Maybe, thought Stacy, I can find somewhere quieter to go – till Mum’s had enough. She mouthed across to Jennifer Lee- Ving, and pointed towards the doors, though she really needn’t have bothered because Jennifer at the time had her head thrown back and both eyes closed right down as she honked out her late-night-three-bottles-down hoarse but still glittering choir of laughter (which needn’t at all mean that anything remotely funny had occurred). On Stacy’s way out, she passed by a couple who were, could be, I don’t know – fifty, maybe? But not a couple, it now transpired, because she was saying to him:
‘My husband – that’s George, my husband – I just couldn’t get him to leave London. He’s a criminal barrister.’
The man pursed his lips and said slowly:
‘Your point being …?’
The woman was maybe thrown, but showing willing.
‘I’m sorry, I – I don’t quite – ?’
‘Shall we see if we’re still in time for these post-midnight snacks they were touting earlier? Dockside restaurant, I think they said – wherever that is. I’m still actually quite stuffed from dinner, but it is all in, after all.’
‘Well,’ confided the woman, as they trudged away (and look – she’d slipped her arm quite neatly under his), ‘I must tell you now – I don’t do wheat, and I don’t do dairy.’
Stacy wandered off the other way, vaguely thinking that the pub thing they passed earlier (White Horse? Red Lion?) had been this way, hadn’t it? Maybe sit there a bit. And as she ambled the full and thick-carpeted length of the endless and now almost completely deserted corridor, she glanced down at the pasteboard card in her hand: three addresses – one in New York, one in Florida and another in, goodness, Paris. And a Box number in London too, look. And at the card’s centre, in wonky, larky purple print there writhed the legend, ‘Disco Debbie – She Bops Till She Drops’.
And Stacy thought, as she glimpsed the pub (ah, Black Horse – that’s it) what a very funny place this is.
*
Nicole was finally – oh God at last – in bed, thank the Lord. You know, it honestly seems to take me longer, these days, to actually remove all my make-up than it does to apply it. Which can’t be right. And then there are all the night creams and moisturizers and so on, aren’t there? To deal with. Flossing, and all the rest of it.
Where’s David?
This bed, I have to say, is more than comfortable. And proper cotton sheets and blankets, I was very pleased to see. I’m so very glad we went for twins. The thought of David thrashing around in this very little space is just too awful to contemplate. Anyway. Tired, yes – but I don’t know if I’ll sleep. I don’t think I’ll read, though. Too tired, quite frankly. I bought some books, couple of paperbacks, in Southampton (God – seems days ago, now: isn’t it odd?). There was a stall, what do you call them? Kiosk there. God knows what they’re like – the covers were nice and they’re both by women, which is half the battle these days, really: can’t stand men’s books, books by men. Are you the same? They’re all so – oh, I don’t know: not nice, if you know what I mean. I don’t quite mean not nice, but you probably know. Hardy, of course – he’s lovely. And that Morse man – quite good. Tired, yes – but I don’t know if I’ll sleep. I don’t think I’ll read, though. Too tired, quite frankly.
Anyway, Nicole – I think what you deserve is one great pat on the back: well done, girl! Here you are, on the Transylvania, no less, with all your family, and all for free. Thanks to you and you alone. I hope the children will enjoy it – it’s so hard to tell, isn’t it? With children now. Marianne – she’s so very quiet. Never confides in me, you know – oh good God no. Not like Sophie’s two: always having girly head-to-heads, Sophie is, she’s always telling me. With her two. Shopping trips. But not my Marianne. Oh dear me no. Keeps to herself. Adores her father, of course. For some reason that is – and I don’t care if this sounds … well I don’t quite know how it will sound, and I really don’t mind, to tell you the honest truth – but quite why she should adore him, what exactly she actually sees in him, I shall never understand. It could be, maybe, a phase …
And where is David?
Rollo. Well – Rollo’s a boy, of course. Young man. And they’re quite different, as we all know. God alone knows what he’s going to do after A-levels, though. If he doesn’t mess them up. No sort of direction. Probably expecting us to keep him until his old age. Which is terribly amusing. David can barely keep us now. I think he’s not getting on well, you know, workwise. But we don’t talk about it. Well look – I’m here, aren’t I? If he wants to, you know – say, well – he knows how to get hold of me. He knows where I am.
But where is he, I’d like to know.
That Charlene, I have to say – bit of an odd fish. I don’t know many Americans … well none, if I’m honest – so maybe they’re all this way, are they? But it was a strange little chat we had in the, um – I think it was the Zip Bar, yes – that was it (this ship, I’m telling you – don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of it). David had gone off with Dwight (extraordinary name, isn’t it? Dwight. Extraordinary). Anyway, yes – those two had gone off to, oh – God knows where, wherever men go, and Charlene said to me Well – and I can’t actually remember her words, exactly, and God please don’t ask me to do the accent – but the general sort of idea was that we, you know – have a drink and a chat, sort of thing, and –
Ooh gosh. I’ve just had a brainwave. No wait – listen. I really ought to write this down. Can I be bothered? Oh God – I know from experience that if you don’t write these things down the minute they occur to you they’ll be gone, you know – no matter how well you think you’ll remember them, by morning they’ll be gone. But I think my pen – it’s still in my bag, and God I just can’t move. But listen to this: I think it’s a winner. Ready? Right: The reason Trill is Britain’s number one birdseed is because … it puts the bounce into Britain’s number one birds! Or maybe keeps the bounce … or puts the b’doing in number one birds (b’doing is maybe good … bit slangy? Don’t know – needs work). First prize for that one is Disneyland on Concorde (although since that crash, I’m not too sure). When I told David about this competition (and most of them I don’t, don’t even trouble to mention them – it’s not as if he appreciates it, or anything: quick to share in the prizes, though, isn’t he?). Yes anyway, when I just happened to let drop that the reason there were (because he was going on and on) oh – not many, two or three packets of Trill in the cupboard (well, no more than six; it might just have been a dozen) was that I was closing in on getting us all to Disneyland on Concorde (maybe they’d make it a 747?) and I needed the tokens – all he had to say was Oh marvellous! And what’re the runner-up prizes, may I politely enquire? No – don’t tell me, let me hazard: a lifetime’s supply of fucking Trill, conceivably? Sit well with the Whiskas, won’t it? Investing in an aviary, are we, Nicole? Or are we collectively doomed to pecking at millet for the rest of our days? Here, Rollo – who’s a pretty boy, then? Will you be laying down newspapers for us all to shit on? (He can, David, be awfully crude. There: I’ve said it.)
My seventeen tiebreaking words for this prize, the one we’re actually on (isn’t it amazing?) were – have I said? – oh, magnificent, really. Judges thought so, obviously. Never forget them – listen: ‘The Transylvania to New York serves to fuse two continents with class, great luxury and sheer style.’ Wonderful, isn’t it? Like a poem. Just came to me, you know – like works of art are sometimes said to.
And not talking of works of art – where on earth is he?
Anyway. Tired, yes – but I don’t know if I’ll sleep. Don’t think I’ll read, though. Too tired, quite frankly. Now what was I …? Oh yes – friend Charlene, mm, yes. Very odd. Nice – oh yes, perfectly pleasant woman, oh Lord yes, don’t get me wrong. Just – odd, you know? As maybe Americans are. I asked her all about living in that perfectly ghastly Vietnam place, but she didn’t actually answer, or anything; understandable, I suppose. And I must s
ay I do have the most frightful problem with the accent; I don’t actually mean the sound of it, or anything … quite like the sound of it, really – feels quite homely, in a ghastly sort of a way. I suppose one is used to it from all the films, and so on. No – it’s just that I so often find it hard to quite understand what they’re saying. I mean to say look – if they’re going to speak English, well then why on earth don’t they? Hm? Anyway.
We were sitting in this Zip sort of cocktail place, as I say – quite nice there, I suppose. Rather good Steinway, though no one seemed remotely inclined to actually play the thing, which rather surprised me. I mean – first night at sea, you’d think they’d be all out to make some sort of impression, no? The place is just a teeny weeny bit of a corridor, though, I have to say. I mean, however tucked away one imagined oneself to be, there always seemed to be this stream of people passing through – all of them, I rather later divined, in quest of the loos, which were just around the corner, rather unhappily. I know this because after my second glass of champagne (when in Rome!) I felt the need myself, somewhat shamemakingly. I just hate it – do you? – when I have to leave someone like that because you just know, don’t you, that your back is being watched, studied; worse, of course – far worse – when there’s more than one of them because then they’re going to talk, aren’t they? About you. And no doubt I was walking with steely-eyed purpose, as we women tend to, don’t we, when the loo is in question (quite unlike men – have you ever noticed? They wander about and beat at their jacket pockets, some reason, and tend to look up at the ceiling, helpless dolts). Anyway.
The first thing Charlene had to say … sounds so like one of those frightful whiney songs, doesn’t it, ‘Charlene’? By someone like that singer with the white hair and beard, what was he? Or one of those terribly bosomy women that men seem to like (for one reason or another). Now what was I …? Oh yes. Charlene. First thing she told me was that whenever she was in England, the thing she liked best of all was card. Well I mean honestly – what on earth is one supposed to say?
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Oh absa-lootly. Dwight and me, we always make a point of having a bidder card in badder, y’know? So Briddish! We get a side order of fries on account of we don’t go too big on potato chips? And then we get tripped up again because when the chips do come they, like, are fries, y’know? It’s kinda confusing. Tell me, Nicole – you know the Apple, or what?’
‘I don’t think I, er – how do you mean know, exactly? I mean I know what they are …’
‘I’m talking New York, honey. You done the sights? You, like, know what’s on the corner of 25th and 3rd?’
‘Oh God don’t ask me anything at all like that. I’m just hopeless at mental arithmetic, always was. Is this anything to do with hypotenuses and all that sort of thing? Pi, is it?’
‘Pie? No sir, lady. I’m talking Big Apple, here.’
‘Oh right I see. Well yes I know it’s terribly traditional with you, isn’t it? ‘Mom’s homemade apple pie’ and so on. I must say I’m terribly partial to Tarte Tatin, but it’s hardly ever authentic, these days, is it?’
‘Oh yeah – I think my Suki had one of those, good while back. They those kinda comic books with that little French guy and his dog and the sea captain and all …?’
‘I don’t quite think I … what did you think of him? Our Captain?’
‘Pussycat.’
‘We used to have a cat. Well it was Marianne – she insisted. But I don’t think it’s fair, do you? I mean – pets die, don’t they? And then where are you? It was the same with Rollo’s gerbil.’
‘Ain’t that a toob of your English candy? Rollo? Sump’n like that.’
‘Rollo is my son. Seventeen, now. Time flies.’
‘Tell me, sister. Same with Earl. Mores, I like.’
‘Mores? Oh Morse, yes – good, isn’t it? Do you get them over there, then?’
‘Mores Bores? Sure. Also I’m a sucker for Snickers. Dwight, he ain’t allowed nothing. All the time I gotta think of his bowels. You like that?’
‘Well no, I – I mean obviously from time to time they cross one’s mind, David’s bowels, yes of course they do. But I wouldn’t say one dwelt, exactly …’ (A sucker for Morse’s knickers, did she say?)
‘Yeh well – with me, Dwight’s bowels are a kinda fulltime jab, you know what I’m saying? Also, right now – I hope our two boys are behaving themselves because also he gotta go light on the soss.’
‘Soss, really? What – sausages, do you mean?’
‘Soss, honey. I mean, Dwight – I don’t want him downing baddle after baddle of the soss, you get me? With his bowels, it’s crazy.’
‘Oh sauce, yes I see. Well yes of course I can well understand that lots of bottles of sauce could be extremely irritating, in the long term. Particularly – ha ha – if it’s Worcester …’
‘Your War-sister-shire soss I like. With Tuh-mayto. I’m a virgin – Dwight’s always bloody. You see the problem.’
‘Well yes I do. Well well. God – it’s never easy, is it?’
‘Tell me, sister. So let’s just hope our two guys are being two good boys, huh?’
Yes, thought Nicole now, as she shifted herself on to the side of the bed that was usually best for starting the night – let us hope so indeed (where can David have got to?). God – do you know, I’ve entirely forgotten – in this ridiculously short time I’ve actually managed to totally forget what I – ! Was it … Because it makes number one birds super bouncy? Wasn’t that, was it? It was better than that – it was … I know! It was … no, no, can’t get it. Lost it. Damn. Should’ve written it down. It’s always like that – if you don’t write it down the minute you … yes yes yes, well I know that, don’t I? Bitter experience. It’s just that my pen is still in my bag and … oh God, I simply can’t move.
Tired, yes – but I don’t know if I’ll sleep. Don’t think I’ll read, though. Too tired, quite frankly.
*
‘I guess in the States, now – New York for sure,’ Dwight was opining, ‘we got just these two sortsa guys. You getting ice with that, or what?’ was the next thing he threw over, one thick finger jabbing at David’s large Jack Daniel’s.
David shook his head. ‘Tiny splash of water, maybe.’
‘Yeh – I noticed that. You English guys ain’t so big on booze on the rocks. For me, iffin it don’t clink, it ain’t a drink – know what I’m saying?’ Dwight now shifted with care a lot of his weight – tried to settle himself on to this bar stool so that most of his quite compendious buttocks were no longer pretty much bunched up but still hanging off the side of it, plenty, and heaving him away (didn’t work too good). ‘So yeah anyways – like I says, two sortsa guys is I reckon all we got. You got the little shits on Madison Avenue who just don’t drink …’ (Dwight let his lips absorb cold Bourbon) ‘ … and then you got the regular guys, the good ole boys – sorta guys I hang with. Who just don’t stop. You, Dave – call you Dave? You, Dave – I like.’
‘Dave’s fine,’ smiled David – at first, yes, not too sure it really was, actually, that fine – not too wild about ‘Dave’ – but then he thought Oh Christ what the hell: how long am I in fact going to know this man? All we’re doing is passing through. Ships in the night, right? And look – people I’ve seen on board so far, Dwight is the best around by a long, long way. I like him.
‘I know what you mean,’ continued David. ‘It’s like that in London too. Not so bad as it was in the Nineties, but still it’s, well – pretty awful. And units – they go on about all that sort of stuff in America? All this talk about units?’
Dwight rigidly shook his bullish neck, his bilberry cheeks going along with that.
‘Units I don’t know.’
‘Let’s get in another couple of these, yes? Christ – it’s bloody quiet in here, isn’t it? Do people just go to bed early on this thing, or what do they do?’
‘You’re asking me? How long I been aboard her now? Three munce? Thre
e years? Me, I don’t care too much what people wanna do. Don’t pay ’em too much mind. Me, most nights I sit here. Yeh, I thank you, Dave – and loadsa ice, kay? Pre-shate it.’
‘Yeh but these units, right? They say, God – about twenty or twenty-five or something is about right, they reckon. That’s maybe eight, ten large whiskies.’
‘Waaall … guess that ain’t too bad.’
‘No, Dwight – I don’t think you get it. This is in a week.’
Dwight held on to his glass and just looked at the man.
‘You got to be kidding me. No bullshit? A goddam week? What’re they – nuts?’
‘That’s what I’m telling you. And you’re dead right about the way people – and Christ, these days it’s the women who – they can be the worst. But you’re absolutely spot-on there, Dwight – people either don’t drink, or else they don’t stop. Same with fags.’
‘Oh yeah,’ chortled Dwight. ‘First time I heard you English come out with that, I’m going Excuse me?! Cigarettes, right? Me, I was a Camel man – sheez, how many packs I get through? Then I quit. Wanna know why I quit? Ask Charlene why I quit. Fact, boy – any time at all you wanna hunker down and get with all the juice on good old Dwight’s fuckin’ entrails, then Charlene’s the doll you wanna call. Sometimes I get a stogy, you know? I got this guy who can get hold of Cuban? Tell Charlene, she kill me.’
‘Mm. I used to smoke those small cigars – Hamlet: don’t suppose they exist in the States. But I packed them in.’
Yes I did, thought David: I packed them in. Some mornings, I could barely speak – and all my clothes, they smelt like they belonged to men who had days ago died. One reason why, I distinctly seem to recall, in the course of that punishing bender (all of, Jesus, twenty-four hours ago!) I decided to sell my jacket (for not very much). Plus, during my increasingly frequent broker phases, I just simply couldn’t run to them: sixty and up a day – it wasn’t peanuts.
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