We’d had a better time than I’d expected knocking back cocktails on deck, not arguing once, and for the first time in ages I remembered how much fun India could be. Then we got our second wind and went off to have dinner in the Champs-Elysées restaurant. This was apparently the budget option; the really posh people were in the Louis Quinze on the deck above us. From the pictures in our guide to the ship it looked as though everything up there apart from the food was gilded. Nothing was served without at least one edible flower on it and it wouldn’t have been surprising to learn there were people available to cut up your food for you.
We had been assigned a table with two couples, both of them American and neither of them strangers to the art of speed-eating. No sooner had our waiter brought our food than cutlery was flashing at high speed and the wine was flowing like water.
India and I introduced ourselves and found out more about them.
Marty and his wife, Marion, from Washington, DC, were celebrating their twentieth cruise and their fortieth wedding anniversary. The other couple were Marty’s brother Ike and his wife, Caron, all the way from Boise – home to hogs and potatoes and not much else, according to Ike.
All of them were cruise veterans and knew exactly what was acceptable and when it was time to complain.
‘This is good enough,’ Marty said as he hoovered up his chicken main course, ‘but I’m not entirely sure about the afternoon choices in the food court. Two cruises ago I was there when they were down to only three ice cream flavours. You have to watch ’em.’
‘I will,’ I said, horrified at this possible deprivation.
‘Your first cruise?’ Caron asked.
‘It’s my hen holiday!’ India announced. ‘I’m getting married in December.’
‘How perfectly lovely,’ Marion said, rather misty-eyed. ‘And is your sister your matron of honour?’
‘Maid of honour,’ India said with a smirk. ‘She’s not married yet.’
‘Oh, plenty of time yet,’ Caron said. ‘I was nearly twenty-seven before I got married.’
I shot India a warning look, daring her not to tell them I was twenty-nine already. Unusually for her, she kept quiet.
There was a short discussion about the wedding and then Marion changed the subject.
‘You have to get to the Ocean Theatre for the evening shows as soon as you finish your coffee. As soon as. Don’t hesitate. The best seats go very quickly. No time for aperitifs or a stroll round the deck. You have to cut straight through –’ she made an arrow shape with her hands ‘– and don’t stop.’
It was eight-thirty and the evening show was due to start at nine-fifteen. I began to think I should set off now.
‘The best seats are on the right-hand side as you look at the stage, about ten rows back. But there’s a pillar you need to watch out for. If you get there late, go to the middle of the back; there are always tables with a reasonable view, and of course there are waitresses who stay there if they can get away with it.’
‘Waitresses?’ India said.
Would the exertion of getting from the restaurant to the theatre mean we needed more food?
‘They’ll bring you drinks from the bar. And snacks. It’s very convenient,’ Caron said, as she took a healthy sip of her red wine. ‘We’ll look out for you, as you’re new to cruising. The gin cocktails on this ship are a specialty.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, wondering, as the waiters brought me a glossy slab of raspberry cheesecake with whipped cream rosettes and chocolate curls, if I would have room for any more drinks before tomorrow night. Or any more anything for that matter.
‘And the bourbon,’ Ike said, scraping his plate clean five seconds after it was put in front of him. ‘The bourbon selection is grand. Back in the day we used to have them out on the deck with a cigar. Nowadays, of course, you’d get thrown off the ship for even thinking about lighting up. It’s a great shame. Progress.’
He watched with a hangdog look as his wife enjoyed her dessert, obvious as a spaniel, until in the end she passed him her plate and let him finish it.
‘I’m as healthy as a bug in a bed,’ he said, hitting his chest with a clenched fist. ‘My physician says I have the cholesterol of a thirty-year-old.’
‘A thirty-year-old warthog,’ his wife growled.
‘Now, Caron, honey, just because you have to watch your weight,’ Ike said.
‘Oh, tell everyone,’ she said. ‘Tell the whole ship! Why not? You won’t be getting my dessert on gala night, I can tell you that for certain.’
Ike winked at me. ‘She’s a firebrand. Thirty-eight years we’ve been together. Married on Christmas Eve. I’d have got less for murder.’
‘And when you go on the ship’s tenders tomorrow to get to Newport, don’t bother sitting on the top deck. It’s cold and pretty rocky,’ Marty said.
‘What are tenders?’ I asked.
‘They’re the lifeboats really. They use them when the ship is too big to actually dock.’
‘Well, I like sitting up top,’ Marion said.
‘Yes, but your hair doesn’t,’ Marty replied.
They bickered on happily through the cheese and coffee and then, just as I was thinking I might fall asleep nose down in the sugar, rose like a startled flock of gulls and chivvied us out past the bowing waiters and proud, Italian profile of the maître d’, who wished us a pleasant evening.
Other people in the know evidently had the same idea because there was a well-mannered but insistent tide of people surging the length of the ship towards the open doors of the Ocean Theatre. Our new companions brushed aside our feeble protests that we were tired and settled us triumphantly at a table for six close to the stage. Within moments Ike had ordered a round of drinks and then sat back with a contented sigh to watch the show.
‘The dancers are very good on this ship, much better than on the Roi,’ Marion said.
‘The Roi?’ I asked.
‘The Roi de France. They’re not nearly as good. And last time we came there was a singer – well, he could have given Sinatra a run for his money. Just wonderful.’
Right on time the lights dimmed and there was an excited smattering of applause. The curtains pulled back and a line of dancing girls in bowler hats and stilettos high-kicked on to the tune of ‘Cabaret’ and whoops and whistles from Marty.
‘I’m going to fall asleep if I close my eyes,’ I hissed to India. ‘I’ve been eating cheesecake at three in the morning. And now I’ve got a highball in front of me.’
She pulled a face at me. ‘Let me guess; you’d rather be in work?’
‘Hardly!’ I scoffed. I thought about it and what Mum had said; what was the point of having a holiday if you weren’t going to enjoy it?
‘Then just roll with it! We can sleep when we get home,’ she said, raising her glass and clinking it against mine.
‘You’re right!’ I said and took a slurp of my drink. I couldn’t remember the last time India and I had had so much fun together. I shouldn’t wish it away. ‘Oooh, this isn’t bad actually.’
On the stage the male dancers, who were sporting an impressive display of eyeliner as they gamely tried to do Joel Grey impersonations to ‘Willkommen’, joined the girls, who were busy straddling chairs and tipping their bowler hats.
‘I saw this on Broadway in 1998,’ Marty said as the routine came to an end and we all applauded. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes and I’ve been in the Army. It was a bit racy.’
‘I don’t remember you asking to leave early though,’ Marion said, tapping the table in front of him.
Marty wagged his head and laughed.
Beside me India had started doing that thing with her head where she was jerking backwards and forwards as she fell asleep. I nudged her with my knee and when that didn’t work finished her drink off. Strange. It was usually me having to leave and have an early night.
In the end it was a fun evening. There was no sign of Marnie Miller or Gabriel Frost that I could see. Perhaps this wasn’t their sort of thing? M
aybe they were otherwise occupied? I steered my tired brain away from that scenario and watched as a sharp-looking man in a DJ came on and introduced himself as Francois Du Pont, our compere for the evening. I think by his accent he was more Paris-Texas than Paris-France but Marty and Ike laughed at his jokes while Marion and Caron discussed whether this was the same man they had encountered on the Destiny of the Seas two years previously.
Then a singer came on with a selection of songs in tribute to Dean Martin, where he very convincingly almost fell off his stool.
India was properly asleep by that point, resting her head back on the red velvet seat, her mouth open. I just hoped ‘Dean’ couldn’t see her.
The show ended with a rousing dance routine to a selection of Chuck Berry hits, ending with ‘Johnny B Goode’; there was air-guitar playing on the part of the boys and some choreographed hand jiving by the girls. It was really jolly good.
As the other guests headed off to the bars and casino, I nudged India awake and we tottered off to our cabin and made half-hearted attempts to get our make-up off. I looked out at the dark sea and the glitter of far-off lights on the coast that was slipping past us and smiled as my head span. Then we both fell into bed. What a day!
*
It felt like I’d had ten minutes of sleep when I woke up. Daylight was streaming through the windows and occasionally I heard people chattering as they walked down the corridor past our room. I lay in bed wondering if the room was indeed rocking or if I had a worse hangover than expected. Then I remembered I was on a ship, which explained it. The tenders were due to take us off the ship and into Newport, Rhode Island, from nine o’clock, and it was now eight-thirty.
I wondered for a few moments if I really needed to see Newport, and then I remembered Marion’s comment the night before. Apparently, Newport was ‘a darling town’, very exclusive and good for shopping and dining, with ‘the best handbag shop’ she had ever been in.
‘India! Get up! It’s time to move. Breakfast!’ I shouted, chucking one of my pillows at her.
India made a few horrified noises and rolled away from me, but I chucked another pillow that caught her smack on the head and then I went into the bathroom to shower and steal all the complimentary toiletries, which were Jo Malone and absolutely gorgeous. By the time I came out she was sitting up on the side of her bed.
‘Breakfast!’ I said. ‘Hurry up. We can go to the food court self-service. It’ll be quicker.’
I threw open the doors to the balcony and let in a fresh gust of salty air, feeling much better after my shower. India fell backwards on to her bed and whimpered.
‘Oh God, why do you always have to be so bloody enthusiastic in the mornings?’
‘Come on! Remember what you said? Would you rather be in work?’
‘No,’ she said rather pathetically.
‘Well then, come on. We could go and see The Breakers; a dream come true for a couple of half-arsed estate agents like us.’
To give India her due, she surprised me. In twenty minutes we were in the food court with trays and India was trying to decide what to eat in order to get rid of her hangover.
All the time, food trolleys laden with new breakfast choices were hurtling through the kitchen doors and out into the food court at frightening speed. There was a group of travellers dithering and fretting to such an extent that I swear we had finished our food and were on our way back to our cabin to collect our passports and ship’s identity cards before they had eaten anything.
Newport was indeed glorious, with pretty artisan shops and cafés clustered around the quayside. As we passed a beautiful shop full of handbags, we saw Marion inside with a forlorn-looking Marty. Still feeling a bit fragile, we had decided not to join the tour around The Breakers, the house built for the Vanderbilt family, who evidently had more money than was good for them from the look of the photographs.
Instead we wandered in and out of the immaculate little alleyways around the quay, admiring the jaunty yachting clothes on sale. There was a whole raft of incredibly expensive, impossibly chic, home-style shops filled with every type of throw, vase, candleholder and hand-carved bird necessary to make one’s weekend cottage perfect.
Everywhere there were tourists plodding about, pretending they had a boat, and the occasional genuine boat owner who could be distinguished by their good looks, expensive clothes and – in the case of the young girls, at least – constant laughing and glossy blonde hair that needed a lot of flicking.
I looked at them from the weary heights of my twenty-nine years and felt unexpectedly sad. Were they as happy as they seemed? Or had they just not been alive long enough to be disappointed? Would they too one day find their boyfriend, half-naked, sprawled over another woman and then listen to his preposterous explanations about CPR and the Heimlich manoeuvre? I wouldn’t go through that again. I’d made up my mind.
Philosophical thoughts put firmly to one side, we went to sit at an achingly stylish wine bar overlooking the sea with the intention of ordering a glass of water and an elegant sandwich. One of Newport’s prettiest, blondest, happiest girls came across and introduced herself to us.
‘I’m Callie – happy to be your server.’
We thanked her for handing over the menus.
‘You’re welcome,’ she said with a dazzling smile. ‘Can I bring you something while you’re waiting?’
In the manner of all American restaurants she had already brought us some iced water, which took care of India’s dehydration.
‘No, thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Would you like the parasol adjusted? The sun’s really hot today.’
‘No, it’s fine, thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Callie skipped away happily towards the kitchen in her size-four denim shorts and T-shirt. She had a glossy mane of hair caught up in a high ponytail and long brown legs that ended in smart pink deck shoes. She made Olivia Newton John in Grease look fat and sloppy by comparison.
‘Is she going to say you’re welcome every time we say thank you?’ India said, watching her blearily.
‘I expect so.’
In front of us bobbed millions and millions of dollars worth of boats of all shapes and sizes. There were a few of Callie’s clones wandering about on board the one nearest us, laughing and flirting with some excessively handsome young men as they pretended to mop the decks. I felt even older and wearier just watching them. Perhaps I was destined for a cantankerous old age, getting more and more cynical about men and love and relationships until I just didn’t bother any more?
I rested my head back on the chair and closed my eyes as, beside me, India glugged back her iced water with a groan.
‘Enjoying your day?’
I looked round, rather startled to see Callie showing Gabriel Frost to the adjacent table. Gabriel Frost, here at the same restaurant we were sitting in … What were the chances?
‘Oh yes, absolutely, it’s a very pretty place,’ I said, rather flustered, trying to smile but probably just grimacing.
‘Hey, are you folks friends? Would you care to share a table?’ Callie smiled helpfully.
No, actually no. I didn’t think I could cope with him sitting right next to me and having to make small talk …
He hesitated for a moment.
Say no, say no.
‘Well, I suppose that might be nice.’
‘Hey, that’s so cool!’ Callie said, topping up our water glasses. ‘Small world! I’ll bring you over a menu momentarily, sir.’
She gave Gabriel a smile he was not intended to forget and skipped away. I was so surprised I picked up my glass to take a sip, just to have something to do with my hands, and spilled some water on the table. The fizzing was back suddenly. Gabriel took his seat and seemed to fit into the scenery perfectly.
‘Not tempted by The Breakers then?’ Gabriel said, yanking me out of my thoughts.
‘Not really. I think we just wanted to soak up the atmosphere,’ I said stupidl
y.
And seeing as India felt a bit queasy after the ride in the ship’s tender – she would insist on going on the top deck despite the warnings – I wouldn’t want her throwing up on their inlaid marble floors.
‘You’re very wise. Some of these tourist places are expensive and very crowded,’ he said. ‘Have you ordered?’
Callie came back and was standing eagerly on tiptoe next to him, pencil and pad at the ready. That’s the other thing about American restaurants: they give you a closely typed, three-page menu without any pictures, and 2.7 seconds later they come to take your order.
‘A carafe of red,’ I said. Hair of a reasonably large dog. ‘And some whole-wheat toast with avocado and chilli flakes.’
‘Jerry said that was supposed to be good for hangovers,’ India said.
‘Ideal. I’ll have the same, thank you,’ Gabriel said. ‘And a glass of Pinot Grigio.’
‘You’re welcome! Excellent choice,’ Callie said, wrinkling her button nose with pleasure. ‘Can I freshen up your water a little?’
She topped up our glasses to the brim. I couldn’t believe it – Gabriel was being chatty, agreeable, nice even. What had happened to the grumpy man I’d met/chucked my drink over in the airport lounge, or our rude neighbour on the balcony? Perhaps he was getting into the holiday mood too?
‘Thank you,’ Gabriel said.
‘You’re welcome!’ came the inevitable reply, and she darted off again.
‘So is this your first trip to the States?’ Gabriel asked.
‘We’ve been to Florida and New York before, but yes, this is our first time in New England. It looks beautiful,’ I said, waving one hand around me. ‘The boats and the sea. And the … and the boats,’ I finished lamely.
Next to me India tried and failed to look bright and alert.
‘This is a little overdone for my taste,’ he said, ‘unless of course you’re a boat owner. I know a publisher in New York who has a boat here. He recommends it very highly, but I prefer the Maine coastline, although it’s not nearly so pretty. Just big hunks of rock and the sea.’
Hunk is about right, I thought, rather unexpectedly. Especially if he stayed in this mood – I could begin to see why Marnie Miller might have gone for him …
Come Away With Me Page 5