to be made. Advance planning. Work coverage. This trip was likely put in place months ago. And Jilly is wrong more than she’s right.
“You’re not blipping tunes under another name, are you?” There. I’ve said it. “SaylerGurl?”
Fam_Tripper—Katey—frowns. “No,” she says, and her confusion seems genuine. “What’s Blip?”
Now I feel stupid. “It’s a music site,” I tell her. “You use it to play tunes.”
“Ah,” she says, “like YouTube.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Anyway, no. No idea who SaylerGurl is. And I haven’t blipped.”
I’m tempted to ask her if she’s got any flowery notecards with lilac-coloured envelopes in her cabin. But I really honestly think if she did, she’d have come clean by now and revealed herself.
Katey Shawcross is not SaylerGurl.
“Do you know much about the history of this ship?” she asks, changing the subject.
I’m tackling my sandwich. It’s a Reuben today, sauerkraut and pastrami and spicy mustard on a very nice toasted rye.
“She’s old. Far older than me.”
“Not by much,” Katey says, amused.
I give her a look. “Launched in 1960,” I offer, one of the few facts I do know about Sapphire’s history.
“You? Or the ship?” She has nice eyes. An unusual green. Like the sea.
“The ship. I’m not that old.”
“I knew that. I know a lot, actually. About the Sapphire—not you. I’ve done some research. I’ve got some old brochures and photos. I’m a bit compulsive that way.”
The gentleman in the hot tub has captured the attention of both of the ladies with something highly amusing.
“Did you bring them with you?”
I can’t hear what Playboy Gent is saying, but the ladies are laughing an
d nudging one another. Playboy Gent’s just accidentally brushed the leg of one with his toe under the steamy water. She’s investigating.
“Yes, I always do that. When I go on fams I turn them into educational opportunities. A lifelong learner, me. I’d love to show my collection to you.”
She’s got him by the big toe.
“Was that a euphemism?” I can’t help it. Twitter creeps into my everyday thoughts. Especially when I know I’m talking to someone from my Twitterverse.
“Certainly not. We could meet later. Before the Champagne Waterfall thing. I could even give you a tour. Compare the old and the new. All the refits and renovations.”
Playboy Gent and the two ladies are now toasting one another with their swizzle-sticked bar drinks. I hope he’s not married.
I honestly can’t help smiling. “A tour. We definitely are not talking euphemisms.”
“Definitely not,” Katey assures me. “Could we meet later, then? About four?”
“The Games Room,” I suggest, sinking ever deeper into unintentional suggestive territory.
“You’re on.”
As is the elderly gent in the hot tub, who is now climbing out, ably assisted by both ladies, one on each arm. Some guys have all the luck.
10
Sunday, at Sea
I hate to go inside on a day like this. It’s bright and sunny as we sail up Grenville Channel to Triple Island, which is where the Canadian pilots get off. It’s wilderness all the way, both sides, lush forest and deep green water, colourful little fishing boats, the occasional bear stopping on a stony beach to snag his tea.
I could sit here all day on Lido, the constant roar from the ship’s funnel above, her turbines vibrating the teak deck under my feet.
I’ve missed the Art Auction, featuring stuff I’d sell immediately if I was ever unfortunate enough to inherit it. I’ve also missed the Champagne and Chocolate Sparkler—a clever unveiling of a featured year, coupled with posh chocolate and black diamonds, in one of the cosy lounges hidden along Promenade.
I’ve missed the wine tasting in the Disco, too—the same place where this morning, Chef Domino was carving clown faces into watermelons.
An Alaskan Beer Sampling. And a Mixology Class. If I’m quick I can just about catch the Blackjack Tournament in the Casino. Or the Lecture in the Spa—“Secrets to a Flatter Stomach”. The answer is, obviously, drink less alcohol and eat less chocolate. But I’m sure that will only be touched upon in passing, if at all.
“Jason! A favour!”
It’s the Staff Captain’s wife. Her name’s Jo, and she’s living aboard for a month with their daughter Imogen, who is five and lovely.
“I’m just off to the Spa, Jason—I’ve had it booked for ages—one of those wrap-you-in-seaweed-and-apply-hot-stones-to-your-feet-and-vigorously-rub-salt-and-ginger-into-your-scalp-while-you’re-sipping-pomegranate-tea things.”
“Are you going too?” I ask Imogen.
“Barnaby wouldn’t like it,” she replies, with utmost seriousness. “He’s a very particular bear.”
Barnaby B Ayre is currently riding shotgun in her pink knapsack, staring at me with dark brown button eyes. He has a wardrobe for all occasions and his own page on Facebook, though his narrative of what’s going on in his world sometimes requires an English language interpreter.
“Would you mind just keeping an eye on Imogen for an hour or two?”
“Not at all,” I tell Jo, and I do mean it.
Imogen settles herself in the spare chair, and sits Barnaby on the tabletop, so that he’s eyeing my phone and Twitterscreen over my right elbow.
Barnaby’s wardrobe today is blue jeans, trainers, and a blue and white striped t-shirt. I think Jo must have a running tab at some fabulous babywear shops. As well as a brilliant creative talent for props. Barnaby has a cardboard Fender Strat finished in Lake Placid Blue arranged on his lap, cleverly printed so that it appears almost 3D.
Here comes Lorenzo, with his tray, to check on our drinks.
“Two Pink Lemonades,” I tell him, and to Barnaby: “A case of expensive fizzy water for you? And no brown M&M’s?”
A moment while Barnaby decides.
“Yes please,” says Imogen. “A fizzy water for Barnaby. With a swizzy of lemon.”
“And a straw,” I add.
Lorenzo departs with our order.
“He doesn’t like M&M’s,” Imogen says to me. “They make him sneeze.”
She puts on a pair of pink framed sunglasses, and stretches out, her head tipped up, a veteran cruiser enjoying the sun.
Two hours pass quickly. I’ve been immersed in Twittering, catching up on conversations begun last week, checking my emails, paying bills, doing a spot of banking.
I have no idea at all how Barnaby ended up on his back with his feet in the air, still playing his Strat, wearing my Ray-Bans and a pair of devil horns made of foil from the G&B Maya Gold I may have eaten earlier. Or his drinking straw fashioned into quite a good mike stand, with an olive for its top and a lime wedge for its base.
I also take no responsibility for the series of comments lusting over Jemima Vickers that Barnaby may have tweeted twenty minutes ago, using his own newly set-up Twitter account.
My Twitter friends are commenting on life. As they do.
Going for an evening stroll…the weather is being so cooperative.
Oh my! These potato chips are so tasty! As are these lovely chocolate bars!
I’m so bored I’m considering doing the ironing. Shoot me now. Please.
I’m tweeting back.
Wish I could join you. Unfortunately evening strolls limited to Outside Prom. May try out new roller skates tomorrow…
Chocolate? Ah—but how many kinds of exotic tea do you have? My current fave…Egyptian Licorice Mint…
I employ Manuel to do my ironing. *so lucky*
It’s coming up to midnight Over There, and most of my regulars have either gone to bed now, moaning about having to get up for work tomorrow, or they’ve been out getting drunk somewhere, in which case, they’ll be moaning tomorrow about how much their heads hurt, and complaining about losing their shoes in a taxi.
Jilly’s still up, though. I’ve just caught her—and I’m pursuing the question I left her with earlier.
What’s Geraldine_31 calling herself now? I ask, again. Unfinished business.
Sorry. Didn’t I tell you? SaylerGurl. Same as on Blip.
Why didn’t I see it? Because I only checked Blip, that’s why. I didn’t bother looking for SaylerGurl on Twitter. Why? I should have. There she is. And because I haven’t followed her back, I’ve not ever been aware of her presence.
I’m planning an amazing holiday. Think I’ll go on a cruise. Any ideas?
Grrrrrrrrr. I hate being ignored. Think I’ll have a rant.
Bugger bugger bugger bugger. Where’s my brochure? I’m such a blonde.
I know where I’ll go. Tum de dum, dum de dum. North. To Alaska. That’s just so brilliant.
Hahaha. Booked. Deposit paid.
Think I might have to go shopping. All nice new clothes. lol. What does one wear to Alaska?
Any Eskimos on here? Any lovely amazing brilliant cruise ship entertainers?
Hahahahahaha.
So. She planned it all three months ago. I’m going back, reading all her entries. Most are her characteristic comments on day to day existence. And chats with people on her own follower lists.
OMG where have you been all my life???? LOL ohhh I have a great ass by the way :P
Hey hey! Good to see you here!!!! Hows tricks?
Just loving the Twitterverse this morning :) i’m kinda dressed SaylerGurl style haha you have to know me to understand that LOL!!!
But it’s clear she’s been following me. Tracking me, commenting on me, but never tweeting to me directly.
Ohhhh Mr. Music Man you can strum my strings anytime hahaha.
Ohh my bed is calling:) i can’t wait to fall in and dream about you playing
your guitar on my private beach.
Sometimes mentioning my Twittername…but without @ in front of it, I’d never see it.
Mmm Mr Cold_Fingers…I know a great song called it must be love love love :) Oh I want you *kiss* *snog* *xxxx* in that order LOL!
Her most recent entry’s from last night. When she was obviously at my gig.
North to Alaska…big nuggets they’re finding! I’ll go for that! Mush! haha!
I pull myself away from Twitter to check on Imogen, who, last time I looked, about twenty minutes ago, had fallen asleep behind her pink-framed sunglasses.
She’s not there. Her chair is empty.
I stand up, look around Lido Deck.
She’s not here.
A five-year-old child wandering alone on a ship is something I don’t dare contemplate. Even the child of a Staff Captain, who’s as familiar with the sea as her parents. This is not good. This is worse than not good.
I’m trying not to panic, trying not to think of all the horrible things that could happen. Trying not to think of the worst thing. Climbing on a railing, fascinated by the glimmer of the sun on the water…
Where do you start to look?
I grab my stuff, and Barnaby, and start walking, eyes everywhere. Trying to formulate a plan in my mind. Trying to decide whether or not to alert Kevin. I’ll find her. She won’t have gone far. She was sitting across from me twenty minutes ago. But a little girl can wander a long way in twenty minutes.
I’m staying on Lido, walking all the way around the open Promenade.
Worst thing. The railings here are open. A five-year-old could easily slip through…I don’t want to think about it. That’s not what’s happened.
“Where’s she gone?” As if asking the ship will give me answers.
Jilly might though. I stop, still hugging Barnaby, and consult my phone. Beside me, the long yellow rope attached to a red and white life ring bangs against the open railing, buffeted by the wind. Jilly, I’ve lost a child. I was minding her. She’s wandered off. She’s five. Help!
I wait, a moment. A very long moment.
And for another moment, I think she’s not going to bother answering me. Because she isn’t really my Guardian Angel and she isn’t really psychic. She’s just a woman who lives in a thatch-roofed cottage in Caterham…and even that might be made up.