The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny!

by Helen Bridgett

  ‘Just as long as it doesn’t turn out to be more Titanic than Love Boat,’ I say, as everyone probably does.

  It was the wrong thing for me to say as the Celine-like warbling starts and doesn’t stop until we reach the gangway.

  Sheila and Kath are already there with Craig; cruise employees have their own accommodation separate to paying guests. They’re in twin rooms and Patty will be sharing with a magician’s assistant.

  ‘What if she cuts me in half in the middle of the night?’ she asks.

  ‘With luck she might make you disappear,’ I mock and with that we go our separate ways, Patty to the staff quarters and me to the luxury cabins. Lying here, I contemplate that there are times when my job truly is the best in the world.

  Tomorrow we’re at sea all day and according to the entertainment plan, I could be downward dog at the dawn aerobics, eating hotdog at the poolside burger bar come lunchtime and then watching a Kate Bush tribute covering ‘Hounds of Love’ come evening. I wonder if whoever put this together spotted all of that and whether I have to wear Hush Puppies to go to any of it – boom boom.

  Tonight, we have a Mateus meet-and-greet so Mercury Club members can spot each other. I get dressed just in time for the inevitable: Patty knocking on the door.

  ‘She’s tiny,’ she says of her roommate. ‘No wonder she fits in half a box.’

  She whistles appreciatively as she looks around my cabin.

  ‘Well I did pay for this,’ I remind her, ‘but it’s huge so you could come and stay here if you like.’

  I have no idea why I offered this and try not to let my relief show when she replies,‘Employees aren’t allowed to fraternise with guests. Besides, I think I’m more likely to have an adventure below stairs.’

  I have to agree with that but now I have guests to attend to.

  * * *

  The Mercurians are gathered in one of the lounges enjoying rosé wine. As I join them and mingle saying hello, I realise they all seem to know me or bits of me.

  ‘You started this travel club didn’t you?’ they ask. ‘You organised that scary book weekend.’ Or, ‘Your mother told us you were propositioned in France!’

  I have a part to play here and they’re all expecting a little bit of good-humoured chaos to take back with them.

  Maybe that’s what our motto should be: ‘The chaos comes free’. I’m sure Charlie and Josie would help me out with that.

  After mingling, we go into dinner and I’m about to accept an offer to join some of my customers when I’m ushered to a table with other singles. When I explain what’s happening, one of the customers tells me, ‘You go and find yourself a nice man, you deserve it after all them losers.’ This makes me think that France isn’t the only thing my mother has told people about.

  My instincts tell me that I’m not going to meet Mr Right at this singles table, although Mr Smarmy as throughout is certainly in attendance.

  He’s sandwiched himself between two widows but I daresay he’ll move around the table over the course of the trip. I must develop a strategy for missing some of dinner, not only to avoid my turn being smarmed but with this amount of food every day, they’ll be throwing me overboard and using me as a fender when we come into port.

  I’m going to be a very professional host on this trip so will start with the quiz tonight. I let my Mercurians know and a few of us form a team heading off to display our collective knowledge. As we sit down I hear a familiar, ‘Wait for us’, behind me. I turn and am puzzled to see Alan and Amanda rushing towards the table.

  How did they do that? We’ve already cast off.

  ‘Sorry we didn’t make dinner; we chose a romantic table à deux instead,’ says Alan, ‘I do like to treat my best girl well.’

  Has he really just said this in front of me? I ignore him like the professional I am.

  Amanda continues, ‘Watching the ship leave port as the sun set with a glass of champagne, it was so romantic.’

  I hope she lays on the buttercream icing as thickly as this.

  ‘So can we join you? I’ve been swotting up number-one hits,’ asks Alan.

  We make space for them but this creates a huge team, so the quizmaster splits us up and thankfully I don’t have to hear any more romantic drivel. This was the cruise they chose on winning that competition. Great.

  I wonder whether this is my warrior journey: I must remain calm for one whole week at sea with my ex and Mr Smarmy and then I will become the sensei.

  ‘In this year,’ calls the quizmaster, ‘the Berlin Wall fell, Robin Williams was telling people to “Seize the Day” and Richard Marx was “Right Here Waiting”. What was that year?’

  Alan and I instinctively look across at each other and I mouth, ‘The year we met’ – 1989. Alan hid that CD in my luggage when I left for one of my flights; no one had ever done anything as romantic and I practically gave up my job there and then vowing never to leave him again.

  That incredible feeling of spontaneous internal combustion: love, fire and joy just bursting through every nerve ending you have. There is no feeling like it and reliving the memory I cannot help but smile at Alan before Amanda spots me looking at him and I have to pretend I was just gazing into the distance. I hope Zoe gets to feel that way one day; everyone should.

  We didn’t win but didn’t disgrace ourselves either and while the others debate the questions they got wrong (1983 album covers proved to be our kryptonite), I sneak off to have a quiet night hoping that Patty might visit with tales from below deck.

  When I wake up, it takes a moment to remember where I am. I see a shard of sunlight trying to push through the gap in the curtains, so I lift my head up to take in this strange room. Then the roll of the engines or the sea, I can’t tell which, cuts through the memory haze and I lie back down for another few moments of peace. The second I leave this room, I’m on duty.

  BANG, BANG, BANG.

  Duty has come hammering on my door; well Ms P has and she slumps down on the spot that I’ve just made comfy. I sit on the bed beside her.

  ‘She has a parrot,’ she declares.

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘The magician’s assistant, of course. Doves aren’t original enough any more, it has to be an exotic bird.’

  ‘What’s the problem with that?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s trained to talk, sort of a comedy magic act so when she covers the bird up for it to disappear, it shouts out, “I’m still here, I’m not gone yet.”’

  ‘That sounds quite funny,’ I say still not seeing the problem.

  ‘Not at 2 a.m. when you’re trying to sleep so you cover up its bloody cage it’s not,’ explains Patty. ‘Squawking “I’m not gone yet” all night. I tell you it very nearly was.’

  I can picture it and laugh to myself.

  ‘Do they allow animals in the cabins?’ I ask.

  ‘No, they’re normally in a hold with costumes and props and things. She came back at 3 a.m. to take him down there, thank God.’

  ‘Is she nice? I thought you might make a trip upstairs last night,’ I say.

  ‘Thought I’d best get to know the rest of the acts and yes, she’s quiet but OK now that she’s got rid of the menagerie.’

  ‘So are the big tributes staying below stairs, too? Have you met anyone pretending to be famous?’ I venture.

  ‘No,’ explains Patty. ‘You’ll notice they’re headlining when we’re in port. They get flown in for one night and then flown on to the next cruise ship. Just the early evening acts are staying on board.’

  ‘Fancy breakfast?’ She leaps up.

  ‘Are you allowed to dine with me?’ I ask with mock haughtiness.

  ‘I’ll doff my cap and you can say that I’m your personal food taster come slave,’ she replies.

  ‘Deal.’

  So we head off for the first smorgasbord of the day.

  Life on a cruise has a rhythm to it, which I guess we’ll get used to over the week. If you’re very keen, you can get up early to take a
jog around the deck; this might help counter the enormous buffet breakfast you’re about to consume but I can’t see any of the crowd here donning trainers. I hear the same protestations every mealtime.

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into me; I never eat this much at home. It must be the sea air.’

  My mum would be having none of that rubbish. She’d be telling them, ‘Your eyes are bigger than your belly’, and although she might be right, she’d be decked for saying it. Thank goodness she’s not here.

  After breakfast, guests can just lie back and relax. On the days we’re at sea, they organise activities in the afternoon like, ‘Let’s Get Physical’ aerobics or giant board games; today we have Twister to help introduce everyone.

  I must find an important business task for that hour of the day otherwise some helpful individual will think I’m not sitting alone by choice and drag me into the game.

  On the three shore days we have, we’ll dock at midday, visit the town on the itinerary and then be back for a sunset aperitif. We’ll have early-evening entertainment like the magician or a movie and after dinner, the music starts.

  Each night there are tribute acts followed by a disco. The Granny-Okes are the warm-up for each tribute except Michael Jacko-son who has the whole night dedicated to him, which seems about right for such a huge talent.

  I think the main threat to life on this cruise won’t be Man Overboard, it’ll be Eighties Overdose.

  Later, I retreat to a lounge trying to look busy with clipboard in hand until Twister is well underway and then as soon as it’s safe, I can’t resist a quick peek to see how it’s going. Mr Smarmy is right in the middle of it all getting his left leg over as many times as he can. Still, he seems to be keeping some of the ladies entertained. I guess it’s true, what happens on ship stays on ship.

  I’m pondering the moment when Twister nudges over into sexual harassment just in case Smarmy moves on to one of my Mercurians when Alan appears at my side.

  ‘Thinking of joining in?’ he nods at the chaos.

  ‘Only if they start hosing them all down with cold water,’ I respond and then there’s an awkward silence.

  We’re both staring forwards but I take a sneaky look at his profile and see the scar he got from a rowing accident one summer. We’d taken Zoe out on Lake Windermere and she spotted a plastic bottle floating on the water, near some cygnets. She wanted to get it out of their way so grabbed an oar to try to nudge it; of course Alan was holding the other end of the oar and when she made a grab for it, she accidentally whacked it into his face. She was so upset about that. I wonder if Amanda knows the history of his face.

  ‘Where’s Amanda?’ I ask to make conversation.

  ‘Oh, she’s very excited.’ He turns to face me. ‘Julien Dubois, no I’ve never heard of him either, is our on-board celebrity chef. Big in the eighties, obviously, so she’s gone to get herself introduced.’

  I shrug, ‘Fair enough. I’d be excited if Scott Baio walked through the door.’

  ‘And if Tom Selleck climbed aboard, I’d be getting out the defibrillator for you,’ adds Alan.

  I smile. No one could interrupt Magnum P.I. in our house; it was my personal private pleasure. I can still remember my excitement when the music kicked off, it’s playing in my head now just as Alan starts singing it.

  ‘You read my mind. How are you keeping anyway?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m well, a bit sad to see the old place go but I guess we’ve both moved on.’

  Thinks: ‘Well you have.’

  Says: ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you miss the garden?’ I fish.

  ‘Oh, I keep my hand in with a couple of little projects,’ he smiles and before I get the chance to ask whether my gnomes are one of these projects, Amanda appears.

  ‘I hear you’ve met one of your heroes,’ I say.

  She’s gushing like a schoolgirl. Alan can’t stop laughing at her enthusiasm and I can see how she must have made him feel when they got together.

  But I’m sure that’s not real love, is it? He used to do that look when one of our dotty neighbours admitted to putting deodorant on their hair and hairspray under their arms or some such; sort of like tousling a child’s hair affectionately. Maybe I’m kidding myself.

  It’s surprising how quickly times goes when you’re doing nothing; I think I even drifted off to sleep at some point in the afternoon. I woke up to the sight and sounds of the aqua aerobics class bobbing up and down to Billy Ocean. Surreal.

  Before long it’s time for the entertainment and cocktails; after Patty’s description, I can’t wait to see the magician, well mainly the parrot in truth, so I gather together some Mercurians and we take our seats in the lounge.

  Patty was right about her size. She is teeny-tiny but even with that, I can’t see how she can possibly contort herself into the suitcases and birdcages into which she manages to disappear.

  The parrot is a hoot; the magician puts him into the cage that his assistant has just left and covers it with black velvet.

  ‘And now,’ he flourishes, ‘this rare bird has completely vanished from this earth.’

  ‘I ’aven’t. I’m still ’ere,’ squawks the parrot.

  The magician taps on the cage with his wand.

  ‘Now he has vanished from this earth – gone for ever.’

  ‘Nawww, I’m still ’ere,’ comes the voice from the cage.

  The magician pulls off the cover and off course the bird is still there.

  ‘Told you so,’ the parrot says, delighting the audience.

  In a split second, the magician flicks the cover back over the cage and then off again; it’s so fast but the assistant is suddenly in the cage and the bird is gone. Everyone gasps.

  Then the bird reappears from behind the curtains and perches on the magician’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m still ’ere,’ he squawks to a final cheer from the audience.

  Incredible. If this is the pre-dinner entertainment I hope Patty and the girls can live up to being part of the main act.

  Dinner conversation revolves around whether the magician is really also a ventriloquist. For the Mercurians’ continued entertainment I embellish the tale about Patty trying to get to sleep with the parrot in the room; I’ve learned my guests like to have something that none of the others know, and I’m here to please after all. Many of them already know the tale of the Granny-Okes but for those who don’t, it still makes a great story.

  The hour approaches, so I make sure everyone fills their glasses and tell them, ‘My best friend is on next, let’s do her proud.’ We toast and head off for some fun.

  I don’t think I could be more nervous if I were up on the stage. The room is packed and that nervous anticipation when people have waited a millisecond too long starts to rise.

  Then a doddery old woman in a raincoat and plastic headscarf gets up onstage and looks a bit confused. The audience throw glances at each other – should someone tell her to get off?

  I relax knowing what’s coming.

  Another woman gets up with a Zimmer frame and then a third. The audience starts to get the act and laugh along. My whole body feels as if I’m filled with sherbet about to pop any moment.

  ‘Anyone know the weather for the rest of the week?’ asks Kathy.

  And then it kicks off, ‘It’s Raining Men’ as the opening track.

  They throw off their coats and they’re now all in matching outfits – surgical stockings under tutus plus black lace gloves with braces and cardigans; think Bananarama meets the Golden Girls. They’ve all got spiky eighties hair but with a lovely blue rinse.

  They work the audience and tease the men as they go through their set. They’re just brilliant and Patty, well, she is an absolute star. Talk about stage presence, I just want to stand on a chair and yell, ‘I know that woman, we’re best friends!’

  She was meant to be there.

  ‘I think she’s found her destiny,’ says the voice behind me.

  It’s Ala
n and as I’m no longer awkward when he makes these appearances. I just nod.

  ‘Are you two going on shore tomorrow?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘Patty is rehearsing but I’m going.’

  ‘Fancy company?’ he asks.

  ‘We might have to take some other Mercurians along,’ I tell him.

  ‘In case you throw me overboard?’ he laughs and I give him an over-the-glasses-if-I’d-been-wearing-any glare.

  The disco heats up as the Granny-Okes are replaced by an amazing Bronski Beat cover band. How we’re going to keep this up for another four nights I don’t know, but for now the whole floor is giving it everything they have. Even Alan is Dad-dancing, as Zoe would call it.

  ‘I thought you’d learned some ballroom moves, must have misheard that,’ I yell into his ears as we dance like teenagers.

  In an instant he takes hold of my hand and twirls me around. It’s intoxicating and not helped by the song that accompanies us.

  ‘Never Can Say Goodbye’.

  On-Shore Shenanigans

  With the number of people sporting dark glasses at breakfast, we could have been shooting a film noir scene. It seems everyone remembers the words ‘pace yourself’ when it’s too late. Only Amanda seems perky and that’s because she’s been up since dawn perfecting eggs Benedict with her new French buddy. I’m sure they were delicious, but like many others, I needed the full English to get me through the day.

  I notice Mr Smarmy kissing the hand of a guest before guiding one of my Mercurians to a table à deux.

  Hmm, I’m going to have to watch that situation. If she’s come aboard for romance, fair enough, but I’ve an inkling he isn’t the happily-ever-after type. I’m like a mother hen who’s spotted the fox going after one of my chicks. Mum would have sorted him out.

  When we were in Monaco, I watched people disembark from their glistening yachts and imagined the champagne lifestyle they led.

  I feel like this now as we enter the port of La Rochelle; twin towers either side of the harbour seem to guide us in and we’re soon admiring the medieval town.