Anyway, shortly after that one of the women noticed that the flight to Miami was boarding and they began rounding up the children and their numerous backpacks with a great deal of arguing and a couple of well-placed slaps. I guessed they were off to Disneyland and I was glad for them. Twelve days on a cruise ship with a load of old couples on Prozac and intravenous alcohol was no place for a kid in my opinion.
I commandeered their empty table, which overlooked the departure runway. India went to get us some champagne while I logged into my laptop and surreptitiously looked around to see if I could spot any more potential travellers heading for a cruise. An exceptionally nice-looking man was sitting on his own at the table next to us, typing rapidly into a laptop and occasionally staring vacantly into space. He was wearing a black polo shirt and chinos. Could he be coming on the ship with us? Did he have a thin, pretty wife with him who was perhaps having a manicure somewhere in one of the side rooms? Or maybe his girlfriend was running wild in duty free, buying some last-minute handbags and gold-tipped cruise wear?
Unexpectedly he looked up and caught my eye and I gave one of those eyebrow-raised, tight-lipped smiles you do when you have nothing sensible to say but don’t want to appear unfriendly. Instead I think I probably seemed a bit of a prat and he frowned and looked away. Oh well.
Luckily, at that moment India came back with some bubbly and a bowl of pretzels.
‘Well, here’s to it!’ she said and we clinked glasses.
Fabulous. There’s nothing quite like chilled champagne at ten-thirty in the morning.
‘I hope Jerry’s all right,’ she said after a few minutes, the corners of her mouth turning down. ‘We’ve never been apart this long before.’
Any minute now we would be on to the wedding and things had been going so well. For the first time in ages it seemed we’d been getting along – perhaps it was the holiday spirit? Or maybe it was the champagne?
‘Of course he is,’ I said, trying to damp down my exasperation and empathise with how India felt. That’s what Mum said – try and see it from your sister’s perspective. ‘He’ll either be in work, being clever and demolishing someone’s alibi, or he’ll be smashing up concrete bunkers and shooting aliens on his Xbox. It will make him realise how much he depends on you. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know.’
‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ India said gloomily, ‘and there’s loads of stuff to do for the wedding. D’you know …’
I interrupted her before we could get on to the table settings, Dad’s speech or the flower girls’ shoes.
‘Too late now, we’re here. Buck up, we have pretzels …’ I picked up the bowl in one hand. ‘We have champagne!’ I waved my glass in the air with the other.
Unfortunately, at that moment, one of the rowdy children came back and crashed into the back of my chair before scrabbling about under the table for some random plastic animal she had left there. My champagne flew out in a graceful parabola and dowsed the man sitting at the next table.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I gasped.
Grabbing a handful of paper napkins I began dabbing at him, but of course they aren’t much use for anything except wrapping cutlery, and trying to rub the back of someone’s shirt is definitely invading their personal space with knobs on. He did smell rather gorgeous though, some woody-green sort of aftershave. Not that it mattered. I wasn’t looking for another man in my life – I’d only just got over the last one.
‘It’s fine, perfectly fine,’ he said in a tone of voice that said the exact opposite. He had unusual grey eyes and at that moment they were fixed on me; very cold and unfriendly. Like ice chips. His voice was deep and attractive with a very slight American twang. I felt quite fluttery and flustered for a moment and stood on one leg looking stupid while he shook some of my pretzels off his laptop, which mercifully appeared undamaged.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I said. ‘I was just …’
I waved my glass in an explanatory way and he flinched.
‘It’s okay, it’s empty.’
‘I know,’ he said coldly, ‘but don’t do it again, will you? Should I move perhaps?’
‘No, of course not. I will. Sorry.’
I crept back to my seat and ducked my head into my shoulders.
‘You idiot! What did he say?’ India hissed, pulling me down into my chair.
‘Nothing much.’
‘He must have said something.’
‘He said you are so much prettier than your sister and then he asked for my mobile number.’
‘I bet he didn’t. Did he?’ India could be very gullible sometimes.
‘No, India. He told me to go away and stop being a nuisance.’
‘Hmmm. Well, do you want to go and get some more champagne? Seeing as you chucked your last one over him.’
‘I didn’t chuck it over him; it was an accident,’ I whispered urgently, feeling my face flushing with embarrassment.
‘Well, you could have chatted him up. He’s quite nice-looking.’ India twirled her hair round her fingers and looked at him from under her lashes.
I nudged her, stifling a giggle. ‘For heaven’s sake, India, stop it. You’re on your hen holiday and you’re flirting with strangers? Really?’
‘I wasn’t flirting, I was just looking. Watch and learn.’
This was so typical of my sister; she couldn’t pass up any opportunity. She’d even been known to flirt with Tim in work and I was pretty sure she scared him to death. He had to have the day off after the last works Christmas party.
‘Look, let’s swap seats? I’d feel better and I’m sure he would too.’
I went to get some refills and some more pretzels and moved into her chair. I was aware Mr Grumpy was still typing at high speed into his laptop but also watching me out of the corner of his eye. That’s quite a skill too, isn’t it? Perhaps he was a spy?
After a few minutes Mr Grumpy stood up and packed his laptop away, pulling his damp shirt away from his back and sending me another look.
He called a waitress over.
‘Is there somewhere I can get a shower?’ he said. ‘I need to change my shirt.’
The waitress fluttered a bit and took him away and I tried to put the image of him doing the aforementioned activities out of my mind. I was thinking he’d look rather marvellous though. Sort of big and rather chunky and … Oh, shut up, Alexa.
Still, I watched him go with a tinge of sadness. He walked with long strides but an unhurried grace and was the best-looking man to notice me in a very long time. Actually he was the first man to notice me for a very long time. It was just a shame it was for the wrong reasons. Though there was still no sign of the wife/girlfriend/significant other, so things could be looking up.
I wondered where he was going. He had missed the flight to Miami by now and also flights to Dubai, Rome, Sydney and loads of other places. I knew this because I had a special app on my laptop. I liked to fantasise about where I would go on holiday … if I ever had time to go on holiday, which I hadn’t for the last four years. As I’ve said, a weekend in Paris in November in the rain does not count as a proper holiday.
Perhaps he was a businessman travelling alone to some vital financial conference where he would address the World Bank about foreign aid? Or perhaps he was going to present a proposal to a board of shifty-looking venture capitalists for some huge office tower block in downtown Manhattan? Either way he was gone.
India wandered about looking out of the windows and fidgeting while I sat eating pretzels and sipping champagne. I tried to relax and look cool and not like someone who was in the habit of slinging drinks around.
‘Can we go to duty free now?’ she said at last. ‘It’s still over an hour till our flight. I want to find a lipstick to wear at the wedding.’
I resisted the temptation to groan and we gathered up our bags and made our way into consumer paradise, avoiding the huge bears, remote-control helicopters and iPad covers, and heading straight for the make-up. I di
dn’t really mind although I wouldn’t have admitted it to my sister. To be honest I’m especially keen on those dinky little palettes of eyeshadows and blushers with the tag ‘Airport Exclusive’. There’s just something about ‘travel-size’ products I can’t get enough of. Within seconds India found a male assistant to help her. I was just having an enjoyable few minutes playing with a battery-operated pig when she found me.
‘Don’t wander off like that,’ she said furiously. ‘You’re supposed to be looking after me. Mum said.’
I gritted my teeth. The phrase ‘Mum said’ had haunted me down the years for as long as I could remember. It didn’t hold the same power now though; after all, India was twenty-six and more than capable of looking after herself.
Luckily we heard our flight being called and scurried off to the right gate, oohing and aahing as we saw the bulk of our plane just outside the window. We were on our way.
*
We found our seats, had a slight argument about who would sit next to the window (India won; as she kept reminding me, this was ‘her’ holiday after all); we pressed all the buttons on the entertainment system; we read the menu card. The plane took off without crashing into the Queen Mother Reservoir so we drank gin to celebrate. Then we had dinner and some wine. Then India started moaning about how much she was missing Jerry so I stuck my earphones in and watched a film about a detective who would have got the case solved far quicker if he had stopped smoking quite so much. When it was obvious I wasn’t going to agree how marvellous Jerry was or discuss the colour of the sugared almonds, India curled up on her seat like a cat and had a nap.
I had another little gin and flicked over to the screen showing us where we were. That was a bit unnerving as we were south of Greenland, about as far from land as we could be. I took my mind off it by watching a film about a man rescuing his wife from some unnamed organisation. It involved a lot of explosions and dangling off collapsing bridges; I love that sort of thing. He must have had the upper body strength of Superman and the wife did the whole thing in stilettos and never once smudged her lipstick. Then India woke up and we had some odd cakes and an even odder cup of tea, and then we were descending through the cloudbank to JFK Airport.
I leaned across my sister to look out of the window, hoping for some of those interesting little glimpses into people’s backyards you get when you’re coming in to land. There were crowded twelve-lane highways and massive houses and the occasional swimming pool and then car parks and industrial yards full of trucks. I tightened my seatbelt and clung on to the seat arms as if trying to keep the plane in the air for a few more seconds, but suddenly there was a runway and we were down with that terrible back thrust of the engines that makes you think the wings are going to fall off. When we landed I realised I hadn’t thought once about work or what Charlie was doing with my in-tray or whether the Masons would complete on Stafford House. This had to be a record. I should have timed it.
The woman in front of us was disobeying the keep seatbelts fastened sign and was already scrabbling in the overhead locker for her hand luggage. Not that it would get her off the plane any quicker, just earn her a dirty look from the flight attendant on the way out.
Chapter Three
Vacation Cocktail
Vanilla Vodka, Coconut Liqueur, Lime and Pineapple Juice, Egg White, Blue Curacao
Until you stand next to a transatlantic liner the size of the Reine de France you can’t imagine how huge they are. It was sensational to see it coming into view as our transfer bus pulled up to the quayside. A sleek black hull reared up out of the oily waters of the dock. There were hundreds of exciting-looking windows above us and people leaning over balconies to wave to their friends.
It turned out several people on the plane were going to be on the trip with us and none of them looked old or infirm or miserable. They seemed to be just as thrilled as we were to be joining a liner to sail up the coast and across the Atlantic.
There had been a bit of a discussion on the transfer bus as to whether we were allowed to bring our own alcohol on with us. Some said no, others waved innocent-looking water bottles and raised their eyebrows in a knowing way. I guessed it was gin or vodka. Someone else said they knew someone who had been chucked off a cruise for trying to sneak a case of wine on board and we wondered how that might be possible. I mean, you couldn’t exactly disguise a case of wine or slip it in under a blanket, could you?
This? Oh, this? Oh, it’s just my sewing machine/medicine/art materials.
We negotiated the snaking queues in a hangar-like building where bored-looking women checked our passports and asked if we had any firearms, animals or drugs. Happily we didn’t.
On board there were waiters who greeted us with trays of cocktails, which is the way every holiday should start. I took an orange one. India worried for a bit about calories and then gave in and had a pink one. The crowd swept us up to the reception desk where we queued to collect our cabin keys. When it got to our turn, another excessively chic young woman – name badge Marie-France – frowned over her computer screen and did a great deal of frantic typing.
Right, this is where we get chucked off, I thought; ever the pessimist. This was the point where she would discover I had an unpaid parking ticket I’d forgotten about or that someone had stolen my identity and opened up an online shop selling explosives and cocaine.
At last Marie-France looked up and smiled.
‘So sorry to keep you, Miss Fisher and Miss Fisher. You were booked into cabin 840. A twin with a window? Hmmmm.’
She typed some more and then turned away and picked up a phone. She rattled some French off at high speed and did some Gallic pouting and shrugging.
‘They’re not going to let us on,’ I whispered.
‘Shut up! For God’s sake, don’t start,’ India hissed back. ‘Honestly, Alexa, we have this every bloody time. You can barely get on a bus into town without assuming you’re going to be chucked off. It’s just a bit of admin. If there’s any problem we’ll just wing it.’
India might be scattier than I am but she can be far more assertive in certain situations. Winging it is not something I’m good at. Fixing Marie-France with a steely glare, India began tapping her fingernails on the desk in front of her. Then she began shifting her weight from one foot to the other in a don’t mess with me sort of way. Marie-France began muttering in French into the phone again.
At last she put the phone down.
‘So many apologies. Your cabin is unavailable.’
‘See, there you are, I told you,’ I said, bending to pick up my bag.
I could imagine myself slinking away down the gangplank and trying to get back to JFK in the rain, a tragic figure with my dark hair in rats’ tails around my face; although the September sun was still streaming in through the portholes so perhaps I was being overly dramatic on this occasion.
‘There has been – ’ow you say – spillage and the cabin must be redecorated –’
Redecorated? And spillage? What sort of spillage? A dropped breakfast tray? A carelessly thrown bucket of creosote? Blood splattered up the walls?
‘– and so we ’ave moved you with apologies for the inconvenience and our compliments. Cabin 1137. Your suitcases have been taken there. We wish you a pleasant voyage.’
Marie-France gave us a charming smile and handed over two keys. I took one before she could change her mind and ran for the lifts, grabbing another cocktail on the way for good measure. A blue one this time.
Cabin 1137 was not so much a cabin as a little suite, with two double beds, a bath and shower room and a small sitting area. Plus a balcony! Be still my beating heart. It was beautifully decorated in shades of blue and pale green with a load of pillows and the option for more if we weren’t satisfied as there was an extensive pillow menu. A card placed on the dressing table next to a small basket of fruit advised us our steward would be Amil and he would attend to all our needs. All of them? Really? Poor bloke.
We scurried around, openi
ng all the doors and drawers and investigating the free toiletries in the bathroom, and then we discovered the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket with a note: Compliments de la Reine de France. We had that opened in no time flat and were clinking glasses yet again. How had I resisted the siren call of the sea and cruising this long? This was marvellous!
‘Let’s go out on the balcony,’ India said, ‘and watch the other people coming on board.’
‘Good idea!’
Outside the afternoon was glorious with a dazzling blue autumn sky. Above us planes were still criss-crossing the sky with vapour trails; helicopters were buzzing around.
Many floors below us on the dockside, yellow taxis were hooting their horns at each other and the coaches that were still disgorging people and huge piles of luggage on to the road. A policeman was trying to move vehicles on and we could hear him blowing his whistle and bellowing from our vantage point above him. It was all terrifically exciting. I wished I had some of those paper streamers that people used to throw off the side of departing ships, but I expect these days I would be prosecuted for littering.
India went back inside to scan through the ship’s newsletter so we could decide what to do with the rest of the day. I stayed where I was, leaning over the rail and sipping champagne and feeling rather glamorous and sophisticated. I heard next-door’s balcony door slide open and someone came out. There was a sort of half-barrier between our balconies but if they leaned on the rail like I was, they’d be able to say hello.
I arranged my face into a pleasant, welcoming expression, ready to be charming. And then I froze.
It was him.
The man from the airport with the grey eyes and pretzels all over his laptop. The one I had chucked champagne over. No! Surely not? It couldn’t possibly be! Oh, God.
Perhaps he wouldn’t recognise me?
Come Away With Me Page 3