5 Ways to be Famous Now

by Maurilia Meehan

  How Ariadne had told me that I was disturbed. How she had sounded just like those newspaper articles. Depraved and twisted. And how she had been walking around, free to tell my dark secret to anyone she chose, at any moment.

  ‘But if you were at her mercy all these years, why didn’t you ever track her down before this? It would have been so easy for you, with your skills.’

  Such praise encouraged me to reveal my unusual use of addictions. How each new one prevented me from dwelling on painful memories. But, as the writing groups had taught me, poke about a bit and there burns the repressed angers of the unconscious. Embers waiting for zephyr memory to burst into all-consuming flames, as when the captain placed Ariadne back in my conscious mind.

  Captain Kirstin in turn confided that after I had located our target at Lone Pines, she had sent around her bully-boys to search her unit for the precious object she wanted. But it turned out that security at these old folks’ homes is pretty up-to-date and they couldn’t manage to break in. They tried wangling their way in during the day, but ‘just visiting my nana’ didn’t really work when you didn’t even know her name.

  ‘And so, when you showed me your skill at everything from the library database to Hawaiian Ladies, I was impressed even before you passed my little test. You are brilliant. But …’

  She broke off, making me nervous by leaning so close to me I could smell her scent again, hear those earrings set tinkling by her slight shift of position.

  ‘… what exactly is this dark secret that you revealed to Ariadne?’

  Flattered by her interest, I told her about my plan to set the apartment block alight and how I had expected Ariadne to admire me, as all the writing groups had.

  ‘I mean, I didn’t even say that I hoped Shanti and Lily and Monica would all be inside when the fire spread. But she still looked as if she was about to cry.’

  ‘And you realised that you were now in her power?’

  ‘Yes, but before I could figure out what to do about her, she’d moved out. Into Lone Pines of the ultimate alarm system, as we’ve found out. Incredible that she was still living there when you set me that push-over test of finding her. She was the only one who knew that my touching story of the firebug’s childhood was autobiographical. I thought she would join in my plan to avenge myself on the other tenants, but she wimped out. Stupid little letters were all she was up to.’

  ‘Well, all our problems are over now, we can relax.’

  Yes, at last I had put an end to Ariadne’s power over me. She was the only person I had shared my inflammatory secret with. She was, therefore, after all these years, the only one who could ever betray me. And we drank to that.

  Only later I realised that the captain still hadn’t told me her own secret. Why was recovering the object that Ariadne had brought aboard, or failing that eliminating its owner altogether, such a life or death matter?

  13

  DREAM, NIGHTMARE, VISION

  At midnight, the captain returned to the ballroom just in time to see the ravaged dessert trolleys being wheeled away. Had people been eating all this time? Where was the band? Must she do everything herself? She signalled to the lazy sods and they pranced onto the stage and launched into a particularly jerky version of ‘My My My Delilah’.

  The disco balls started spinning manically under strobe lights as the Dance Boys approached the ladies, presenting them with ribbon wrist posies to encourage them to dance, then holding them closely and twirling back and forth. Intuiting each lady’s preferences. Creating a dream of love.

  What a delight, what a hoot as the tipsy ladies were swept up by the Dance Boys, wondering what had been put in the champagne to make their heads reel. They hadn’t danced like this since …

  And every so often, in the shadows, some would glimpse the ghostly Woman in White dancing alone, just as the brochure promised. She was in shimmering white satin, her arms curved around an invisible lover who whirled her just as they were being whirled. That was the clearest memory of that gloriously romantic ball that most of the ladies would recall.

  Mad Victor was feeling neither romantic nor fleet of foot as he struggled to tie wrist posies on his succession of partners. And he could barely suppress his scorn for the corniness of the captain’s Woman in White hologram as he dutifully whirled each partner into the shadows so that she could witness it. For Victor knew about real ghosts, those green wisps of ectoplasm escaping from the future.

  The captain had informed him of his demotion only after the Queen Mary had left port. Victor was stunned at first, then relieved to be issued the pass code to the store-room where mops, towels and sheets were kept and sent on a cleanup job with the rest of the gang. A quick shower and change into his regulation tuxedo, and here he was.

  On the Lady Luck, he had danced with the widows of car salesmen, poker-machine vendors, bottle-shop owners and shopping-mall millionaires only as a sideline. Priority had always been his duties as the captain’s go-to guy for tech and security. Her right-hand man. After this dance performance, he would have just a few minutes for a smoke before returning to his night shift with the dogsbody crew he had once bossed around. They would change their outfits again and, as directed by the captain’s new favourite, patrol and mop up the dance venues and bars.

  Victor’s psychologist had told him that his illness was imaginary. A reaction to grief. But he knew that, while caring for his dying mother, an outer layer of his skin had been ripped off. His nerves were exposed. For the first time in his life, everything hurt. He missed his girlfriend, wanted to hear her prattle on, reassure him that nothing had changed.

  She was puzzled by his new sensitivity to the nightly horrors on the TV news, and also by his sudden obsession with a certain Dylan song from his dead mother’s record collection. She wanted to help him, so she pestered him, nagged him to join in her own twin interests. Hollywood gossip and compulsively playing Angry Birds. As she had hoped, he was soon distracted. He loved the way it put everything else out of mind. On trains and in cafés, he hoped strangers would assume that he was busy working when they saw his frantic keying. But soon he began to suspect that others, busy on their devices, were doing the same. Maybe no one was working any more, even in offices. His psychologist did not encourage such thoughts.

  When he had first begun working for Captain Kirstin on the Lady Luck, Victor had been confident of his tech skills but nervous about his ability to amuse older ladies. So he had read widely, assuming his dancing partners would expect intelligent conversation. But he had quickly learned that a more effective patter was the latest in film stars with a baby bump, and all the Kates and Jodies who were too fat or thin, divorcing or having affairs. His girlfriend kept him up-todate, and he found that even the serious ladies liked to have the stars’ liaisons demystified. And for the few who found such talk immoral, he could turn his wit to ready criticism of the young women of today. And so on.

  So on the dance floor tonight, why was he unable to fall into the old charming chatter routine with his dance partners? He was not paid to be the strong silent type. Could he ever fall into that old routine again? Would he still be able to down tequilas tonight, between shifts, swapping mocking stories about silly old bags with the other Dance Boys?

  Who was this woman in his arms, looking up at him so expectantly? Waiting for him to lead her in a waltz? Was she his first partner or his tenth? He blinked hard. Green smoky ectoplasm was rising around her head, draping itself over her, as it had over his mother. He blinked again but the vision refused to disappear. He forced himself to concentrate, straining to take in what she was saying. Was his mother channelling through her? Or was this the madness of grief? At last he deciphered her words. She was just making small talk.

  ‘We all won our tickets. Maybe you’ve heard of me. I’m a journalist with …’

  How carefully this woman painted and dyed, how determinedly she was still trying to make something of herself, to use his mother’s phrase. She was not a ghost but flesh
and blood. He positioned his arms more correctly and she followed his lead, but his body moved heavily, the music was discordant and his dancing partner obstinately continued to inhabit some distant, alien universe in which he would never dwell.

  Then she asked him about himself. He was more than surprised, as such interviews and inquiries were his own role. Caught out by her unexpected interest, he had a wild urge to confide in her. She was older, she would understand bereavement, as his young girlfriend couldn’t.

  When he had told his girlfriend that his mother had died in her sleep, she had seemed relieved. ‘Oh, that’s good, isn’t it?’ she had replied easily, looking up for only a moment from her phone to form a suitable sympathetic frown. From that moment there had been a gulf between them. Prematurely at twenty-nine, he had been admitted to the society of the old. He alone knew the questions that his girlfriend herself would one day be asking, as his mother had. Why don’t I give up? Why bother with the lipstick? The cooking? The eating? That’s the tiring thing, the managing to bother, to keep up appearances, to colour the hair, match the skirt to the top. Just to prevent looking like a bag lady and giving anyone an excuse to cart me off. Why don’t I just give up?

  His girlfriend did not understand why Victor cried so much for his mother. She was so old, wasn’t she? And she died in her sleep, didn’t she?

  He kept from her that these days, dying in your sleep meant dying after three days of an induced morphine coma. He couldn’t tell his girlfriend how shocked he had been at this inch-by-inch death. And he hid from her the details of the absurdly frightening nightmare that woke him at night: ‘If you want to escape from here, eat the apple.’

  Only her star-struck prattle or the phone game could keep it at bay. When it woke him, he would disturb her, ask her to read out the gossip from Entertainment Now until he fell asleep again.

  Now he wanted to share this with his current dance partner, and all because of the green aura waving around about her head. He wanted to ask her if he was normal not to admire the ‘do not go gently into that good night’ brigade of battlers who soldiered on. She would know. She must be at least fifty. What was it like to be half-way? He would want the morphine early when he was getting old. Would she? He wanted to ask her how to cope now that, for the first time in his life, he could feel the pain of others.

  But the band was already playing the last waltz and, panicking, he realised that he had not yet led this partner past the captain’s ghostly hologram. Someone might report this neglect, so he changed direction, dancing her towards that alcove. But he was too late. The disco balls ceased swirling, the music stopped and the other Dance Boys were already escorting their last ladies back to their tables, making their escape.

  Just time for a smoko and a bit of fresh air before they exchanged their boy-Cinderella ball clothes for those of the servant.

  As she gathered her bag and wrap from Table 101, Lily was thinking about her last vague-eyed dance partner. He seemed fragile somehow, and not up to his task of leading her around the floor. He had looked startled when she had asked what he was thinking about, blinking as if he had just come out of a darkened room and into the light.

  ‘Midnight at the oasis, Dance Boys in my head …’ she hummed, regretting the end of the evening. There was no sign of Shanti or Ariadne, so she joined the talkative throng heading for the exit.

  ‘Did you see the ghost?’

  ‘Are you going to the yoga class?’

  ‘Bit spooky … midnight and all. Aren’t we too drunk?’

  ‘Isn’t it too late?’

  Someone was reading Shanti’s flyer aloud. ‘It says: “Arrive at any time on the main pool deck, just lie down on any mat and relax until you are ready to join in. Hydrate yourself with bottled water which you will see on your mat.” Very sensible after all that free champagne.’

  Following the crowd, Lily headed out of the ballroom until, wondering how her skin-tight dress and high heels would fare in Downward Dog, decided she would go below deck and change. She reached the lift just before it pinged shut.

  Inside, she caught Monica’s son in a definite clinch with a young girl whose badge, pinned to her tiny shorts, introduced her as Kylie, Gym Attendant. Why wasn’t he looking after his mum, after her collapse on stage? She always imagined that other people’s sons were as attentive as hers was not. Lily supposed that Monica must have recovered from her turn during her speech since her son was so obviously otherwise engaged.

  Walking along the corridor to her cabin, Lily noticed Ariadne Jones’s name on the door next to her own and realised that she must have slipped away before the dancing had even started. It was amazing how easily overlooked that girl was, even with her bizarre new Diana look. It had been the same back at the apartment block. She had hardly ever spoken to anyone. Lily remembered one evening that Ariadne had muttered something about having coffee with her, but she had never followed it up. There had not been a definite invitation. Such a mouse and yet such beautifully tailored outfits, even if you didn’t really go for that blue taffeta she was wearing tonight. Yes, she must have found the banquet all too much.

  There was a light on in Ariadne’s cabin, so feeling magnanimous after so much champagne, she tapped on the door, intending to invite her to Shanti’s yoga class on deck. She would try to include her on the cruise as no one had done when they were tenants together. Better late than never.

  No reply. She tried the handle, peeped around the door. The bed was still made up, the chocolate still on the pillow. In the stillness, she recalled the captain’s stories about ghosts and unexplained disappearances.

  Ariadne’s cabin was identical to her own, but was set up like a beauty salon. Hand mirrors, brushes, lotions and creams were neatly arranged in rows and a jewellery tree blossomed with necklaces and earrings. A tea-light was still burning by the neat bed.

  Automatically, Lily moved to blow out the flame, thinking of accidental fires. Then she noticed that it formed part of a makeshift shrine, set among flowers arranged around a picture. Probably a Virgin Mary. Ariadne Jones had clearly got religion, so she probably didn’t approve of dancing. Might have retreated to the chapel.

  Closing the door quietly behind her, Lily caught her sleeve on the wire communications basket attached to the door. She released herself, then pulled out a flyer.

  ALTERATION TO EDUCATIONAL PROGRAM Please note: All activities involving Monica Frequen have been cancelled due to a sudden illness. The ship’s medical officer, Dr Paul, has ordered that she should be flown back to shore by Med-Evac to have her medical problem attended to. Passengers will no doubt join your captain and crew in wishing her a speedy recovery.

  A glance told her that the same flyer was in every wire basket along the corridor. Very efficient communication on this cruise, Lily thought admiringly, as she entered her own cabin. She dragged off her sweaty clothes and, with relief, pulled on the baggy tracksuit that she had brought for pyjamas.

  As she made her way towards the yoga class, she was looking forward more and more to writing her story about this cruise. She suspected by now that Frederico Frequen, devoted husband, was apocryphal, but there was still this son of Monica’s to investigate. Paternity? For a wild moment she considered the possibility that Teddy had sown his oats even more wildly than previously thought, but decided with relief that the boy was too old. So much fantastic material for her cruise story. The captain’s tales were nothing compared with the ghosts from the past that the women had brought on board.

  Then the thought of Teddy brought her back to the unsolved puzzle of who had manipulated the raffle tickets to get her on board with Shanti, his ex-wife. Not to mention Ariadne and Monica. And thank god, forced together as they were on this cruise, Shanti did not know about Teddy and Lily.

  14

  APPLE

  Victor was taking his ten-minute break on the balcony of the staff quarters, one of the few places directly exposed to the salty ocean air.

  In silence, he and two other smok
ers lit up, leaning on the railing, losing themselves in the pleasure of the smoke twinned with the icy sea breeze on their overheated skin. They gazed out at the black choppy waters, as a distant singer’s refrain filled the night air.

  Victor’s hands shook as he heard the song that had so obsessed his mother. In her youth when she had been a wan folk singer she had always performed it as a finale, playing quietly in the background in smoky pubs. After her stroke, she forgot how to play guitar. Could not remember even one chord. When Victor played her old records for her, her fingers would move restlessly on her lap, though she was unable to lift her arms. Restless hand syndrome, the doctors said. ‘Typical of early onset dementia, fingers constantly searching for something that’s missing. Here, just fill in these forms and I’ll send a carer round a few times a week. You can’t be washing her yourself.’

  Thinking it would soothe her, he dug out her old guitar and her Dylan Songbook, but she stared at them blankly. Victor was not at all musical, but he could read a few chords. When he tried strumming from the first page, she was suddenly wide-eyed. She interrupted him, demanding that he play that song, over and over. He too became mesmerised by the aching words.

  And as he croakily sang that one verse of ‘Mr Tambourine Man’, he saw her fingers finding what they had always been seeking. Her hands had not been moving randomly, as the doctor had insisted. She was fingering the chords along with him, on her lap, though unable to move her elbows away from her body. Her fingers remembered how to play, even though her mind had forgotten.

  When he had been a teenager, those words had embodied wild freedom. Now, they made perfect sense of dementia. Dylan had written it, so the story went, after visiting an ageing Woody Guthrie in a psychiatric institution.

  A nudge in Victor’s ribs. One of the smokers offering him an apple. ‘Wanna share? Takes smokers’ breath away.’