Cold Play

by Winona Kent

  The wooden door to the Enclosed Promenade opens behind me. I’m momentarily on edge. But it’s Katey.

  “Hello!” A lovely surprise. “I see you couldn’t sleep, either.”

  She’s wearing a waterproof windjacket and trainers. Someone who knows how to pack for summer in southwest Alaska.

  “There’s coffee upstairs,” I tell her. “Always on.”

  We go up, single file. Steep wet wooden steps. I can imagine trying to climb them in rough North Atlantic seas. Handrails on both sides. You’d need them. The coffee’s hot and was probably brewed in the last hour. The cream and sugar show signs of recent replenishment, and the plastic mugs are still warm from the dishwasher.

  I need to warn her about what’s happened to Cold_Fingers.

  “Oh hell,” she says. “I knew I shouldn’t have sent you that tweet last night after the Medevac.”

  “What did you say?”

  “‘Hello Fingers. I’m enjoying being aboard your ship. Looking forward to some POSHness. Hashtag euphemism.’”

  “That’ll go over well.”

  “I won’t say anything else. I’ll lurk in silence till you get it sorted.”

  There are tables under the overhang from Sun Deck, and chairs stacked nearby. We take two down, and sit where it’s dry. I give her my new Gmail address. Just in case.

  “And why are you awake at this hour?” I inquire.

  Katey thinks before she replies. “Contemplating my future. Giving up my job.”

  “That’s fairly drastic. Why?”

  “My dad was in the industry for thirty years. I grew up with it. We got used to it, each time he went away. Life was a series of goodbyes and hellos. None of them permanent. He went. But he always came back again.”

  “I know what you mean.” It sounds lame. It’s true, though. I do.

  “He died with his boots on. As it were. I don’t want that to happen to me.”

  “So it’s not the glamorous jetsetting life we’re led to believe.”

  “Not anymore. Perhaps at the beginning, when I was young and eager. I’ve seen most of the world now. Survived all of the changes to the industry. I’m worn out. Burned out.”

  She drinks her coffee, and gazes out into the rain, at the effervescent white trail our twin propellers leave behind in the grey-green water.

  “If I could summon up the courage to leave, I would.”

  “What would you do instead?”

  “No idea,” Katey says. “I’ve always wanted to run away to sea though.”

  I laugh. “Like me?”

  “I’ve heard it’s very glamorous.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  “Not,” she says.

  “I work a six month contract,” I tell her. “Seven days a week, no days off. Near the end, all I want to do is sleep. And for about two weeks shoreside, that’s all I do. Lie in bed. Eat when I want. What I want. Please myself. Rediscover all the clothes I left behind, all the stuff I didn’t have room to pack in my cases. And then my feet start to itch and I find life ashore’s missing something. And in the end I can’t wait to come back aboard and start it all over again.”

  “Why do you? Why did you?”

  She waits.

  I’ll be honest.

  “My wife died. In a fire. About three years ago. And I found, in the end, I couldn’t really cope with it. So here I am.”

  I’ve not told that to many people. I’m not really sure why I’ve broken my vow of silence now.

  “I’m sorry,” Katey says. “My best friend died in a fire when I was nineteen. I know. It’s horrible.”

  We sit for a few moments. I’ve got her picture on my phone. Next to the one of Dom. I show both to Katey. “Emma. And our son.”

  “She’s beautiful. And he’ll be breaking hearts soon.”

  “Already is,” I tell her, putting the pictures away. “She was a makeup artist. She worked in films. And TV. It happened in the night…Em was asleep. Dom was at my mum’s—it was school break and she lives in the country…I was out gigging…and I came home to find my house burning.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Next door had already rung 999 and the firemen were on their way. I tried to go in, but there was so much smoke. Black smoke, and flames in the front room. I got partway up the stairs and had to turn around. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t save her.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jason. You don’t need to tell me any more.”

  “No. I want to. It had been smouldering for a while. They put it out fairly quickly once they got there. But the smoke got to everything. They found Em by the bedroom window. Covered in soot. She’d been in bed and had obviously woken up. But she’d got disoriented…or perhaps she knew she couldn’t get out down the stairs. The bedroom door was open, which only made it worse. I hope it was quick, and she didn’t suffer too much. But the thought of her struggling, trying to find air, trying to breathe…trying to find a way out…haunts me. It never leaves me. It’s horrible.”

  “I know.”

  “We both ended up in the hospital, but of course it was too late for her. She was dead before she ever got there. I had to identify her body. Which I did. Bravely. You see it on television…but it’s never quite what you’re expecting.”

  “What caused the fire?”

  It’s difficult to talk about this bit. It’s why I don’t. “A cigarette. In the sofa. Mine.”

  “Oh…no…are you sure?”

  “Em didn’t smoke. Dom didn’t smoke. I did. I don’t anymore.”

  “But it was an accident, surely.”

  “Honestly? I have no idea. I always used an ashtray. But. They found what was left of the filter between what was left of the cushions. So.”

  “When my friend died,” Katey says, “the first thing my mum said was, it could have been you. Because I was just there, that day, in her flat.”

  “I keep thinking, if there was something more I could have done…Held my breath. Hung on for just a minute longer. She wouldn’t have died. I’d have saved her.”

  “The fire nearly killed you, too.”

  There’s another moment of contemplative silence.

  “The guilt’s always with me. I manage to beat myself up every day.”

  I don’t know why I’ve told her that. I barely know her. And I feel as if I’ve just torn open my soul.

  “What about you?” I ask, changing the subject. “Married? Connected?”

  “Disconnected,” Katey says. “Last summer. After eighteen years.”

  My turn to wait.

  “My mum used to resent my dad going away all the time. Kieran always looked forward to it. He used to say, ‘It gives me a chance to get things done.’ Though what those ‘things’ were, was always a bit of a mystery, because nothing was ever changed or different when I got back. Eventually I found out that ‘getting things done’ was a tidy little euphemism for ‘spending more time with my bit on the side’. I blamed myself, of course.”

  She drinks from her coffee mug.

  “Kids?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Not the maternal type.”

  We’re both still watching the water, and the rain.

  “I made a horrible mistake at Christmas and cancelled someone’s honeymoon. Air, hotel, everything. I was so distracted, I got their file mixed up with someone else’s. Sent them a refund cheque…and when they got it, they rang me back…and I couldn’t even recall what I’d done and when. I went hunting…and I found it…and that’s when I knew that I wasn’t coping and that everything I claimed—with my brave face and my insistence that my personal life and my professional life were two distinct entities, one not affecting the other—was a complete lie.”

  “Anxiety. Stress. I know.”

  “I got the hotel back. But I couldn’t get the seats on the plane. I called in favours with reps, banked on my years in the industry, put my reputation on the line, my sales record. I priority waitlisted them and four days be
fore the wedding, the waitlist cleared and their honeymoon was saved. Except the bride’s father’s a solicitor and there are now serious claims being made about loss of enjoyment and mental distress.”

  “Not a leg to stand on,” I offer. “You made good on everything.”

  “If only,” she says, grimly. “I don’t have much courage left anymore. It’s a good thing I came on this cruise. It got me out of the office. I think they’re all probably terrified of what I might do next.”

  I smile. “I went through a period like that. After Em died. Grief. And guilt. I don’t think I’ll ever really recover from either. The guilt, especially.”

  Katey looks at me. “It’s fundamental, isn’t it. We need to be forgiven. But before that can happen…we need to forgive ourselves.”

  She pauses, contemplatively.

  “Listen to me. Agony Aunt Kate.”

  Her coffee’s finished. So is mine.

  “Breakfast’s on downstairs. You hungry?”

  She shakes her head. “I think I’ll just go back to bed and try to sleep for a few more hours. I’ve got a seminar to go to later. And a whale watching tour.”

  “It’ll be fun,” I tell her, in my best unconvincing voice.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I’m glad we met up. And talked…And I did mean it.”

  “What?”

  “The hashtag euphemism. Last night.”

  One of those moments. Perfect. In the rain. A kiss. Surprising. Lingering.

  “Sleep well.”

  “You too.”

  15

  Monday, Juneau

  It’s still wet, though the rain’s eased up, which will make the tour operators ashore happy. We’ve slipped into Juneau after a morning’s cruise around Tracy Arm and up the Gastineau Channel.

  I’ve been back downstairs, catching up on my sleep. I half expected to find another lilac-coloured envelope popped into the mailbox outside my cabin door, and a card filled with angry rhetoric and possibly a hate poem. But…nothing. So far.

  She has her revenge. She has control of my Twitter and email accounts. If it were anyone else, I would be concerned, but not overly anxious. But I have previous experience with SaylerGurl. She’s not right in the head. And while she’s never actually been a real danger to me, I’m worried. Especially in light of Jilly’s warnings to me, to be careful. I’ll be on the lookout. I’ll be watching all the female passengers.

  I’m sitting in a comfy armchair in TopDeck, watching us dock through one of the panoramic windows. I’ve got a nice potted palm beside me, with accessible soil. Must remember to point that out to Katey.

  We’re wedged up sideways against the main waterfront pier. Behind us, the Amethyst towers over our stern. And looming over our bow is one of our competition’s latest offerings—115,000 tons of luxury, private verandahs, outdoor scenic lifts. Water slides. A real golf course. Not a simulation.

  It’s noon and I’ve got a lunch date with Sal. Our regular Juneau haunt. She’s delayed, as usual, by reports and red tape.

  Here comes Kevin, deep in conversation with Diandra.

  “In fact,” he’s saying, “I’m quite an authority on ladies’ tights. Positively swore by ’em, me and my Navy frogmates.”

  “Oooh,” says Diandra. “You’re handy to have around, aren’t you!”

  “Made our wetsuits go on easier,” Kevin provides. “Control tops with cotton gussets—my personal favourites.”

  Diandra giggles.

  “In fact,” Kevin says, “when me and my mates was up to our arses in water-filled trenches in Northern Ireland, we was all wearing wetsuits under our regular kit. And what d’you think we had on under our wetsuits?”

  “I don’t know,” Diandra giggles.

  “Queen size,” Kevin replies. “Lycra. Midnight black.”

  “Did you wash them in the machine, Kev?” I ask. “Or did you do them by hand with your lacy knickers?”

  Kev gives me the evil eye. Diandra looks on adoringly.

  And I’m back on Twitter as he ushers her away, presumably to his cabin to investigate her gussets. Cold_Fingers still hasn’t approved my request to follow. But she’s been busy. I can see what people are tweeting back. And it’s not nice.

  What? WHAT?? Mr. Fingers, are you having some kind of nervous breakdown? You don’t sound like yourself at all.

  I texted you in confidence Cold_Fingers! I can’t believe you’ve made that text public! UNFOLLOWED & BLOCKED!

  I know exactly what that particular woman’s talking about. Bloody hell.

  I think you need some tea. And some chocolate. And some serious therapy. Not necessarily in that order.

  There are people walking past me, behind me. I look around. All male.

  There’s an email from Katey. Just thought you should know…Cold_Fingers has kicked me out. Unfollowed me, and made sure I’m not following back. Obviously last night’s tweet struck a sour note!

  I’m getting a very bad feeling about this. And I can’t shake the unsettling sensation that I’m being watched. I look behind me, again. Nobody there.

  On the pier, I can see passengers and crew disembarking and making their way along Franklin Street, towards the tourist end of the city. I can see a little Chihuahua named Jessie who drops by every day with his owner to visit all the cruise ships. Where’s Annie?

  And Jilly? Still ignoring me. Hasn’t answered my last DM to her. Hasn’t been online at all. Her last tweet was yesterday, chatting with someone about the maintenance of English wildflowers in cottage gardens.

  I can see Carly on the pier, consulting the map that came with this morning’s What’s On… She’s bought one of the bright blue collapsible umbrellas they sell in the Shops, printed all over with StarSea’s logo. Good for three or four outings, unless it’s windy. In which case it’ll be inside-out in seconds. Carly’s dressed for shopping. Comfy shoes. She’s with Priscilla, a fellow Gastro fan. Sharp nails. Sharp heels. Sharp teeth. They both have big handbags.

  There go the travel agents, in a gaggly herd, like schoolchildren in raincoats on an educational day out. I can see Katey, on the periphery, not looking enthusiastic at all.

  A popup message in my Gmail. Cold_Fingers is now following you on Twitter!

  I wait. She’s acknowledged my existence…and…she’s approved me to follow her. I’m in. And I’m going over Cold_Fingers’ tweets.

  ohh i do like a nice cup of tea

  hahaha English Breakfast or Earl Grey? so difficult to decide…

  ok i’m out of bed thats a good start right…I really can’t be arsed this morning

  who wants to unfollow me…I’ll go first, hahaha, goodbye Fam_Tripper, you’re a nuisance…

  goodbye Silly Jilly…I predict I won’t need you anymore, bet you didn’t see that coming, hahaha…

  Jilly’s been cut off too, then. Bloody nutter.

  Further up the page, tweets from a few minutes ago…

  haha, this is for Jason, i know your here somewhere…pssstt guess what, i win, you lose…

  I’m tweeting to her. Publicly. Not a DM. Hello Cold_Fingers. Who’s Jason?

  Her answer’s not long in coming. mmm a fuckwit, going to die young, haha

  That’s not very nice of you.

  he’s not very nice, full of bollocks.

  How do you know that? Have you met him?

  Silence.

  Then…a DM. From Cold_Fingers. I knew you couldn’t stay away, Jason. You’ll always come back to me in the end.

  You don’t know me at all. It’s Gerry, isn’t it? Or should I say SaylerGurl?

  Either. You decide.

  It’s bizarre how her Twitter personality is so different from her private messaging personality. I got used to the disparity when we were following each other last time.

  And I do know you, Jason. I know everything about you.

  I’m getting that creepy feeling again.

  You’ve hurt me. A lot.

  You ignored the message in my card. You ignore
d me. I waited for you last night. But you didn’t come.

  But you know what? When you’re always ignored you learn how to deal with it.

  You keep trying. You do it 99 times, with no response. And then finally on the 100th time, you get through.

  So this is that 100th time, Jason. I know how to push your buttons. I know how to get under your skin.

  I’m not replying. My buttons aren’t that predictable after all.

  So I know where you live when you’re not at sea…

  Where your mother lives. And your son. You stay with them. I know who your wife was. When she died. How she died.

  Where you were living when your house caught fire. Your birthday. And when you got married. And when Dominic was born.

  When and where your father and mother were born and when your father died.

  You know facts, I tell her, finally. You don’t know me. And how did you find all that out anyway?

  It’s all common knowledge, Jason. It’s all easily looked up. If you know where and what to look for.

  Why would you want to go to all that work? I ask. That’s just sad. And pathetic.

  You don’t mean that.

  Yes I fucking well do.

  Silence again.

  Then: You know I love you, Jason. I always have. And I know you love me. You just don’t know how to tell me.

  Where the fuck did you get that idea from?

  A very long pause.

  In your tweets…

  Fuck. Not this again. You need help, Gerry. You see messages in everything.

  You don’t know you’re sending them, she argues. But you are. I can see them so clearly.

  I’m not sending you messages, Gerry. I don’t love you. And if you think hijacking my Twitter account’s going to change anything…

  …you’re totally delusional. Do you understand that message? Am I coming in loud and clear?

  Another very long pause. And…she’s kicked me out again. I’m back staring at a screen that says: This person has protected their tweets.

  It’s like a punch in the face. I should have expected it. It’s still jolting. Especially when it’s my avatar there, and my Twittername.

  Now she’s made me angry. I’m sending another request to follow. I’m like a terrier.