Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  How the hell am I going to sleep for the next three weeks?

  Maybe there’s another empty room? I’ll pay extra. Let’s face it. Money is not a problem. It’s a genius idea. Now all I need is someone official to sort it out.

  I tell Abi I’m going to the toilet, but instead I go and find a bloke in a uniform. He doesn’t speak English very well, but he points me in the direction of a guy who does. Supposedly. Three “English speakers” later, I discover that all the cabins are booked and there is no other place for me to go. So much for my genius idea.

  By the time I get back, Abi and Rosie are already eating.

  “I’m sorry. Rosie was hungry, and I didn’t know how long you were going to be. Are you all right? Are you feeling seasick or something?” Abi looks so concerned.

  “No, I’m fine. Just took me ages to find the loo.” I smile and wait until she smiles back, but she still has that worried look in her eyes. “So, Rosie, what’s good on the menu?”

  “Pizza,” she answers around a mouthful.

  “Of course. Any other recommendations, Chef?” I ask her playfully, giving her what I hope is a happy, lighthearted smile.

  “No.”

  “Pizza it is.” I order and wait for my food while Rosie chats away some more and Abi carries on watching me with that worried little frown. Clearly I’m not doing a very good job of hiding the fact that I’m uncomfortable. She can see it. Shit. How am I supposed to explain it to her? I can’t, obviously, so what can I tell her instead? Maybe I should’ve said I was seasick. That would’ve bought me some breathing room.

  “Mum?”

  “Yes, Rosie?”

  Rosie leans over her plate and cups her hands around her mouth before whispering in a very loud stage whisper, “Why are all the people here all wrinkly?”

  By some miracle, I manage to keep my drink in my mouth and look around to discover that Rosie is right. The average age has to be well north of sixty. I’m being generous here. It is more likely north of seventy.

  “People get wrinkly when they get older.” Abi’s voice sounds a little tight. I don’t think she finds it as funny as I do.

  “Shouldn’t they get ironed, then?”

  “What?”

  I am so glad I refrained from taking another sip of my drink.

  “Well, you iron my clothes when they get all wrinkly, and the wrinkles go away so that I can be seen in public in them. Should I tell them they need to iron out the wrinkles before they can be seen in public?”

  A picture of hundreds of octogenarians queuing up outside the laundry to use the industrial irons pops into my head—in one door and out the other, all wrinkle-free with the laundress telling them that “a hot wash can help with shrinkage” as they exit.

  Maybe I’m grinning stupidly while Abi explains that ironing people leads to severe burns and probably jail time, because she’s still watching me. I decide to check just in case, so I run my tongue over my teeth to check for debris. Nada. I slowly scrub my hands over my face to check for acne breakout. Zip. Hair? I run one hand through one side, then the other. Seems okay. A surreptitious look down reveals that all buttons on my shirt are fastened and the fly on my jeans is secure. She must notice what I’m doing because she smiles at me.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “No, it’s just that you keep staring at me. Have I got something in my teeth?”

  “No. I was just wondering what you were doing before?”

  “Oh, I just went to the—”

  “I saw you talking to the man in the uniform.”

  Shit. Shit. Shitty, shit shit! I can feel my cheeks going red. Burning. I can’t look her in the eye. She’ll see it if I do, surely. She’ll know that I’m terrified of spending a night in bed with her. She’ll know I’m lusting after her. She’ll be disgusted with me, and I’ll lose her friendship and Rosie. I’ve got to tell her something, and it has to be plausible. It also has to be anything but the truth.

  “I just thought I’d see what the entertainment might be later.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I chance a quick look. I can so tell she’s not buying it.

  “So what is the entertainment?”

  “He didn’t speak English.”

  “Miss Collins.” It was my “non-English speaking” uniformed man at our table. Speaking to me. In English. Shit. “I have double-checked for you, but I am afraid it is as I expected. There are no other cabins available at all. I am very sorry.”

  I mumble my thanks and watch him walk away the whole length of the restaurant. Then I watch the doors to the kitchen until they stop swinging and close. Then I wait for them to open again.

  “His English has improved very quickly,” Abi says.

  “Yeah. Must be one of those Rosetta Stone things.”

  “Genna, look at me.”

  I do. She’s smiling. That sweet, gentle smile that makes me melt inside. But it’s not the same. I don’t know how. Sadder maybe. Not the smile, her eyes. She looks upset. I did that. I upset her. The last thing in the world I ever want to do, and I manage it without even trying.

  “Is it really that bad?”

  “What?”

  “The thought of sharing a bed with me?”

  “What? No! Of course not. I just don’t want—”

  “I’ll see if they have a pull out or something, and I’ll sleep in the—”

  “No, Abi, you don’t have to do that.”

  She’s looking at me again, but it’s different this time. There is something in her eyes that I can’t make sense of. She’s looking at me like she’s expecting me to say something else. No, that’s not it. Expecting isn’t right. Maybe hope is the right word. She’s hoping that I’ll say something else. I just have no clue what.

  “Rosie, can you see the other children over there?” She points to a soft play area just outside the doors of the restaurant.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to go and play with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just stay where I can see you, and come back when I ask, okay?”

  “Yeppers.” She climbs down from her chair, skips over to the ball pool, and is happily introducing herself to probably the only three children onboard before Abi looks back at me again.

  “Talk to me.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Tell me why you thought you had to try and get another room.”

  “I just thought it would be a better solution.”

  “Than sharing a room with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  I wish I were a mind reader. Telepathy would not only be cool, but right now it would be extremely useful. I could see exactly what she wants me to say. Or what she wants to hear, rather. I could figure out how she would react if I told her that I think she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. What she’d think if I told her I’ve loved her for so long.

  “Why, Genna?”

  “I don’t think I can…”

  I just don’t have the words. I don’t know how to explain. Well, I do, but I can’t tell her that. I just can’t.

  She lets out a huge sigh and tosses her napkin on the table.

  “I told you the truth before. I don’t have any problem in the world with this. You don’t frighten me with your scary lesbian ways, Genna. I know that you would never do anything to me that I didn’t want you to. I trust you. Do you trust me?”

  I want to say something suave. I want to say something witty. Sophisticated even. Guess what I do? That’s right. I nod my bloody head.

  “Then I don’t see why this has to be a problem. We’re just two friends sharing a bed. Nothing to it, right?”

  I swallow. Hard. “Right.”

  “Come on, then. We’ve been travelling for the last two days, and I’m knackered. Let’s get Rosie and go to bed.”

  “Okay.”

  I feel like I’m walking towards certain death. There’s no way
I can spend the night in the same bed with her. I’ll die. I know I will. In the morning, she’s going to wake up next to this stiff corpse, and it’ll just be a nightmare. Not that it’ll matter to me because I’ll be dead. Heart failure would be the most likely cause. But it could be electrocution if she touches me—accidentally—at some point during the night. Wait. Doesn’t electrocution cause heart failure? I think it does. So we’re back to heart failure as cause of death.

  Rosie goes to bed as soon as we’re through the door of the cabin, and Abi goes into the bathroom. Sorry, I should call them heads now. Nautical terminology. She comes out of the head in her nightie. I use the term loosely. Really, it’s an oversized T-shirt. Her legs are bare, and I can’t stop staring at them as she walks across the room and sits on the bed next to me.

  “I wish you’d just relax. This will be fine. I promise.”

  I don’t say anything, just pick up my toiletry bag and pyjamas before I head for the bathroom. Sorry, head.

  I floss. I brush my teeth, twice. I brush my hair. I read once somewhere that in Victorian days, the ladies would have their servants brush their hair for one hundred strokes so that it was lovely and shiny. I decide tonight is a good night to try this theory. I make it to fifty-seven before my arm is giving out and I give up. I notice my legs are a little stubbly and consider shaving them so I’ll be ready to hit the swimming pool with Rosie in the morning. Then I worry that if Abi accidently brushes across my legs in the night, it will give her the wrong impression, so I nix that idea. Tweezers next. I hate this little fact, but it’s true. Chin hair is already making itself known in my world. Bastards. I find four tonight. There are no others; trust me, I spend at least twenty minutes looking. The exfoliating facial scrub comes next to combat oily skin that has a tendency towards teenage acne. At twenty-four. Then there’s the moisturiser, and then I change for bed.

  By the time I get into bed, Abi’s snoring. Really softly. But snoring nonetheless. She’s on her back, one arm above her head and the covers down around her waist. Her T-shirt’s ridden up, and a little bit of her belly is showing. I have to fight the urge to run my fingers over that bit of skin. Just to feel if it’s as soft as it looks. Instead I climb under the covers, turn my back to her, and pray for sleep to come.

  CHAPTER 17

  ABI

  I wanted to talk to her that first night, but she stayed in the bathroom until I was asleep, so waiting is what I’m was left with, because trying to talk with Rosie around is not an option. I need to know why she is being so weird about this. Does she know that I have feelings for her? Does she know that I want her and it’s making her uncomfortable? I hate confrontation. Really hate it. It makes me anxious and fidgety. But I hate what’s happening even more. Genna means too much to me to lose because I don’t want to talk about my feelings for her. Now all I have to do is keep hold of that courage when she’s around, and I can actually talk to her. Easy, right?

  Wrong.

  Five days she’s been avoiding me.

  Five. Fucking. Days.

  In the same bloody cabin.

  She insists on being with Rosie all day. Supposedly to give me a break. Then at night, she either spends so long in the bathroom that I’m asleep or else she goes to one of the late shows. Springs the decision on me at the last minute so I have no babysitter and Rosie’s already asleep. So that means, again, no talking.

  I’m frustrated. No, scratch that, I’m pissed off. I want to get this sorted out, and I want my friend back. So I’m taking matters into my own hands. Tonight I’ve booked a table for the two of us at a restaurant on Phuket, where we’re docked overnight. I’ve arranged a babysitter for Rosie and explained that I’m taking Genna out as a surprise. Rosie loves surprises and is actually very good at keeping them secret. Genna’s been told that we are dining at the captain’s table and that we have to dress up. Sneaky, right?

  The restaurant we’re booked at is supposed to be gorgeous, and a dress is the order of the day. There’s a little boutique shop on the boat, and I’ve picked a stunner, if I do say so myself. Black, midthigh, no back, and the front shows more than a little cleavage. I feel sexy. I feel confident. I feel—like I’m talking a load of crap. I’m shitting myself. I’ve changed out of the stunning dress four times before putting it back on again. I’ve almost tripped in my heels three times, and I’m pretty sure that before the night is out, I’m going to end up going arse over tit. But when the door to the bathroom opens and Genna steps out…words desert me.

  Gorgeous. Stunning. Beautiful. Sexy. Striking. Exquisite. Magnificent.

  Okay, maybe they don’t desert me, but I sure as hell can’t pick just one.

  A deep-forest-green dress drapes over one shoulder and hangs to just above her knees. It isn’t revealing or risqué in anyway, but the way it clings to every curve of her hourglass figure makes my mouth go dry and I want to run my fingers over that bare shoulder. She has her hair piled high on her head in loose curls that tumble down her back.

  “Is Rosie nearly ready?”

  “Rosie’s going to stay with the babysitter tonight.”

  “But I thought—”

  “She’s fine. I want to spend some time with you.” I grab her arm before she can think of an excuse and pull her out the door with me. I keep tugging until we’re off the boat and in a taxi for the short journey to the restaurant.

  I can do this. I can. I can talk to her. She’s still my friend. I can do this.

  CHAPTER 18

  GENNA

  We walk into the restaurant through this archway, and there are these huge torches on either side. The tables are actually on the sand, with orchids and burning candles. The air’s heavy with salt from the sea, and the delicate scent of the orchids compete with the aroma of heady spices and cooked meats. The moon hangs heavy and huge in the inky-black sky, kissing the ocean gently and casting soft light over Abi’s hair. Everything looks perfect, from the tuxedo-clad waiters to the crisply ironed tablecloths. Even the candles seem to know that they shouldn’t flicker and spoil the mood.

  And the mood? Well, there is no other word than romantic. I feel like a kid on my first date.

  I keep looking around me, waiting for reality to intrude. Maybe it’s my imagination, but this whole thing—the meal, the dressing up, the romantic candle-lit dinner, the moonlight on the water—feels like a date. I want it to be a date. Is it a date?

  I’ve never seen so many stars in all my life—millions, billions even—but it’s Abi that captures me completely. Totally. Just like always. The way her hands push at her hair as little tendrils escape and spill over her shoulders makes me want to reach out and hold them. The way she smiles when she sits down makes my heart flutter. The way her eyes bore into mine makes my words dry up in my mouth. We’ve been out for meals more times than I can remember, but it has never been like this. We’ve spent time alone together before. So much time that I feel I know her better than I know myself. I know that her favourite film is Dogma, and that she likes two sugars in coffee but none in tea. I know that her favourite colour is green but that she won’t wear it because she thinks it makes her look washed out. I know she loves long bubble baths with scented candles and a glass of wine. I know she quite likes being out in the rain but she hates the wind. But what I know most of all is that I will never love anyone else the way I love her.

  The food’s amazing. Rich curries, with all the traditional tastes of Thailand, dance across my tongue. Sweet, sour, hot, and salty flavours hit me straight on, but Abi’s just moving her food about her plate and sipping heavily from her glass of wine.

  “How’s your food?”

  “Great.” She takes her first bite and smiles before picking up her glass again. Her shoulders are bare, and the silver light of the moon shines on her soft skin. I know it’s soft because she had me rubbing suntan cream on her at the pool. Around a barely there bikini. I can still feel her skin under my fingertips, and I want just to trace those shoulders again.

 
I take another bite and try to think of something to say. I’ve never had trouble talking to Abi before. It’s never been uncomfortable or awkward. Is this just because of the whole bed-sharing thing? Really? Have I done this to our friendship?

  “So tomorrow we set sail for Colombo in Sri Lanka,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “It looks pretty special. Maybe we can get some fresh tea or something?”

  I feel so lame right now. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what she expects of me. I don’t know why she’s drinking so much. Does she feel as awkward as I do? Does she want to tell me that sharing a room isn’t working and that I need to move to the sofa? Is she nervous that I’ll be funny with her about it? Oh my God, what if I’ve been groping her in my sleep? Traitorously feeling her up when I can’t stop myself. Touching her in all the ways I’ve been dreaming about. What if she woke up and caught me with my hands on her breasts, caressing her? Last night I dreamt that I was snuggling with her. Snuggling. You know, with my head on her shoulder, one arm over her tummy, and one leg over hers, resting snugly between her thighs. That kind of snuggling. The kind you do with a lover. What if that wasn’t a dream? What if that was my unconscious mind relaying what my body was doing? Without permission, I add in my own defence. Holy shit. It’s no wonder she feels awkward. She probably thinks I’m a complete pervert, and she doesn’t even want to be my friend anymore. I can’t do that. I can’t lose her. Her friendship means everything to me. What can I—

  “You look stunning tonight, Genna.”

  What the hell? Surely you don’t say something like that to someone you think is perving on you and groping you when you’re asleep, right?

  “Thanks. So do you.”

  She refills her glass and swallows most of it down in one gulp. I’ve never seen her drink like this. When she’s got something on her mind, she’ll have a couple of glasses, but by my count tonight, she’s had four so far, and I haven’t even finished my first one. So I come back to my question: what the hell is bugging her? Maybe she hates being on the boat? That’s a fairly benign topic, right? I can ask about that. Right?