by Ruth Ware
By the time we sat down, my head was throbbing painfully, and I was desperate for some food—or better still some coffee, though I presumed I’d have to wait until dessert for that. It felt like a long way off.
The guests had been arranged into two tables of six each, but there was an empty place at each. Was one where the girl in cabin 10 had been supposed to sit? I did a quick head count under my breath.
Table one had Richard Bullmer, Tina, Alexander, Owen, and Ben. The spare place was opposite Richard Bullmer.
Table two had me, Lars and Chloe, Archer, Cole, and a spare place beside Cole.
“You can clear this,” Cole said to the waitress who arrived with a bottle of wine. He waved a hand at the unused setting. “My wife wasn’t able to attend the trip.”
“Oh, my apologies, sir.” She gave a little half bow, said something to her colleague, and the place setting was whisked away. Well that explained that. The empty place at the first table remained, though.
“Chablis?” the waitress asked.
“Yes, please.” He held out his glass. As he did, Chloe Jenssen leaned across the table with her hand extended towards me.
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” She had a low, husky voice, quite unexpected for her tiny frame, and the hint of an Essex accent. “I’m Chloe—Chloe Jenssen, although my professional name’s Wylde.”
Of course. Now that she’d said it, I recognized her, the famous wide cheekbones and slightly Slavic tilt to her eyes, the white-blond hair. Even without stagy makeup and lighting, she looked slightly otherworldly, like she’d been plucked from a tiny Icelandic fishing village, or a Siberian dacha. Her looks made the story of her being discovered by a modeling scout in an out-of-town supermarket all the more incongruous.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, and took her hand. Her fingers were cold, and her grip was almost painfully strong, made more so by the chunky rings she wore, which cut into my knuckles. Up close she was even more stunning, the austere beauty of her dress so obviously outclassing mine, I felt like we might as well have come from different planets. I resisted the urge to tug at the neckline. “I’m Lo Blacklock.”
“Lo Blacklock!” She gave a gurgling laugh. “I like it. Sounds like a fifties film star, the sort with a wasp waist and tits up to her chin.”
“I wish.” In spite of the growing ache in my head, I grinned. There was something about her amusement that was infectious. “And this must be your husband . . . ?”
“This is Lars, yes.” She looked across at him, ready to bring him into the conversation and introduce him, but he was deep in conversation with Cole and Archer, and she just rolled her eyes and turned back to me.
“Have they got someone else joining them?” I nodded at the spare place at the first table. Chloe shook her head.
“I think that was for Anne—you know, Richard’s wife? She’s not well. Decided to have supper in her cabin, I think.”
“Of course.” I should have thought of that. “Do you know her well?” I asked. Chloe shook her head.
“No, I know Richard quite well, via Lars, but Anne doesn’t often leave Norway.” She lowered her voice and spoke confidentially. “She’s supposed to be kind of a recluse, actually, so I was surprised to find she was on board—but I’d imagine that having cancer might make you—”
But whatever she had been about to say was interrupted by the arrival of five dark square plates, scattered across with small rainbow-colored squares and clumps of foam arranged on what looked like grass clippings. I realized I had no idea what I was about to eat.
“Beet-pickled razor clam,” announced the head server, “with a bison grass foam and air-dried samphire shards.”
The waiters retreated and Archer picked up his fork and poked at the most neon-colored of the squares.
“Razor clam?” he said dubiously. His Yorkshire accent was somehow stronger than it sounded on TV. “Never been that keen on raw shellfish, somehow. It gives me the willies.”
“Really?” Chloe said. She gave a curving, catlike smile that indicated something between flirting and disbelief. “I thought bush tucker was your thing—you know, bugs and lizards and stuff.”
“If you got paid to eat droppings for your day job, maybe you’d fancy a nice steak on your day off, too,” he said, and grinned. He turned to me and stuck out his hand. “Archer Fenland. Not sure if we’ve been introduced.”
“Lo Blacklock,” I said through a mouthful of something that I was hoping was not cuckoo spit, though it was hard to be sure. “We’ve met, actually, but you won’t remember. I work for Velocity.”
“Oh, aye. Do you work for Rowan Lonsdale, then?”
“That’s right.”
“She like that piece I did for her?”
“Yes, it was very popular. Got a lot of tweets.”
Twelve Surprisingly Delicious Foods You Didn’t Know Were Edible, or something along those lines. It had been illustrated with a picture of Archer roasting something unspeakable over a fire and grinning up at the camera.
“Aren’t you going to eat it?” Chloe said, nodding at Archer’s plate. Her own plate was nearly clear and she swiped her finger across a slick of foam and licked it up.
Archer hesitated and then pushed his plate away.
“I think I’ll sit this one out,” he said. “Wait for the next course.”
“Fair play,” Chloe said. She gave another slow, curving smile. A movement in her lap caught my eye and I saw that beneath the level of the table, not quite hidden by the cloth, she and Lars were holding hands, his thumb rhythmically stroking across her knuckles. The sight was somehow so intimate, yet so public, that I felt a little shock run over me. Maybe her flirtatious persona wasn’t all it seemed?
I realized Archer was talking to me, and I turned my attention back to the table and focused on him with an effort.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was somewhere else. What did you say?”
“I said, can I refill you? Your glass is empty.”
I looked down at it. The Chablis had gone—though I barely remembered drinking it.
“Yes, please,” I said. As he poured, I stared into the glass, trying to work out how much I had drunk already. I took a sip. As I did, Chloe leaned over and said quietly, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what happened to your cheek?”
Maybe my surprise showed in my face, because she flapped a hand in a forget about it gesture.
“Sorry, ignore me, none of my business. I just . . . well, I’ve been in bad relationships, that’s all.”
“Oh, no . . .” For some reason the misunderstanding made me feel ashamed, like it was my fault or I’d been criticizing Judah behind his back, although neither was true. “No, it’s nothing like that. I got burgled.”
“Really?” She looked shocked. “While you were in?”
“Yup. Getting more common, apparently, or so the police said.”
“And he attacked you? Jesus.”
“Not quite.” I felt an odd reluctance to go into details, not just because talking about it brought back unpleasant flashes of what had happened but also out of a kind of pride. I wanted to sit at this table as a professional, the smooth, capable journalist able to take on all comers. I didn’t relish the portrait of myself as a frightened victim, cowering in my own bedroom.
But the story was out now—at least 90 percent of it was—and not explaining felt like getting sympathy under false pretenses.
“It—it was an accident really. He slammed a door in my face; it hit my cheek. I don’t think he meant to hurt me.”
I should have just stayed in my room, head beneath the duvet, was the truth. Stupid Lo, sticking your neck out.
“You should learn self-defense,” Archer said. “That’s how I started, you know. Royal Marines. It’s not about size, even a girl like you can overpower a man if you ge
t the leverage right. Look, I’ll show you.” He pushed back his chair. “Stand up.”
I stood, feeling slightly awkward, and with extraordinary swiftness he grabbed my arm and twisted it up behind my back, tilting me off-balance. I grabbed for the table with my free hand, but the twisting motion in my shoulder continued, pulling me backwards, the muscles screaming in protest.
I made a noise, half of pain and half of fright, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Chloe’s shocked face.
“Archer,” she said, and then more urgently, “Archer—you’re scaring her!”
He let go, and I sank back into my chair, my legs trembling, trying not to show how much my shoulder was protesting.
“Sorry,” Archer said with a grin as he pulled his chair back to the table. “Hope I didn’t hurt you. Don’t know my own strength. But you see what I mean—very tricky to get out of, even if your attacker’s bigger than you. Anytime you want a lesson . . .”
I tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding fake and shaky.
“You look like you need a drink,” Chloe said bluntly, and she topped up my glass. Then, as Archer turned away to speak to a waiter, she added in a lower voice, “Ignore Archer. I’m starting to believe the rumors about his first wife were true. And look, if you want something to cover up that bruise, come over to my cabin sometime. I’ve got a whole array of stuff and I’m a pretty mean makeup artist. You need it in the trade.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, and attempted a smile. It felt false and strained and I picked up my glass and took a sip to hide it. “Thanks.”
After the first course, the places switched around and I found myself, somewhat to my relief, at the other table from Archer, sitting between Tina and Alexander, who were having a very knowledgeable conversation about foods of the world over the top of my head.
“Of course the one type of sashimi you really must try is fugu,” Alexander said expansively, smoothing his napkin across his straining cummerbund. “It’s simply the most exquisite taste.”
“Fugu?” I said, trying to insert myself into the conversation. “Isn’t that the horribly poisonous one?”
“Absolutely, and that’s what makes the experience. I’ve never been a drug taker—I know my own weaknesses, and I am very aware of being one of life’s lotus-eaters, so I’ve never trusted myself to dabble in that sort of thing—but I can only assume that the high one experiences after eating fugu triggers a similar neuron response. The diner has diced with death, and won.”
“Don’t they say,” Tina drawled, sipping at her wine, “that the art of the really superlative chef is to slice as closely as possible to the poisonous parts of the fish and leave just a sliver of the toxins on the flesh to heighten the experience?”
“I have heard that,” Alexander conceded. “It is supposed to act as a stimulant in very small quantities, although that particular slicing technique may be more to do with the expense of the fish and the chef’s disinclination to waste even a morsel.”
“So how poisonous is it?” I asked. “In terms of quantity, I mean? How much would you have to eat?”
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Alexander said. He leaned across the table, a rather unpleasant gleam in his eye as he warmed to his topic. “Different parts of the fish have a different toxic load, but in terms of the most poisonous parts—which is to say, the liver, the eyes, and the ovaries—we’re talking very, very little. Grams, if that. They say it’s around a thousand times more deadly than cyanide.” He pushed a forkful of fish carpaccio into his mouth and spoke through the delicate flesh. “It must be a quite horrible way to die—the chef who prepared it for us in Tokyo took great delight in describing the process of the poison—it paralyzes the muscles, you know, but the mind of the victim is quite unaffected, and they stay fully conscious throughout the experience as their muscles atrophy and they become unable to breath.” He swallowed, licked his moist lips, and smiled. “Eventually they quite simply suffocate.”
I looked down at the slivers of raw fish on my own plate, and whether it was the wine, or Alexander’s vivid description, or whether the sea had picked up, I felt rather less hungry than I had before dinner. I put a piece reluctantly in my mouth and chewed.
“Tell us about yourself, darling,” Tina said suddenly, surprising me by flicking her attention abruptly from Alexander to me. “You work with Rowan, I hear?”
Tina had started at Velocity in the late eighties and had briefly crossed paths with Rowan, who still talked about her and her legendary ferocity.
“That’s right.” I swallowed my mouthful with uncomfortable haste. “I’ve been there about ten years.”
“She must think very highly of you to send you on a trip like this. Quite the coup, I would have thought.”
I shifted in my chair. What could I say in answer to that? Actually, I don’t think there’s any way she would have trusted me with this if she weren’t on a hospital drip?
“I’m very lucky,” I said at last. “It’s a real privilege to be here, and Rowan knows how keen I am to prove myself.”
“Well, enjoy it is my advice.” Tina patted my arm, her rings cool against my skin. “You only live once. Isn’t that what they say?”
- CHAPTER 9 -
We swapped seats twice more, but somehow I never found myself next to Bullmer, and it was not until the coffee was served, and we were free to leave our seats and return to the Lindgren Lounge, that I had the chance to accost him. I was just walking across the room, a cup of coffee in my hand, balancing myself precariously against the shifting of the boat, when a flash went off in my face, and I stumbled, narrowly avoiding drenching myself in coffee. As it was, a few drops spattered the hem of the rented gown and the white sofa next to me.
“Smile,” said a voice in my ear, and I realized the photographer was Cole.
“Shit, you idiot,” I said crossly, and then instantly wanted to kick myself. The last thing I wanted was him reporting my rudeness back to Rowan. I must be drunker than I thought. “Not you,” I said awkwardly, trying to cover my slip. “Me, I meant. The sofa.”
He saw my discomfort and laughed.
“Nice recovery. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell tales on you to your boss. My ego’s not that fragile.”
“I didn’t . . .” I floundered, but it was so uncannily close to what I had been thinking that I couldn’t think how to finish. “I just—”
“Forget about it. Where were you off to in such a hurry anyway? You were striding across the room like a marksman hunting down a lame antelope.”
“I . . .” It felt slightly pathetic to admit it, but my head was throbbing with a mix of tiredness and alcohol, and somehow it seemed easier to tell the truth. “I was hoping to talk to Richard Bullmer. I’ve been trying to speak to him all evening, I just never had the chance.”
“And you were making your move when I wrecked it,” Cole said with a gleam in his eye. He smiled again, and I realized it was his incisors that gave him a slightly wolfish, predatory air. “Well, I can sort that out anyway. Bullmer!”
I cringed as Richard Bullmer turned from his conversation with Lars and looked across.
“Did I hear my name?”
“You did indeed,” Cole said. “Come and speak to this nice girl, make amends for my ambushing her.”
Bullmer laughed, picked up his cup from the arm of the chair next to him, and strolled across. He moved easily, in spite of the slight roll of the ship, and I had the impression of someone who was very physically fit, and probably hard as nails beneath the well-cut suit.
“Richard,” Cole said with a wave of his hand, “this is Lo—Lo, Richard. I surprised her with a candid shot as she was making her move on you, and she spilled her coffee.”
My cheeks flamed red, but Bullmer was shaking his head at Cole.
“You know what I said about being discreet with that thing.” He n
odded at the heavy camera slung around Cole’s neck. “Not everyone wants paparazzi shots of themselves at inopportune moments.”
“Ah, they love it,” Cole said easily, showing his teeth in a wide grin. “Gives ’em the proper celebrity experience along with the swanky venue.”
“I mean it,” Richard said, and although he was smiling, his voice no longer sounded amused. “Anne, especially.” He lowered his voice. “You know she’s self-conscious since . . .”
Cole nodded, the laugh dying out of his face.
“Yeah, sure, man. That’s different. But Lo here doesn’t mind, do you, Lo?” He slung an arm around my shoulders, crushing me into him so that my shoulder crunched against his camera, and I tried to smile.
“No,” I said awkwardly. “No, of course not.”
“That’s the spirit,” Bullmer said, and he gave a little wink. It was an odd gesture—the same one I’d noticed before when he spoke to Camilla Lidman—not avuncular, as it might have been, but more as if he were trying to level what he knew to be an intimidatingly uneven playing field. Don’t think of me as an international millionaire, that wink said. I’m just an ordinary approachable guy.
I was just trying to think how to reply, when Owen White tapped him on the shoulder and he turned.
“What can I do for you, Owen?” he said, and before I had a chance to open my mouth, the opportunity was gone.
“I—” I managed as he turned away, and he looked back over his shoulder at me.
“Hey, look, it’s always hard to talk at these things. Why don’t you swing past my cabin tomorrow after the planned activities, and we can chat properly?”
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound too pathetically grateful.
“Great. It’s number one. Looking forward to it.”
“Sorry,” Cole said in a low voice, his breath tickling the hair tucked behind my ear. “Did my best. What can I say? He’s a wanted man. How can I make it up to you?”