by Winona Kent
And whales are protected. Sightseers must stay 100 yards away. Which is probably a good thing, as lunch may be on their minds and they aren’t quite as well-trained as Grand Cayman’s tourist-friendly stingrays.
Skagway’s done a fine job restoring and preserving its goldrush storefronts, however. And the wooden trestles the White Pass & Yukon Route Railroad chugs over as it hugs the mountain on its way north might render you breathless if you happen to be afraid of heights.
Peter’s the Shorex Manager, and he’s just about to shut up shop. He’s got a cup of cold tea on his desk, and three dry-looking cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches snaffled from high tea in the Atrium Room. I think he wants his dinner, and I’m delaying him.
“You know those private heli tours…?” I ask, sitting down. I’ve had a thought about Diana.
“You’ve changed your mind and you’re not afraid to board the devil’s airship…?”
Peter makes me laugh. He’s more frightened of riding in a helicopter than I am.
“I saw a transfer van this afternoon. VIP passenger—Diana Wyndham. Which tour did she go on?”
Peter checks his bookings.
“Glacier Sightseeing and Landing,” he says. “Alpine lakes, sheer cliffs, remote peaks…walking on two different glaciers complete with moraines, crevasses, and lots of lovely ice.”
“Is she back aboard?”
“I can check for you. Why?”
“We were friends in London. I just wanted to pop by and say hello.”
Peter’s on the phone to Security. Whenever passengers get on or off the ship, their cruise cards are scanned by the clever machine at the top of the gangway. We know when you’re here. And when you should be, but aren’t.
“Can you check if Diana Wyndham’s on board?” Peter asks. “W-Y-N-D-H-A-M…Right, thanks.”
He puts the phone down.
“Came and went,” he says. “Back from her sightseeing at three, then left the ship again at four. Reboarded about ten minutes ago.”
“Thanks,” I tell him. “Next stupid question…any empty seats on the White Pass tomorrow afternoon?”
Peter consults his computer once more. “Five. But I guarantee they’ll be gone by tonight.”
If I want to use my crew freebie, I’ll have to go stand-by. Better to reserve it, and pay. “Ticket for one, please.”
Payment accepted, document printed, and I’m booked.
“You’ll love it. Done it before?”
“Twice. This time I’m showing it off to a friend.”
“What have you done before, darling? Whatever it is, I’m game.”
It’s Diana. Like a Pantomime Dame. Behind me.
Peter’s clearly impressed. I don’t think he really believed me just now when I told him I knew her.
“The White Pass & Yukon Route Railroad,” he answers, helpfully. “Skagway.”
“Would you kindly book me on the same tour as my delightful friend?” Diana tells him. “And please invoice the Chief Purser for the cost, as I’m due a free excursion in lieu of an earlier inconvenience.”
“One more for the 12.45 White Pass Summit it is,” Peter says, brightly. “Told you those seats would go, Jason.”
I’m waiting outside Shorex while Diana completes her transaction, and then books an additional tour for Ketchikan on Thursday. I don’t want a scene. But I need to know. Here she comes.
“Can I have a word with you in private?”
“Certainly, darling. My stateroom. Give me an hour to freshen up?”
I can’t see any other way. “One hour,” I agree.
I think I may end up regretting this. But. I knock on Diana’s stateroom door.
She takes her time answering. And when she does, it’s with predictable high drama. “Darling!”
She’s wearing red silk pyjamas and expensive pong. She shuts the door behind me.
The suites up here are considerably larger than the rest of the passenger cabins, with huge windows overlooking the bow. The original decor’s been kept the same—wonderful maple on the walls and built-in dresser table, walnut chairs and tables, a sitting room separated from the sleeping area by a glass wall with sliding doors. Carpet, curtains and bedding done in marine blue and seafoam green.
Room Service has obviously been: one of the tables has been set with a formal dinner for two.
“Wine?”
Diana offers me a full glass.
“No. Thank you.”
She looks at me. “There’s a sea change,” she says. “Have you given it up?”
“Three years ago.”
“Given up smoking, too?”
I’m not going to answer that.
Diana smiles.
“As you can see, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering supper. Beef broth with a julienne of carrot, celery and leek. Mixed salad with a citrus-herb dressing. Filet mignon, medium well, as I recall you prefer it. Portabella mushrooms and sautéed asparagus. A middling wine from the Napa Valley—a shame that no longer interests you. And a bittersweet chocolate torte with coffee custard for…afterwards. I can’t imagine you’ve abandoned chocolate.”
She clearly has sway with the kitchen. This is not normal Room Service fare.
“I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to come and see me. I’ve been shopping.”
She hunts through an assortment of paper and plastic bags. Finds what she’s looking for. A small black box.
“Look. For you.”
She holds it out.
I’m not accepting it.
Undeterred, she opens the box. It’s a watch. Very expensive. Gold, with a black face. Embedded diamonds.
I’m still not accepting it.
“The most exclusive one in the shop, darling. Please. Peace offering.”
“For what?”
“We quarrelled. You can’t possibly have forgotten.”
She’s right. I couldn’t possibly have forgotten. But I also don’t recall anything like that happening. Even three years in the past.
“You’re imagining things, Diana.”
She frowns. Her eyes disconnect from me for a moment, go distant.
“At my house, darling. The wrap party. Cast and Crew. Your Emma left in a strop. You elected to stay.”
That I do remember.
“You see? I didn’t make it up.”
Her eyes are back with me, here and now.
“And then, later on, when everyone was going home…you again elected…to stay.”
“Yes, because I’d had too much to drink and I didn’t want to cause an accident on the roads.”
“A perfectly reasonable—and admirable—excuse. And then…what came next?”
“I blacked out. On your sofa.”
“Did you really, darling?”
Her eyes are searching mine.
“In your version of the story, you imagine you spent a chaste night on my sofa, waking in the morning to the worst hangover in all of creation. Which was subsequently treated with copious amounts of water, two cups of very strong coffee, a number of pharmaceuticals, and a push out of the door, back to your faithful little wife.”
“And in your version of the story?”
“You didn’t spend the night on my sofa.”
“It’s where I woke up.”
“You honestly don’t remember, do you? I’m not sure whether I should be relieved or insulted. My memories of that night are quite delightful. And you, as I recall, were as delighted as I was, in spite of your advanced state of intoxication. And months of pretending to ignore my obvious overtures. It isn’t always true, by the way. What they say about alcohol and men’s sexual performance.”
“And we quarrelled?”
“We did.”
“About what?”
“What do you think? What was going to come next. After that night. You retired to the sofa with another bottle to drown your guilt. I retired to my bed, alone. You left in the morning. And we’ve not spoken since.”
�
�There was a fire in my house not long after that.”
“There was. Wasn’t there. And you, presumably consumed with even more guilt, sought refuge in the romance of the high seas.”
I honestly cannot recall anything of the night she’s talking about. Was I too drunk to know? Or have I deliberately blanked it out? I’ve nearly forgotten what I came here for in the first place.
“Were you in Sally’s cabin, Diana?”
“Whatever makes you say that? And who is Sally?”
“The Captain’s Secretary. You’ve seen us together.”
“Ah, so that’s her name. I haven’t a clue where Sweet Sally’s cabin is, Jason. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the vessel, I should imagine. Where the little people live.”
“I live down there too. And you’re a stickler for detail when you’re researching your roles, Diana. You have it down to a fine art. You’d never let a door that says Crew Only stop you.”
Diana places the watch, still in its black box, on her dressing table.
“Alec Heaton,” I say, with great care.
Diana’s hand hovers over the box. “Who, darling?”
“Alec Heaton. Forty years ago. On this ship. When you were crossing the Atlantic. His cabin caught fire. He died.”
“Ah. Yes. And as I told the authorities at the time, I’d never before met the man. End of story.”
“He had a wife and three kids.”
“What’s that to me?”
“You were having an affair with him.”
Diana laughs. “What utter nonsense, Jason.”
“I’ve been speaking with Alec Heaton’s son. He saw you with his dad. In London. Outside a record shop. A week before Alec sailed for New York. Which pretty much puts paid to your claim that you’d never met him before.”
A shadow of something has passed across Diana’s face. Her eyes have gone distant again.
I’ve been hoping Des’s memory is faulty. I’ve been hoping he’s wrong. He isn’t.
“Where?” she asks. “When? When have you been speaking with Alec Heaton’s son?”
“Earlier today. He’s a passenger.”
“What? On this ship?”
“Yes. On this ship.”
That shadow again. “Suppose I did know him.”
I wait.
“I had my career to think of. He was married. Think of the scandal.”
“Diana first. You should have that engraved on your headstone.”
She looks at me. “A rare note of bitter sarcasm, Jason. Not like you.”
“He ended the affair…and you didn’t like that.”
“He ended it, darling? How wrong you are. I was the one who wanted it to stop.”
I’m not sure if I believe her. Especially after what she’s just told me about the night of her wrap party.
“And it was he who insisted on pursuing me to America. And he who could not accept that it was over. So whatever that Heaton man has told you, he’s quite, quite misinformed.”
I’ve escaped. I’m having a quick dinner at the Lido. Not nearly as tempting as Diana’s set feast. But altogether less dangerous.
I’m distracting myself. Our chefs are showing off tonight with trays of seafood, mussels and oysters, scallops and shrimp. Three kinds of fish, two of which I’ve not heard of before. Carved watermelon and pineapple cups. Roast beef. Chicken. Ham. Sculptured salmon. Diamonds of jellied consommé on mirrored platters. Braided breads. Creams and dips and garnishes.
And at the end of it all, on a table covered with a red-checked cloth and surrounded by more seafood, an ice sculpture. Which I think this week must be Neptune. It’s beginning to melt, anyway, with water trickling from an assortment of overhanging parts.
We had a convention of Roman Catholic priests and nuns on board last month. Sal had to see to it that they’d find nothing offensive in their day to day activities. The Showcase acts were vetted for questionable material. DJ Pedro was told to keep his gunbelt locked up. I was given a stern list of What Not to Sing.
Lido’s ice carving that particular Monday night was a large naked cherub. Which, predictably, began to melt. From a prominent appendage. In a nonstop stream. Which didn’t go unnoticed by at least three giggling nuns, and a greying archbishop from somewhere in Africa.
“I’ll just bless this, shall I?” he said, amused, making the Sign of the Cross as he helped himself to a substantial Lobster Salad. “That way, in the sight of God, we can at least consider it Holy Water.”
Dinner done. And I’m heading downstairs to my cabin. While I’ve been gone, another lilac letter seems to have found its way into my Perspex mailbox. And none of the entertainers, assistant pursers and shoppies who inhabit my section of A Deck can tell me who left it there. Not even Manuel. Because he’s ashore with his mates at one of the drinking clubs that cater to ship’s crew. And he won’t be back until late.
I shower and shave and put on my work clothes.
And now I’m reading the message while my hair dries. I’m not going to risk forgetting SaylerGurl in my pocket again.
You really get around, don’t you. Do you do this every week? Pick up some sad looking girl, convince her you’re hot news, try to get her into bed? And all the time, you’ve got the Captain’s Secretary as your steady standby. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you and her. The way you look at each other. Her kisses. You’re really something. I wish I’d known about you before. I wouldn’t have bothered. I thought you were lonely. I thought you were still getting over the death of your wife. I thought you wanted me.
What a joke.
Don’t bother looking for me during your break tonight.
I won’t be there.
You can have your pathetic travel agent. She looks like she could use the attention.
And as for that Captain’s Secretary. Nothing like sleeping your way to the top.
I hate you.
And when I decide to hate someone, I can be very very nasty.
You will regret this.
You’d better start locking your cabin door.
18
Monday, Juneau
I start late on Mondays. Our normally strict entertainment and meals schedule is relaxed tonight, allowing passengers to trickle in from late tours.
I needed something to push Diana out of my mind. I got SaylerGurl. And now I’m trying to push SaylerGurl out of my mind as well.
How did she know my door wasn’t locked? Has she tried opening it? Did she try Sally’s door as well? Was it SaylerGurl who tore the posters off the walls, scattered Sal’s possessions across the floor? Has she been inside my cabin?
Disturbing thoughts. And her promise to make me regret has me rattled. I’ve just spent twenty minutes trying to find the key to my door. I’ve no idea where it is.
Lost keys aren’t good news. People from the Purser’s Department have been flogged round the fleet for less. I’ll put off reporting it until I have time for a proper look.
Meanwhile, in the Showcase Lounge, there’s only one show tonight instead of two. Normally both performances happen while I’m at work. But because I don’t start till nine on Mondays, I can watch the first half hour or so.
I’m hoping to be distracted. I’m standing in the darkness by the main doors, which have been propped open to keep the air circulating.
The new ships all have their entertainment venues purpose-built. Lovely huge rooms that can accommodate everything from Cirque du Soleil to water ballet to stage shows direct from Las Vegas. Our main entertainment venue is tiny. Hence the need for two shows nightly instead of only one. And its stage is far too small for extravaganzas. None of the female dancers supplied by the talent agency in Los Angeles can be taller than 5’4” or they’ll hit their heads against the too-low ceiling in the process of being thrown aloft by their partners.
I know these things. I’ve been on that stage. Thursday evenings, after Sailaway from Ketchikan, there’s a passenger talent show. The opening act’s always a crew number called If
I Were Not Upon the Sea. It’s apparently a longstanding tradition on cruise ships.
The actual characters involved in the performance vary according to who we’ve got working on board. The current cast’s made up of a Sergeant Major (me) in a scarlet tunic and fake bearskin cap; a busty Blackjack Dealer (Serena, one of Jemima’s Cruise Staff); a Tennis Player (Quentin, showman extraordinaire), whose successive layers of shorts end up down around his ankles, courtesy of the Nurse in the Very Sexy Uniform (Fiona, a real nurse from the ship’s hospital armed with a hugely frightening hypodermic needle); a New York Taxi Driver (Suresh, from the Purser’s Desk) sporting a turban and an Indian accent; a bad-tempered Seamstress (Jemima) brandishing a very large pair of scissors; and a Ballerina, always a male in a tutu, flamboyantly filled out by Dwayne, Assistant Cruise Director.
The lyrics are predictably suggestive, as are the actions, which generally involve the gents getting their lower anatomy whacked and the ladies having their upper anatomy tweaked and the ballerina at the far end exposing his arabesque.
I come out of it the least traumatized. First on stage with a bit of spit and polish. Out with my lines, and then the others follow, and it descends rapidly into ribald seaside humour.
The audience loves it. I do a great gruff Queen’s Guard. My dignity remains intact. I don’t lose my trousers. And as I’m on the end, I only have Serena’s right hand to contend with. Though she has been known to misjudge and land a solid hit on my naughty bits. Much to the mirth of the audience.
But that’s Thursday. Tonight, in the darkness, I can see the house is about two-thirds full, the more elderly and infirm occupying seats on the aisles, their Zimmer frames parked beside them.
I scan the backs of heads, looking for women sitting alone. Because SaylerGurl must be travelling alone. I cannot imagine her sharing a cabin with anyone.
But I’m not like Jilly. I have no inherent intuitive sense. Even if I did spot a likely candidate—how would I ever be able to tell if it was SaylerGurl? My search comes up empty.