by Suzy K Quinn
I didn’t realise John Boy still thought about Gwen.
It’s so easy to get caught up in your own issues, and forget that other people are going through heartbreak and loss too.
Poor John Boy.
Saturday 10th March
Mum has decided to try out another diet.
This will almost certainly lead to rows.
Mum gets very agitated when anything gets between her and food – a prime example being the time she was banned from the local fish and chip shop.
Mum didn’t want to wait while Mr Sainty, the chip shop owner, got more frozen fish from out the back, so she went behind the counter and shovelled out her own chips into a polystyrene tray.
When Mr Sainty returned with a bucket of cod he was furious and immediately told Mum she was barred.
Mum was unrepentant, telling him his fryer needed a good clean.
Sunday 11th March
Mothering Sunday
Goodbye little unborn baby.
Mummy loves you very much.
Monday 12th March
Starting to feel really nervous about leaving Daisy to go on this cruise.
A week is a long time for a two-year-old.
Have told Daisy about the holiday, but I don’t think she really understands. She keeps laughing about the ‘funny mummy sleeping on a boat’ joke.
‘I really will be sleeping on a boat,’ I say.
But this just makes her laugh harder.
Mum says I’m worrying too much. ‘Daisy will hardly know you’re gone,’ she said. ‘Your Dad has a week of wholesome fun planned. And I’ll take her for unwholesome ice cream and pizza and all sorts. She’ll have a lovely time, and so will you.’
Mum has fond memories of a P&O cruise she took around the Canary Islands, before she met Dad.
‘It was meal after meal,’ she reminisced. ‘Breakfast. Elevenses. Lunch. Afternoon tea. Dinner. And then a midnight barbeque.’
Asked which countries the ship visited.
Mum couldn’t remember.
‘I didn’t get off the boat much,’ said Mum. ‘If you did, you risked missing a meal.’
Dad will drive me to Southampton tomorrow, ready for the 11am boarding. He wants to leave at six in the morning, so we’ll arrive by nine (two hours before we’re allowed on the boat) because Dad gets panicky about timekeeping.
I’ve tried to talk Dad into leaving later, but he won’t be persuaded. He’s bringing a flask of tea and a pack of cards in readiness for a long wait.
Tuesday 13th March
The drive to the ferry port was even quicker than expected.
Dad and I arrived at 8.30am for the 11am boarding. This gave us two and a half hours to stare at the magnificent cruise ship waiting in the port, its many windows and portholes glinting in the morning sun.
I told Dad about the restaurants on board, various swimming pools, leisure facilities etc. Dad asked if I’d checked lifeboat capacity or printed out a map of evacuation points.
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘This is five-star luxury. They’ll have excellent safety procedures.’
Dad pointed out that the Titanic was five-star luxury.
‘You won’t care how many restaurants are on-board if you’re sinking,’ he said.
Dad can be so negative sometimes.
At 9am, Mum phoned.
‘There’s a car here for you, Jules,’ she said. ‘A limousine. Ready to take you to the ferry port.’
Didn’t realise the trip included road transport.
Asked Mum to apologise to the limo driver and tell him we were at Southampton already. Mum said she’d already given him a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich.
Dad and I waited in the car, drinking plastic-tasting tea and playing cards on the glove compartment lid.
Finally, the check in and boarding gates opened.
Am now aboard the Golden Wind – a gleaming, glossy cruise ship boasting eight fine-dining restaurants, a choice of swimming pools, a spa, a shopping street and a wellness/relaxation centre.
There’s a state-of-the-art medical bay, which must be very reassuring for the many elderly people on board.
I am staying in a luxurious ocean-view suite with its own balcony and all sorts of exciting hotel room extras, like a trouser press and fold-out ironing board.
I also have a personal butler – a handsome, muscular twenty-something Senegalese man named Emmanuelle.
Emmanuelle has gleaming white teeth and black skin, studies classical literature, writes poetry in his spare time and speaks four different languages. He offered me a glass of champagne (politely correcting me when I picked up the wrong glass), then hung all my clothes in the walk-in wardrobe and laid out my toiletries symmetrically on shelves above the sink.
I waited on the sea-view balcony for Alex, sipping champagne and having a thoroughly nice time.
But Alex didn’t come.
Emmanuelle refilled my champagne glass, brought me a plate of toasted ciabatta fingers, and then swept up the crumbs whilst humming the Marriage of Figaro.
But still no Alex. Tried to call him, but no answer.
I even tried calling Catrina, but she didn’t answer either.
‘Emmanuelle,’ I asked. ‘When will the other guests arrive?’
‘Other guests?’ Emmanuelle asked, seeming confused. ‘You are the only guest in this suite, Madam. Are you referring to the adjoining suite?’
‘There’s an adjoining suite?’
‘Oh yes, Madam. For your family member, Ms Dalton.’
‘What about Alex Dalton?’ I asked.
Emmanuelle said he didn’t think a Mr Dalton was staying at this end of the ship, but he’d check.
As Emmanuelle phoned guest services, we heard the urgent, hysterical voice of Catrina Dalton outside the suite, demanding a martini and a sedative.
‘I know you have good sedatives on board,’ Catrina shouted. ‘We’re on international waters. They relax the laws. I won’t need a prescription.’
Opened the door to find Catrina fanning her face frantically with a cocktail menu. A porter was behind her, pushing a huge golden trolley of suitcases.
‘Catrina,’ I said. ‘Are you okay? What on earth happened?’
‘Oh Juliette.’ Catrina’s eyes were panicked and frightened. ‘It’s the most terrible news. There’s been a storm on St Barts. Alex is stranded.’
‘Is he okay?’ I asked.
Catrina nodded. ‘Yes, yes. He’s fine. But the airport is closed. He can’t get back today. The ship will leave without him. What am I going to do? Who will take care of me?’
At this point, Emmanuelle stepped out of the suite and said, ‘I will take care of you, Madam. I’m the butler for the north suites and it is my pleasure to help you in any way I can.’
‘You’re my butler?’ Catrina asked. ‘Oh thank goodness.’ She clasped Emmanuelle’s strong hands. ‘I need a vodka martini. This is an emergency.’
‘I’ll fetch one from the cocktail lounge,’ said Emmanuelle.
‘But then I’ll be alone,’ said Catrina, eyes panicked. ‘I hate to be alone.’
‘Perhaps a glass of champagne then,’ said Emmanuelle. ‘I have a bottle on ice in the butler’s pantry. I can unpack your luggage and read you some poetry.’
‘I need something stronger than champagne,’ Catrina decided. ‘You must go to the cocktail lounge, but be very quick.’
‘I’ll stay in the suite with you,’ I offered.
Catrina turned sad eyes in my direction, ‘Would you? I so hate to be alone.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
It wasn’t really a pleasure, because Catrina demanded the suite curtains be drawn to ‘calm her nerves’, then gabbled on about how awful it was that Alex hadn’t sent someone in his stead.
When Emmanuelle brought Catrina her martini, he also had news about Alex.
‘Mr Dalton has arranged a helicopter to take him to Barcelona,’ Emmanuelle explained. ‘So he�
�ll board at the next port. We’ll take care of you in the meantime.’
After three martinis, Catrina decided to lay down and rest. I took the opportunity to explore the many facilities aboard the Golden Wind.
Emmanuelle asked if I wanted a guided tour (‘The ship can be a little overwhelming, Madam!’), but I politely declined, saying he should stay with Catrina.
Emmanuelle then furnished me with a huge, pull-out map and pointed out the favourite restaurants and relaxation spots.
‘The sunset from the top deck is breath-taking,’ he told me. ‘A wonderful place to write poetry, if you are so inclined.’
Thanked him for the advice, then went for a stroll.
Decided to do a lap of the ship, but my legs ached at the halfway point so stopped for an Irish crème coffee on one of the many sun decks and watched the cold shores of England melt into the distance.
Catrina was in good spirits on my return. Emmanuelle had found her some strong pharmaceuticals, and she was living it up – mixing cocktails with opiate-based painkillers.
‘You will take me to dinner, won’t you Juliette?’ Catrina asked. ‘We need to take care of each other. Women shouldn’t eat alone. Collect me at eight pm. I need to rest now. Trauma is very, very tiring.’
Then she put on huge, Bose nose-reducing headphones and asked Emmanuelle to bring her ‘any vodka-based cocktail – surprise
Late evening
Dinner with Catrina.
We settled on a Japanese restaurant, because Catrina wanted ‘clean’ food, whatever that means. I think she regretted the choice when she saw the limited alcohol menu – only Asahi beer or warm sake.
I embraced the new experience, ordering warm sake served in a little wooden box thing with Japanese writing on it. It was disgusting.
I was less adventurous after that and ordered stir-fried noodles and a nice bottle of beer.
Catrina ate octopus, eel and some other miscellaneous raw fish. She was an erratic companion, heaping praise on the waiters one minute, going wild-eyed and swearing about the ‘appalling St Barts crisis control’ the next.
By Catrina’s third wooden cup of sake, she had moved on to a familiar topic – Alex’s father, Harold.
It’s crazy – they were divorced twenty years ago. Talk about holding a grudge.
Does it really matter now that Harold gave his third wife exactly the same diamond tennis bracelet he bought her? Or that he still has the same carpets in his house that they bought together twenty years ago?
Wednesday 14th March
The ship docked at Barcelona this morning, and Alex came on board.
It should be cause for celebration, but actually Alex and I aren’t speaking.
Bloody Alex.
We’re not staying in the same suite, or anywhere near each other!
In some odd gesture of chivalry towards a woman he knocked up last year, Alex is staying at the OTHER END of the boat. In ship terms, this is approximately a mile away.
Alex can’t understand what I’m upset about, because he made sure Catrina and I got the balconied staterooms at the front of the ship – which are apparently better. But it’s not about who has the best view. We’re supposed to be on this cruise together.
Arrived in Barcelona in the early hours of the morning, but Alex didn’t come on board straight away because the cruise ship had to set up its landing vessels. However, Emmanuelle passed on a message saying that Mr Alex Dalton would meet us in Barcelona for lunch, then board the ship.
Emmanuelle then told me that Alex would be staying at the other end of the boat.
I was furious.
Sensing my annoyance, Emmanuelle said, ‘When Mr Dalton boards after lunch, I’ll be happy to arrange a golf cart to take you to him.’
After an angry breakfast of poached eggs with hollandaise sauce, freshly squeezed orange juice, a fruit basket, croissants, strawberry jam and a stack of pancakes (well you have to try everything, don’t you?), Catrina and I boarded the little ferry boat to Barcelona port.
‘If you’re not back by 3pm, we will leave without you,’ the PA system announced, over and over again.
It was very stressful.
When Catrina and I disembarked, Alex was waiting by the gangway. He helped us both off and asked how we were finding life at sea.
Catrina kissed Alex elaborately on both cheeks, then hopped in a taxi – she was meeting Carlos at Passeig de Gracia for upmarket shopping.
When Catrina left, Alex embraced me like we were in an old-fashioned black and white movie, looking deeply into my eyes. He didn’t seem to realise I was annoyed with him, instead asking if the rich food on board had disagreed with me.
‘I don’t have indigestion,’ I snapped. ‘I’m upset you’re booked into a different suite. And one at the other end of the ship.’
Alex frowned. ‘You’re upset? How gloriously self-centred of you. You do realise I’ve been dealing with the devastation of a tropical storm and been stranded for two days without a trouser press?’
Felt bad then, but was too proud to say so.
We glared at each other.
Then Alex said, ‘Look, can we just put grievances to one side? This is a beautiful city, and a beautiful morning.’
‘You mean pretend I’m not annoyed, when really I am?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I think that’s called dysfunction, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘It’s called respecting the occasion.’
But I’m not from a family that keeps things in. When I get annoyed, I tell everyone.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘We’ll do it your way. I’ll pretend everything’s okay.’
It was a tense morning.
We stopped at a little paella restaurant (one of Alex’s favourites) near Barcelona Cathedral and ate a silent lunch. Then we visited Barcelona Cathedral, and I gave Alex one-word answers to his tedious questions about history.
Back on the cruise ship, I huffed off to my suite and played Uno with Emmanuelle.
Wish Alex was here to enjoy the sunset with me, but I’m too proud to ask him.
Thursday 15th March
Day at sea, supposedly enjoying the luxurious boat.
The reality was Alex and I sitting at opposite ends of a big swimming pool, sipping fresh orange juice, while Catrina had a loud satellite phone argument with her boyfriend, Carlos.
Catrina was angry with Carlos for not meeting her in Barcelona. I can’t say I blame her – he lives in the city and was only a short walk from their meeting spot. At least, if Catrina’s shrieks were to be believed.
Catrina didn’t seem to notice the tension between Alex and I. Apparently, in the Dalton family it’s perfectly normal for a couple to sit so far apart.
At lunch (after a terse discussion about which restaurant to choose, and angrily agreeing on Californian fusion), Alex bumped into some old university friends playing qouits on the top deck.
After the usual ‘what a small world’ banality, Alex asked the friends to join us for lunch.
Was even angrier then, because I was forced to be cordial and pull out a few smiles.
Sat like a well-behaved first lady at Alex’s side, smiling politely and swallowing my fury.
To be fair, I couldn’t really join in the conversation anyway, because I’ve never hit a partridge, grouse or pheasant with my Land Rover, all champagne tastes the same to me and although I’m sure the royal family are ‘charming’, I’ve never met any of them in person.
By the time dessert came, the men were having a lengthy and confusing caviar debate. It got quite heated at one point, with one man standing and shouting about Iranian caviar being ‘superb, and how dare you!’
Friday 16th March
Really sad and homesick today.
The ship’s mobile phone service isn’t working, so had to swallow my pride and borrow Alex’s chunky satellite phone to call Daisy.
Mum picked up.
Cried when I heard her voice.
Mum asked what
I was making so much fuss about, since I was in the lap of luxury.
Said I missed Daisy and the pub and normal people.
Mum said Daisy couldn’t speak to me now, because she was up to her elbows in homemade playdough.
‘Your dad has stirred up his usual bloody economical 3lbs of salty flour and oil for Daisy’s enjoyment,’ Mum explained. ‘Daisy has to play with it quickly before it turns rock hard.’
Cried some more.
Mum relented, and lured Daisy away from the playdough by laying a trail of Smarties along the landing.
‘Mummy?’ said Daisy, when she got to the phone.
Was so lovely to hear her voice.
‘Gorgeous girl!’ I said. ‘Do you miss me?’
‘No, Mummy,’ said Daisy.
‘I’m a long way away, Daisy,’ I probed.
‘I know, Mummy,’ said Daisy. ‘On a ship. With a bed.’
‘I love you so much, Daisy,’ I said.
Daisy didn’t reply, so I prompted, ‘Do you love me?’
Daisy said, ‘Yes.’ But I’m not sure there was much depth to the sentiment, because she added, ‘And I love you and red Smarties.’
Mum came back on the phone after that and asked about the cruise.
I said it was luxurious, but lonely. Told her about Alex and the suite situation, and that Catrina is either drunk or unconscious most of the time.
‘I miss Daisy so much,’ I blubbed.
‘Stop wallowing, love,’ said Mum. ‘Most mothers would love a couple of days off and a luxury cruise. Count your blessings.’
I suppose that’s the thing when you’ve had kids.
You’re tired when you’re with them, guilty when you’re not.
Saturday 17th March
Docked in Cannes today.
Catrina was delighted and put on a white trouser suit and lots of gold jewellery in preparation for Rue D’Antibes shopping.
‘I am a little phobic of French French people,’ Catrina declared. ‘But Cannes is an international city. No one here is French French. They have good manners and clean bathrooms.’ Then she regaled me with stories of yacht luncheons and fabulous times with Mick Jagger.