Here Come the Girls

by Milly Johnson

  The sun was bright and high and shining its heart out, but that morning, there was a glum little cloud above four particular sunbeds on the ship.

  Chapter 57

  Roz was first in the room for her belly-dancing lesson that afternoon. Fifteen of the original recruits were still stalwarts, Roz the youngest by at least ten years. After a hip-swirling warm-up, she beat down all her self-tormenting thoughts by following Gwen’s moves.

  A woman aware of her sexual power was lit from within, something which Roz had never allowed herself to be. Despite her long legs, flawless figure and beautiful face with her to-die-for cheekbones, her insecurities had always distorted any image she had of her own attractiveness. She could not have been more desired by Manus, yet most of her self-confidence had been knocked out of her as a kid. She couldn’t remember ever getting praise or warmth at home, only criticism and slaps, and the little remaining self-worth she had managed to carry into adulthood had been driven deep underground after Robert’s betrayal. But during these belly-dancing sessions Roz – at last – was inching towards becoming in touch with her inner sexuality. The hip undulations and belly rolls were working her pelvic muscles, soothing away her tensions and increasing bloodflow to areas of her body that had been thirsty for a long time. They also gave a rude awakening poke to her libido. She was dangerously close to feeling horny.

  She was flushed and breathless after this session. As was Phyllis, a seventy-seven-year-old, who summed up everything Roz was thinking by saying, ‘My goodness, I didn’t even move that much down below on my wedding night.’ Roz wished Manus were nearby. She had a flash of desire for him, to tear at his shirt like an animal, to be pulled down on the bed and pinned underneath him to do to her whatever he chose. But he wasn’t there and a cold shower would probably be wise, so she headed off down to her cabin to get one. But as she was passing by the Restaurant Cruz, the striking figure of Raul Cruz himself rushed out from it and collided with her.

  Now Roz had always been a more private person than her friends. Whilst they had shared their crushes, Roz had always been more reserved on that front. What the others didn’t know was that Roz had a major torch burning for Raul Cruz. She always watched him whenever he appeared on TV, and everything stopped for The Devilled Chef where ten people competed to win his approval, probably more than they coveted the ten thousand pounds first prize.

  Raul Cruz was a tall, big-shouldered Spaniard with wild black hair, huge sexy Bournville-chocolate eyes and the arrogant stance of a bullfighter. And here he was in the corridor, steadying Roz with his Michelin-starred hands and looking into her eyes as if he was about to devour her. Slowly – with relish.

  ‘Do forgive me,’ he said, his voice heavy and delicious as Rioja.

  ‘It’s fine,’ croaked Roz, feeling even more blood flow to her pelvic region because he wasn’t letting her go so quickly.

  ‘I wonder . . .’ he mused. ‘Do you think you could help me?’

  Roz would no more have answered that with a ‘no’ than she would have pulled her own nose off.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Come, come.’ Raul Cruz took Roz’s hand and led her into his restaurant. She didn’t know why, nor did she care. If the others had seen her now, they wouldn’t have recognised the trembling, breathless jelly she had suddenly become.

  ‘Please sit down.’ Raul Cruz pushed Roz down on a puffily upholstered chair, his hands firm on her shoulders. Then he tucked her masterfully under the table and asked her to wait for a few moments. He disappeared through a swing door and Roz heard him crashing about behind it.

  Roz looked around as she waited. It was a beautiful restaurant, very sumptuously decorated in rich reds and deep purples. Low-volume Spanish guitar music was playing from a sound system and she imagined that at night, with the red candles lit on the tables, it would be a wonderfully intimate atmosphere in which to dine – especially with a lover.

  The view from the windows was equally stunning. Before the cruise, she hadn’t really thought how a stretch of water could be classed as ‘romantic’, but now she got it. The sea swept you away, soothed you with its gentle motion, but – like a passionate lover – could never quite be trusted, which gave it a thrillingly dangerous edge. Blimey, she thought, she really was getting affected by the erotic qualities of belly dancing.

  The swing door opened with force and Raul Cruz appeared carrying a canapé-laden oval silver platter with one hand and two bottles of wine with the other. He put them down in front of Roz, upturned two glasses, which were already on the table, and poured into one a black-red wine so rich it came with its own Coutts bank account. The second was pink red – a much lighter affair.

  ‘Tell me, please . . .’ He gave a hand gesture that encouraged her to fill in the gap of her name.

  ‘Rosalind,’ she whispered smokily, aware that she was giving it a bit of a sexy edge with her rolling ‘r’ pronunciation. The others weren’t here to snigger at her using her Sunday name, which was a very rare occurrence.

  ‘Rosalind,’ Raul repeated. The name sounded exotic on his tongue. ‘Which is the better wine for this food?’ He picked up a piece of thin meat from the platter which had been marinaded in something oily with spices. He rolled it expertly between his thumb and finger and lifted it to Roz’s lips. Then he watched her with intensity as she chewed as delicately as she could. On the television Raul Cruz was a dreamboat; close up enough to see his stubble and the tiny space between his eyebrows, he was pant-meltingly god-like.

  ‘Now drink,’ he said, seeing the small swallow in Roz’s throat. She lifted the first glass and perched her lips upon the rim as if she were kissing it. Her nerves were on fire; this felt more like sex than sex did. She drank. She, of course, hadn’t a clue if this wine was a good accompaniment for the food or not. She never paid more than a fiver a bottle for wine and, quite honestly, preferred a lager. But ‘Rosalind’ was not going to spoil this moment by admitting that.

  He then picked up a small wafer and scooped up some caviar with it. He had beautiful long fingers, Roz noticed. No ring on the wedding finger either. She opened her mouth and allowed him to place the wafer on her tongue, like a sexy ‘stuff-of-fantasies’ priest. Then she tasted the second wine. They were both okay, but she pretended to think about it.

  Raul next picked up a fat garlicky prawn and held it so that Roz had to bite into it. Her lips nudged his finger as she did so. She sipped the wine. He raised a small square of pastry with a strong tomato centre which made Roz purr in her throat. The pastry was so light she thought if she spoke it might come out squeaky as if from a post-helium inhalation.

  ‘Good?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, blowing out a bit of pastry onto her lip. But before she could remove it, Raul Cruz lifted his finger and dabbed it off. This was unreal – in fact, it was all more like a scene from a Hollywood film. Actually it was better because she’d watched that scene in 9½ Weeks and couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. But in real life, being fed by a man – and no ordinary man but the Raul Cruz – her head was in danger of blowing off into orbit. This man cooked for A-list stars and had slept with Supermodels, although in saying that, she doubted any woman would want to go to bed with him and get any sleeping done.

  Roz was only taking small sips of wine, but her heart-rate was so fast, the alcohol was rocketing around her system. She became aware that her body was entering serious flirt mode for the first time in God knows how long. Her back was straightening, pushing out her breasts, she was licking her lips, keeping them moist; her own eye-contact with his was prolonged.

  A cube of soft bread followed with oyster pâté, a flake of seared fish, a plump black olive stuffed with lemon, a sticky date pocket of crushed salty walnut cream, a roll of chorizo, enveloped in melted manchego cheese in a light batter case . . . Orgasmic. Then, after the crisp square of thin toast with the curry butter, Raul’s hand did not return to the tray. Roz chewed slowly, not wanting this very strange episode t
o end. Raul lifted the heavy wine to her lips, then when Roz had drunk from it, he lifted it to his own and placed his soft red mouth exactly on the rim where hers had been. He might as well have snogged her face off, she felt as ravaged as if he had. This bloke didn’t need a chat-up line. He could have had any woman twelve ways just by offering her a Laughing Cow cheese triangle and looking at her with those big, beautiful cocoa-coloured eyes. Roz was panting like a racehorse which had just run the Derby with a forty-stone jockey on its back.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What is your verdict?’

  ‘Gorgeous!’ Roz sighed. She was looking directly at him and talking more about him than the food.

  Raul smiled. A sex-filled, white-toothed, Latin smile.

  Roz gave herself a mental kick before she was totally hypnotised like Mowgli had been by the spiral-eyed lisping snake Kaa in The Jungle Book.

  ‘I think the lighter wine,’ she said, trying to sound detached and professional and as if she knew what she was talking about.

  ‘I do too,’ he half-whispered, half-growled. ‘Thank you. You have told me everything I needed to know.’

  The interlude was at a natural end now. Raul took Roz’s hand to help her to her feet – luckily, because her legs were decidedly weaker than they had been fifteen minutes ago.

  ‘You must come and dine at one of my restaurants in London,’ Raul Cruz said at the door. ‘And you must ask for me and say it is “Rosalind with the ice-blue eyes”. And I will know immediately that it is you.’

  ‘I will,’ gulped Roz, at that moment fully intending to make her booking as soon as her moby had a signal.

  He edged closer to her and smiled. ‘You have the most beautiful mouth,’ he said, studying it. ‘If only I were a free man . . .’ and he sighed.

  Roz couldn’t speak because her heart was clogging up her throat.

  ‘Thank you again, Rosalind.’ He imbued her name with the erotic qualities of Bridget Bardot and Sophia Loren both naked and covered in chocolate.

  ‘It was an absolute pleasure,’ sighed Roz, as Raul Cruz’s lips landed butterfly soft on her cheek, but covered the corner of her mouth also, causing her to do the biggest gulp in her own personal history.

  Raul Cruz closed the door after the woman with the Snow-Queen eyes had floated out of his restaurant. In truth, he was a free man. By the time the cruise ended, the tabloid papers would be flooded with stories of his young, fourth, soon-to-be ex-wife slagging him off for being a workaholic and forcing her to take up with an even younger lover who could perform seven times a night. She intended to hit Raul exactly where it hurt – in the reputation. She would reveal how, despite his hot-blooded Latin background, he was sadly lacking in the bedroom department.

  Raul Cruz knew that men like him got more physically attractive with age – to a certain point – then the process sadly began to reverse, and over the years he had prepared for that. He was vain, an artiste, a genius who needed adoration and a team of masseurs working on his ego. But he was also a man with a good heart, and he knew there were ways and means to make himself shine without crushing women, but actually doing quite the opposite. There was presently an army of females out there whom he had locked into an intimate bubble or two for a short time. Women he had met on social occasions, reporters, fans, ladies he had pulled into his restaurants and asked their advice about wines pairing with food – only to agree with whatever they decided.

  He loved to see women melt before his eyes: it reaffirmed his sexual power. He knew they would be smiling for the rest of the day because the great Raul Cruz had turned his light upon them. He had the support of the masses – a network of heaving bosoms out there who knew that no one could look at a woman in the way he did and be rubbish in bed. It was a win-win situation for them both.

  Ice maidens were his favourite challenge – women like Rosalind, whom he had seen around the ship with her glacial good looks. He had defrosted her like an industrial microwave. Yep, he still had it! And he had added to his numbers yet another woman who would read what his ex would write in the gutter-press and know it was mierda.

  On the way back to her cabin Roz’s heart was like a big flapping bird trapped in her chest. What the heck had happened there? She had never believed that emotionally-charged moments like that could happen in real life; instead they were just excuses made by people who had behaved badly and needed a bigger entity to blame. Now, she had just learned that that was wrong. But, for all that, she didn’t want to jump on Raul’s bones. It was a sweet but isolated episode, not one meant to lead to more.

  She thought of the situation reversed. What would she have done if Manus had told her that he had just been alone in a restaurant and fed delicacies by a woman who had made his heart-rate increase enough to do a three-minute mile? Roz knew she would have gone off in a strop for another hundred years. My God, they were all living breathing things, not dead inside, and perfectly capable of getting shots of desire without it meaning they were about to fall on the floor and fornicate with the person who had just poked at the primal urge within them; not everyone was a potential Jeremy Kyle contestant! In fact, wasn’t it good to feel a flame inside? She ached to see Manus so much and tell him she was the Queen of getting things out of proportion. A few canapés and sips of wine had just proved that to her. Manus and Frankie’s kiss suddenly seemed to shrink in importance to the size of an atom.

  When she got back to the cabin, she decided to make her shower an extra cold one.

  Chapter 58

  It was so nice to have Royston and Stella back on the dinner-table that night. Royston was wearing a particularly colourful waistcoat that looked like a prop from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. He was obviously rather proud of his terrible taste.

  It was even nicer to have Nigel back. Ven found herself trying to stem the grin that rose up from the depths of her when she saw him entering the restaurant and making his way over to them.

  ‘Did you get ashore?’ asked Eric, happy to have made the joke again after being in port for so many days. Everyone shook their head, played the game and said that they’d forgone that particular pleasure today.

  ‘One more stop to go,’ said Irene with a sad little smile. ‘This has been such a lovely friendly cruise.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve still three full days yet, so don’t talk about it all ending,’ said Olive, who couldn’t bear the thought of packing.

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever come on another cruise?’ Nigel asked Ven, handing her the pepper-grinder. Her hand touched his as she received it and that tiny sensation of skin-to-skin contact spread inside her like hot melted butter.

  ‘I’d like to very much,’ quivered Ven.

  ‘What about you girls?’ Nigel directed the question to the others in Ven’s party.

  ‘It would be lovely,’ smiled Olive, knowing that she never would again. Not on her cleaner’s wages.

  Roz nodded. At the beginning, she wouldn’t have been able to picture Manus on board; he would have looked as out of place as Vaughan. But after living on a ship for over a week now, she knew he would have loved it. He looked gorgeous in a suit, on the very rare occasions he ever had to wear one. The last time had been his uncle’s funeral. Roz hadn’t told him how much he turned her on wearing it, because a) it would have been inappropriate and b) she was an icy-knickered cow who now felt as if she were defrosting by the hour in the Mediterranean sunshine.

  ‘It’s been different to how I imagined,’ said Frankie. ‘In a good way.’

  ‘Like how?’ Royston asked, pausing mid-way through ordering another bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape from Angel.

  ‘It feels so safe. Before I came I had visions of me staying away from the sides in case the wind blew me overboard. And I thought it would be crowded everywhere I went. And I would have put money on me being bored. But I haven’t been bored once. Or felt claustrophobic, or felt unsafe. It’s been fabulous.’

  Royston, Irene, Eric and Stella were a chorus of the Churchill nodding
dogs.

  ‘Yes, I’d come back in a breath. Not that I’ll be able to afford it for a long time. If ever,’ Frankie sighed.

  ‘There are always deals to be had though, so don’t write it off,’ said Royston. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t believe what we got our suite for. It was an unbeatable deal.’

  ‘You couldn’t beat what we paid for this,’ laughed Roz. ‘Ven . . . arrghh!’

  She shut up as Ven’s high heel made contact with her shin and Ven flashed her a very clear ‘shut up’ message with her eyes.

  ‘I got a good last-minute offer,’ Ven said quickly, to stem further inquisitions. ‘But I bet we didn’t get as good a bargain as you super-cruisers.’

  Royston then launched into details of his mega-deal, and he and the others traded information on the best travel agents whilst Roz rubbed her shin and whispered to Ven,

  ‘What the hell did you kick me for?’

  ‘I don’t want them knowing I won a trip,’ said Ven through clenched teeth.

  ‘Whyever not?’ asked Roz. ‘It’s not exactly something to be ashamed of.’

  ‘Shhh. I’ll be answering questions all night if you tell them that!’

  Which was a fair point, thought Roz. Although Ven’s reluctance to tell anyone about her win made her feel, and not for the first time, that there was something she wasn’t telling them.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be dining with you tomorrow,’ said Nigel. ‘I’m going to Cruz.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Frankie, adding pointedly and rather loudly too, ‘Isn’t it, Ven?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes,’ said Ven, wishing she were near enough to kick Frankie as well.

  ‘Lucky you,’ sighed Roz absently. ‘What that man can’t do with a chorizo isn’t worth talking about.’

  ‘And how would you know?’ Frankie nudged her.

  ‘I watch his programmes, of course.’ Roz snapped back into herself. ‘I imagine he’s very good at what he does.’ In and out of bed, she smirked to herself.