‘Just don’t go and get hurt scaling up the side of a Japanese whaling boat or something,’ I added.
‘No, ma’am!’ He gave me a mock salute then gathered me into his arms and gave me a hug. I kicked the door shut with my toe and edged him gently backwards.
Our ardour was somewhat tempered by the restrictions of the hard, narrow bed — but not so much that we couldn’t make up again, with a vigour undoubtedly heightened by our difference of opinion.
‘Oh, by the way,’ he said afterwards, ‘the purser handed this to me for you.’ He picked his jeans off the floor and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a fax marked URGENT from Stephanie:
Your office very vague about contacting you, no email access until next week they said, and gave me this fax number. Hope you get it. I’ve emailed you as well, just in case.
Had a call from women’s mag about you-know-who. They claim to have photos. What should I do? Steph.
Her concern of the other night gone, there was no ‘Hello, how are you?’, no asking after Simon or how we were coping after the bomb. Just a plea for help.
‘This is so typical!’ I grumbled, holding up the fax. ‘Stephanie’s in the crap again and she wants my advice.’
‘She seems to be quite good at getting herself in the crap, that sister of yours,’ Simon grinned as he buckled on his jeans.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Do you want to phone her? I could arrange it with the comms people. Or you could email if you don’t mind waiting for access to a screen.’
‘Are we allowed to use email? I didn’t think we could.’
‘It’s not open access, but we’re allowed to use it after six o’clock as long as we don’t download stuff or visit porn sites!’
‘Ha ha, very funny. As if I’d need a porn site after a night with you!’
‘Are you trying to tell me something?’ He pretended to undo his zip again and gave me such a smouldering look that I was surprised Stephanie’s fax didn’t ignite. In fact, I rather wished it had.
‘Down boy,’ I laughed, fanning his crotch with the fax paper. ‘Much as I’d like to reprise the last half hour, I feel duty-bound to respond to my crazy sister and see if I can dig her out of the hole she’s in.’
‘But Penny, you’re on holiday. Can’t you let yourself take a break from the clamourings of your needy family and look after yourself for a change?’
Well, that hit me right in the solar plexus. I mean, what was he thinking? That I’d desert my big sister, no matter how crazy or idiotic she’d been, and let her drown in a media storm?
‘What would you do? What if Zak was in trouble? Would you ignore him?’
He looked down for a moment then returned my gaze, this time with acceptance. ‘No, I guess not. I’ll take you down to the computer room and you can send her an email, if you don’t mind waiting for a computer to come free. There are only two, and the satellite connection can be a bit tricky sometimes.’
Sure enough, when I logged on there was an email from Stephanie, saying much the same thing as the fax. I hit the reply button.
From: Penny Rushmore
To: Stephanie Scanlan
Subject: Jumping Jack
Hi sis
Have you had it out with Marcus? Because you can’t even begin to handle the media until you’ve told him the truth. Your rehabilitation in the eyes of your fans and the public will hinge as much on how he reacts as how you do. So you have to resolve this first.
Whichever way he goes — whether he ditches you or stands by you — you have to take the ‘humble sinner’ approach and claim that you were led astray by a well-practised womaniser and were powerless to his charms. Then you have to say you repent your foolish ways, you’ve learned your lesson and you’ll never do it again. This is seriously your only chance of redemption. If you brazen it out and say you loved every minute of it, or whatever drollery you come up with, you will be toast. If you deny everything, you will be toast. If you refuse to take media calls, you will immediately look like the guilty sinner that you are.
Sorry to be so blunt …
(actually, I wasn’t sorry at all, but I knew the only way to get through to her was to be totally honest)
… but unless you take the mea culpa line and act like you’re really sorry, you’re stuffed.
Ignoring the unintended pun, I signed off and sent it before I changed my mind and softened my approach.
Since there was no-one waiting for my screen, I checked my inbox for other messages. I’d told everybody I didn’t think I’d be able to access email on the boat, so I wasn’t expecting there to be many. There were three: one from work, one from Charlotte and one from Adam. Both siblings had sent theirs on the same day.
From: Tracey Finlay
To: Penny Rushmore
Subject: You aren’t missing anything!
Hi Penny
All is going well here now, though we could have done with your help yesterday when the shit hit the fan. That dreadful woman Santangela di Palmavera went on a shopping spree in the mall that has all the posh shops and latched onto this really expensive designer diary. Hot pink, diamantes everywhere, Prada or something. Price tag $800. Trouble was, she walked right out without paying for it. So they called security and in no time she was in the slammer down at the cop shop and Ginny gets this call from her. The diva was furious, screaming how it was all utterly outrageous, how they wouldn’t listen when she said ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ and that she had friends in high places who would ensure they all lost their jobs. I could see Ginny holding the phone a mile away from her ear — and I could hear the woman screaming from my office. Ginny had to go down and bail her out and hire her a decent lawyer. They think they can get the case heard in a week or two and it should all be done and dusted then if she pleads guilty. But the lawyer is having a devil of a job to get her to agree. She’s totally in denial. The lawyer told Ginny that Santangela does this all the time and has a list of shoplifting convictions as long as your arm. If only she’d known this earlier she could have kept a closer eye on the mad diva.
Anyway, straight away radio and TV and the papers are all on the phone wanting to know if it’s true and wanting to interview her. Can you believe it? The crazy woman wants to go on television and proclaim it’s all a plot and she was set up. So Ginny spent the whole of yesterday afternoon and evening and all of today on the phone dealing with it, cursing your name and saying why weren’t you there when she needed you! You’ve had a lucky escape, Penny Rushmore!
Ginny says to tell you you’re never to go away again, what with bombs over there and drama divas back here.
Stay away from the bombs!
Tracey.
I chuckled all the way through, not feeling in the least bit guilty for my absence. Ginny had enough experience of rock divas, opera divas, movie divas and sports divas all behaving badly to know what to do by now. I sent back a reply telling her this and moved onto the next email, conscious someone might want to use the computer at any moment.
From: [email protected]
To: Penny Rushmore
Subject: Everybody knows
U need to cum home and deal with Charlotte. She with that old man at uni STILL and everybody knows. Darren even told me bout her and he told the others. They all LOL. Its so gross, you have to stop her.
Tigger is good, eating lots. He got into the fridge while I was out and ate the margarine and was sick on the floor.
Real gross.
Granddad sez he misses u and sends his love. He sez not to worry, we all fine. But hes acting funny. Is he on something? He cums back from seeing Nana in a real foul mood. Sed he wished he was dead. Or he wished she was dead. Either way, hes real grumpy and hard out. I have to get him dinner each night cos he sez he dont want anything. The frozen meals u left have nearly run out. Have u seen any big tuna yet? I want to do stuff like Simon. Hes the dude.
Adam
Well that sobered me up quickly. Fi
rst Charlotte, then Dad, both in trouble by the sound of it and me thousands of kilometres away and powerless to do anything. I wished I could call Dad and have a talk to him but I knew there was no way I could make contact until we were back in cellphone range, and that could be days.
I emailed Adam back, telling him to look after his grandfather and suggesting he try to talk to him about what was bothering him, but I suspected it wouldn’t happen.
Then I opened Charlotte’s email:
From: [email protected]
To: Penny Rushmore
Subject: Adams a weirdo
Hi Mum
You have to do something about Adam he’s a weirdo. Since you’ve been away he’s been on his computer all the time locked away in his room. I know I promised you I’d look after him while you were away but really I’d rather be at Dad’s. Adam is such a slob he’s disgusting. He won’t do any cooking he just heats up those meals you left behind and Granddad is almost as bad. Both he and Adam have been so moody without you here. Granddad is always going on about Nana and how bad she is and he spends a lot of time in his room with the door shut and the television on real loud. It’s like a madhouse round here, Mum I wish you’d come home.
Love
Charlotte
That made me feel even worse. Clearly the Rushmore world was falling apart without me there to shore it up and there was nothing I could do.
To: [email protected]
From: Penny Rushmore
RE: Adams a weirdo
Dear Charlie
I’m sorry Adam is upsetting you. I’ll give him a call as soon as we get cellphone reception again but that might not be for a few days. I’m also a bit worried about you and Peter. I understand you have strong feelings for him but it is REALLY IMPORTANT that you stay away from each other at least until I’m back and we can talk about it. Honestly, Charlotte, this could spell the end of your studies at university and the end of Peter’s career. Do you want that to happen?
Love Mum
I looked up and saw someone was waiting.
‘Just finishing,’ I said, logging off.
‘Hey, Penny, look at this,’ Simon called from the other side of the cramped computer room.
‘I didn’t know you were there.’
‘I came in about five minutes ago but you were engrossed. I didn’t like to disturb you.’
I left my computer and went across to Simon.
‘How are you feeling now? Any better?’
‘Not too bad. Just a sort of low-level queasy feeling. Do you think it will go away?’
‘Should do. I felt a bit off colour the first couple of days, but it came right.’
‘I hope so. It’s not like me to be off my food!’ I looked at his screen. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Have you seen my blog?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s getting popular. I’ve had ten people sending me messages today, including one Adam Rushmore.’ He pointed to the screen. I bent closer so I could read the small type:
… evidence of gonadal development to indicate bluefin spawning in the Indian Ocean south of Java before migrating to the Tasman Sea towards New Zealand. After travelling for about eight years, the tuna return to their spawning ground to breed.
‘Good heavens, what’s that all about?’
Simon laughed. ‘It’s his school project. Your son can be quite the marine biologist, you know. He’s not all pimples and Grand Theft Auto.’
‘You could have fooled me.’
‘He’s quite keen on doing a project at school about tuna. He says he wants to help save the species.’
‘Well, it’s nice that he’s doing something useful on the computer for a change. Charlotte tells me in her email that he’s been glued to his computer screen virtually the whole time since I left.’
‘It’s not just boys who are into this sort of stuff. Look.’ He pointed to another message further down the screen:
You are doing great saving these magnificent fish. I would really like to meet you. You sound nice.
‘You have fan mail,’ I joked.
‘I know. And she’s not the only one. I’ve had heaps of messages and not just from my mates in Greenpeace.’ He looked sideways at me and grinned. ‘In fact, most of them are young women. Probably still in high school. Natasha and Latoya say they’re in love with me because of what I’m doing.’
He started to close down his blog and log off the computer.
‘In love with you, eh? I’d better watch out. I’ve got some competition.’
‘Well, so they say. One of them is in Australia, the other somewhere in Michigan.’
‘You’ll have a girl in every port before you know it.’
He stood up and grinned at me, self-deprecatingly. ‘Not if they saw me — an ageing scientist with a beard starting to go grey.’
‘It’s not going grey.’ I looked closely at his gingery beard and realised he was right. ‘My God, you have three grey hairs. Those girls must be warned.’
‘I’ve always thought a few grey hairs added a bit of distinction to a man. You should show more respect.’
‘It’s so unfair. Men can start going grey and everyone thinks they’re distinguished. But as soon as a woman gets a few grey hairs everyone thinks she’s ready to be pensioned off, imminently gaga and a candidate for an old people’s home.’
‘Well, aren’t you?’ He nudged my arm as we left the computer room and smiled cheekily.
‘I’m not going grey. I refuse to go grey. In fact, like every woman I know, grey is never going to happen.’
‘I suppose that’s why you spend so much time going to the hairdresser’s.’
‘Simon Wakefield, you deserve to be dealt to for even thinking I’m getting old. I’m as young as I feel.’
‘I’m as young as the woman I feel,’ he said, grabbing hold of my arse and giving it a sexy squeeze.
‘It’s time you were taught a lesson, Mr Wakefield.’
‘All good things take time,’ he grinned.
‘Not too much time, I hope.’
‘What’s the hurry? The older you are the better you’re supposed to get.’
‘I wonder what will happen when we get to sixty-nine?’
‘Perhaps we should conduct some research into that right now.’
Chapter 22
My first forty-eight hours of shipboard life proved to be the most action-packed of the whole journey. While my appetite took a while to bounce back, my mild seasickness disappeared after the first two days at sea and from then on, every day followed much the same routine: bathroom, breakfast, free time, lunch, free time, dinner, social time, bathroom, bedtime.
I couldn’t deny it: it was just what I wanted — and needed. The freedom to do absolutely nothing was heavenly after rushing around at home juggling jelly and watching far too much of it slip through my fingers. I lay in the sun, read books, lay in the sun some more and inevitably fell asleep.
After three days, however, I was getting sick of reading and was starting to get restless. Strolling around the ship in between books and meals I found myself feeling more than a little envious of the scientists poring over their computer screens and microscopes. Not that I would have known what to do with one if I had looked down it, but at least they had something to do.
I resisted the urge to check for any more emails. The last lot had been unsettling enough and had filled me with frustration at my powerlessness. Besides, Simon had made several jibes about my needy family not being able to do without me for more than a couple of days and I didn’t want to risk further digs at their lack of independence.
Four days into the journey I persuaded myself to go into the shipboard gym, instead of walking on by as usual. I don’t know what possessed me to do it. Probably boredom. Or curiosity to see what all the fuss was about.
As I stood in the doorway watching two lithe young women pounding the treadmill and chatting to each other without even panting, I wondered if a fe
w exercise-induced endorphins might come in handy next time I needed to take on the world — or at least my silly sister and the rest of my crazy family.
I hadn’t been inside a gym for over twenty years. They sure had changed: I’d never seen so many gadgets in such a small space.
I’d caught glimpses of the scientists and even some of the crew in there working up a sweat, pushing and pulling, running and jumping, pedalling and lifting, stepping and stretching. Why anyone would want to spend their entire lunch hour exhausting themselves on a torture machine instead of sitting in the dining room eating was beyond me. But I had to admit, the torture-machine riders looked a whole lot slimmer and fitter than me. And a lot more, well, energetic.
I’d never been able to understand how people who use up vast amounts of energy exercising come out of the gym looking like they’re ready to take on the world. The last time I’d undertaken a bit of exercise — running through the airport car park, late for a plane — I’d embarrassed myself at check-in by gasping so much I couldn’t speak, then collapsed, exhausted, in my seat, unable to move for the whole journey.
One of the younger American scientists, Brad, greeted me cheerily from the rowing machine on which, despite his energetic pulling, he had hardly broken into a sweat. He had those Popeye muscles on his arms and pecs that would have made Beckham proud, but even in my short time on the boat I’d noticed there was something about him that was obsessive. He was positively anal about keeping the cafeteria tidy, stowing cups in the dishwasher when you’d hardly finished drinking out of them, wiping down tables with a cloth reeking of lavender disinfectant and straightening chairs under the tables almost before you’d stood up. The moment I met him, my gay-dar was on high alert.
He seemed to have made the gym his second home. Every time I passed, it seemed he was lifting weights or rowing to Australia.
‘Good to see you in here, Penny. Can I help you with something?’
‘Just having a look, thanks, Brad.’ I wandered over to a big blue ball that looked like it had escaped from the set of Teletubbies and pushed it with my toe. It rolled away briefly then returned, bumping me off balance. I glowered at it.
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