Chapter Two
I
A BADLY BRUISED ego can hurt just as much as a broken heart. When one is young and stupid and romantic and vulnerable, one is inclined to confuse the two. I was none of the above, except possibly stupid, but God knows I had made that mistake on a number of occasions.
Not this time, though. Shock, anger, humiliation, shame – to mention only a few of the emotions that boiled inside me – had been responsible for my reaction. I must have managed to conceal it from Jen; she hadn’t seemed to see anything unusual. I only hoped I hadn’t betrayed myself to John.
I pulled myself to my feet. The cocktail hour would begin shortly and I was supposed to attend. It would be my first public appearance, my first chance to connect faces and forms with the names on the passenger list. A waste of time, since I had already found the ‘individual’ I had been asked to identify, but I’d have to face him sooner or later and I was damned if I’d let him know how badly he had shaken me.
The accommodations lived up to the advertisement. In addition to the twin beds there was a couch long enough for even me to stretch out on, and two comfortable chairs. The bathroom had not only a shower but a tub (not quite long enough for me to stretch out in, but few of them are), and the dressing table was lined with fancy bottles bearing the labels of a famous French cosmetician. Methodically and mechanically I unpacked, showered, and settled myself at the dressing table, ready for action. Usually I don’t bother with much makeup, but I planned to use every speck of artificial assistance I could get that night. I wanted to look gorgeous, cool, calm, and indifferent.
With luck I might manage the last three, anyhow. My hands were still unsteady; I tried to calm myself by recalling all the dirty, low-down tricks John had pulled, but my mind kept wandering off the track, remembering . . .
Remembering times like the Christmas Eve we had spent in the abandoned church, huddling close to the feeble fire while a blizzard raged without, drinking tea made in a dirt-encrusted flowerpot with a crumpled tea bag from the hoard I carried in my backpack. John had laughed himself sick over the contents of that backpack, but he had been hungry enough to eat the crumbling gingerbread and the squashed chocolate bar. He had played Bach on a tissue-covered comb, and when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer he had sat up at night holding me in his arms to keep me warm, and patiently feeding the tiny fire . . .
I didn’t need blusher. My cheeks were bright red. I went to work dulling the flush of anger with foundation and covering up a few lines that hadn’t been there last time I looked.
There had never been a commitment or even a promise. But it is, to say the least, disconcerting to kiss someone goodbye after he has made tender, passionate, skillful love to you, and have him show up with a brand new wife the next time you meet.
He hadn’t set me up for that shock, though. His pallor might have been due to rage, consternation, or fear, but it had been genuine. He hadn’t expected to see me.
I selected a dress and slid into it. It was black and slinky, with long sleeves and a neckline that plunged lower than Aunt Ermintrude would have approved. I filled in some of the space with a heavy (faux) gold necklace and pendant, stuck a couple of gold-headed picks into the hair coiled at the nape of my neck, and stood back to study the effect.
My cheeks were still flushed. I would have to claim it was sunburn. Jen had warned me about wearing a hat, hadn’t she?
A delicate chime of bells sounded and I started nervously before I realized that it was the summons I had been waiting for. It was five minutes before five, time for the opening reception and cocktail hour. Some of the guests had come on board the day before, but others, like myself, had joined the cruise later; for the first time they would all be together, inspecting me as I would be inspecting them. I don’t often suffer from stage fright, but my fingers froze on the doorknob and I had to force myself to turn it.
I plunged out into the corridor and found myself in the arms of a strange man who had emerged from the room next to mine. My timing was perfect, but the strange man was not; he was a good six inches shorter than I, and I had an excellent view of his balding cranium, across which a few strands of hair had been arranged with pathetic optimism. Clutching me to his stomach, he staggered back into the grasp of another man who was as tall and thin as he was short and pudgy. After a brief interval, which seemed to last a lot longer than it actually did, we got ourselves sorted out and began a chorus of apologies.
‘My fault,’ I said. ‘I should have looked before I leaped.’
‘I do beg your pardon,’ said my first encounter simultaneously. He began to laugh merrily. ‘Allow me to introduce ourselves. I am Sweet and this is Bright.’
The tall, thin man bowed. He had a nice thick head of hair. It slipped a little when he inclined his head.
‘Bliss,’ I said. ‘Victoria Bliss.’
Sweet chuckled. ‘It was meant to be!’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Bright, Sweet, and Bliss!’
‘Oh,’ I said. Sweet beamed. Bright beamed.
The corridor was too narrow to allow us to walk arm in arm, so we proceeded single file, with Bright leading the way and Sweet following me. They managed it very neatly. In fact, the whole business had been carried out with consummate skill; if I hadn’t been on the alert I would never have spotted them.
Burckhardt had refused to tell me how I could identify his agents. ‘It is a matter of security, you understand,’ he had said solemnly.
‘It is a matter of my neck,’ I had pointed out.
‘Fear not,’ said Burckhardt. ‘They will make themselves known to you.’
Well, they had, and very deftly at that. I would not have expected subordinates of Herr Burckhardt’s to have such crazy senses of humour. The cleverest part of the performance had been when Sweet pressed me close, and the hard object in his breast pocket had jabbed painfully into my ribs. A bruise was a small price to pay for that kind of reassurance.
The central lobby, into which the corridor led, was magnificent. I hadn’t been in a fit state to take in the details earlier; now I admired the lush greenery in the centre, the miniature waterfall that tumbled through it, the soft chairs and sofas and little marble-topped tables scattered around. Bright and Sweet swooped in on me, one on either side, and led me towards the stairs.
The lounge, or saloon, occupied the entire front section of the boat. Curving windows gave a magnificent view of the city, its high-rise hotels and minarets and bridges blossoming with lights, and glass doors opened onto the deck. Waiters were circulating with trays of glasses. The beverage of choice that evening appeared to be champagne. Since I do not care for champagne, and since I wanted to get rid of Sweet for a few minutes – he had been talking incessantly, about God knows what – I accepted his offer to get me something else from the bar.
Bright and I settled down at a table. He smiled bashfully at me and tugged at his grizzled moustache, which was as luxuriant as his hair. Either it was real or the fixative was more effective than the stuff he used on his head.
I inspected the other guests with unconcealed interest. They were doing the same. There were only thirty of us, and we would be in close company for several weeks.
I had been warned that this crowd would probably dress more formally than was usual on such cruises. People who are embarrassingly rich like to show off. My mail-order cocktail dress looked pretty insignificant next to the designer gowns many of the other women were sporting, and the dazzle of diamonds dimmed my faux gold locket. Many of the men wore tuxes or dinner jackets.
Jen and her new daughter-in-law were sitting at a table on the other side of the room, with two other people – a married couple, I cleverly deduced. The woman’s pink hair matched her dress and his bald head. When she caught my eye Jen waved and gave me a tight-lipped smile. John wasn’t with them, but as I returned Jen’s wave he came sauntering towards their table, as infuriatingly casual as always. He looked very much the bridegroom, with a f
lower in his buttonhole and a matching crimson cummerbund. Catching me in mid-wave he raised an eyebrow, nodded distantly, and sat down with his back to me.
Sweet returned with a glass of chablis and a man stepped up onto the podium in the centre of the floor. At the sight of him I forgot Bright, Sweet, and John. The tux set off his lean body and broad shoulders, but he ought to have been wearing flowing robes and a snowy bedouin headdress that would frame his walnut-brown skin, hawklike nose, and sharply cut features. His black eyes were fringed with lashes so thick they looked artificial.
A chorus of involuntary sighs came from every woman in the room. Some of them looked old enough to have seen the original Rudolph Valentino film. I wasn’t old enough, but I had read the book. I have read every soppy sentimental novel ever written. To look at her, you wouldn’t think my sharp-tongued, practical grandma had an ounce of romance in her soul, but she owned all the old novels. In her day, The Sheik had been pretty hot stuff. ‘‘‘Ahmed, mon bel Arabe,” she murmured yearningly,’ I murmured.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Sweet.
‘Ssssh,’ I said.
His name wasn’t Ahmed it was Feisal. His accent suggested he had been educated in England. The underlying traces of his native tongue gave his velvety baritone a fascinating touch of the exotic.
‘I am your leader and your devoted servant, ladies and gentlemen. I will be with you on the boat and on shore, wherever you go. You will come to me with all your troubles, questions, and complaints, and I will pass them on to your crew, which I now have the honour to introduce.’
He presented the captain, the purser, the doctor, the chef, and a few others; I lost track of what he was saying as I studied the blonde at the next table. Her eyes were fixed in a glassy stare and she seemed to be having trouble breathing. It might have been her corset. She had to be wearing something formidable under the white, draped silk jersey; it moulded, not moving flesh, but a substance as rigid as concrete.
I caught a name and returned my attention to Feisal. ‘Dr Peregrine Foggington-Smythe, our expert on Pharaonic Egypt,’ he announced.
So there were parents cruel enough to saddle a kid with a name like Peregrine. If I had seen him from a distance I might have taken him for John – briefly. He was a stretched-out, washed-out version of the Great John Smythe – taller and skinnier, with ash-blond hair and pale blue eyes. He informed us with magnificent condescension that he would be lecturing on Sakkara, the site we would visit the following day, as soon as Feisal finished his introductions.
He stepped back and Feisal, whose face had frozen into a look of barely contained dislike, turned on the charm again as he presented Dr Alice Gordon, who would be delivering the lectures on Hellenistic Egypt. Dr Gordon rose and raised her hand but remained modestly in her place at a table near the back of the room. She was a plump little woman with a mop of unkempt greying brown hair and thick glasses
The boat was certainly overloaded with experts, or at least with Ph.D.s. When my name was announced I followed Dr Gordon’s example, rising and subsiding without comment but with a modest smile.
I was the last of the staff to be introduced. A babble of conversation broke out as several of the crewmen started setting up a slide projector and screen, and Sweet exclaimed, ‘So it’s Dr Bliss? We are honoured! I have always been fascinated by Islamic art. Tell me – ’
I got quickly to my feet ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’m going to sneak out for a smoke before the lecture starts. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.’
Several other sinners followed me. Smoking wasn’t allowed in the lounge during lectures, and it was only permitted in a small walled-off area at other times. I was rather proud of myself for having realized that this habit, which is approximately as socially acceptable as spitting in public, might come in handy if I needed to extricate myself from a sticky situation. Avoiding the other lepers, who were clustered defensively at the rail, I walked on till I found myself alone.
But not for long. ‘Permit me,’ said a too-familiar voice. A lighter materialized in front of me. The hand holding it was equally familiar, though it wasn’t as well-tended as usual. The knuckles were scraped and rough. He must have run into a pyramid or something. Or slammed his fist into something? Maybe I had shaken that cultivated cool of his, as he had shaken mine. I’d have loved to think so. Taking a firm grip on my temper, I inhaled, coughed, and turned.
‘Where’s Schmidt?’ he asked.
I had assumed he’d want to have a private word with me, and I had carefully composed sarcastic (but very cool) replies to the questions I thought he’d ask. Waste of time. I should have known he wouldn’t start out with anything as obvious as ‘What are you doing here?’ Caught off guard, I told the truth. ‘Uh – in Amsterdam. Some rich Dutchman is considering offering the museum his antique-jewellery collection.’
‘Oh, jolly good,’ John said, not so enigmatically. His eyes moved from my face to the V of my dress. Reflexively my hand closed over the locket.
John’s lip curled. It was one of his better sneers. ‘Don’t bother switching it on.’
‘I already did. How did you know?’
‘It’s a tasteless trinket, my dear. Not your style.’
I bit my lip to keep from swearing. He was fighting dirty, hitting below the belt where it hurt the most. Had he seen the thin gold chain under the heavier chain that held the locket? Almost certainly. But it had been a shot in the dark; he couldn’t possibly know I was wearing the little enamelled rose he had given me, because I had tucked it securely down under, out of sight. That trinket was not tasteless; it was an exquisite example of antique Persian goldsmith’s work. I wasn’t wearing it for sentimental reasons. I was wearing it because I didn’t want to leave it lying around where someone might see it.
John’s eyes shifted. ‘You’re on the wrong track, Vicky,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t know what imbecile impulse persuaded you to join this cruise, but I strongly suggest you accept my assurance that it is nothing more and nothing less than it appears to be.’
‘A romantic honeymoon?’ I inquired evenly.
‘With the girl who swept me off my feet,’ said John.
He had seen her coming and pitched his voice so she would hear the last sentence. Laughing, she slid her arm through his and leaned against him.
‘Isn’t he a dear? Sorry to disturb you, darling, but the lecture is about to start.’
John gave me a smile that went nowhere near his eyes. ‘That’s just an excuse. She doesn’t approve of my habits.’
Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t approve of your smoking, no. It’s so dangerous.’
‘Not nearly so dangerous as certain other habits,’ said Mary’s husband.
I declined Mary’s invitation to join them, claiming I wanted another cigarette. The only drawback was that I had to let John light it for me and pretend not to notice his amusement when I tried to inhale without turning purple. After they had gone, I unclenched my left hand. My nails had left dents in the skin of my palm.
I missed the first few minutes of Foggington-Smythe’s lecture, which turned out to be a smart move. He was the most boring speaker I have ever heard. My interest in the development of the pyramid form is decidedly limited, but he could have made a lecture on pornography (with slides) dull.
When the lights went on, several people snorted and started and blinked. Not my new friend Jen; bright-eyed and full of vim, she headed straight for me. She was wearing a salmon-coloured silk frock that would have looked absurd on any female less superbly indifferent to the opinions of womankind; the uneven hem waved around her ankles.
‘I had no idea when we met that you were a distinguished scholar,’ she cried. ‘You don’t look like one, my dear, you are far too young and attractive.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, since that is just about the only way one can respond to a dubious compliment of that sort. I assumed it was meant as a compliment.
The others were drifting towards the doors, e
xcept for a few presumed archaeology buffs, who had gathered around the lecturer. ‘Won’t you join me for dinner?’ Jen asked. There is no assigned seating, you know; I do think that’s an excellent idea; it gives us a chance to make new friends and change about if we like. I’d love to have you tell me all about yourself.’
I rather doubted that. Nor did I feel I was quite up to munching my way through six courses in the company of the lovebirds.
‘I’d like to, but – ’ I indicated Bright and Sweet, who had punctiliously risen to acknowledge her arrival.
‘Yes, I know Mr Bright and Mr Sweet. That will be splendid; four of us will complete the table.’ She gave me a conspiratorial wink. ‘I don’t want my dear children to feel they are obliged to entertain me all the time.’
Relieved of that anxiety, I was pleased to agree. Not that I had much choice; Jen had taken my arm, in a grip as firm as that of a prison guard. I had realized early on that she was one of those women who will get her own way by one means or another, and I wondered whose idea it had been to make the honeymoon a ménage à trois. Surely not John’s. Unless he was ruthless and unprincipled enough to use his own mother and his bride as a means of diverting suspicion?
We wended our way down the stairs to the lowest deck and the dining room. The decor reminded me that this wasn’t just any old cruise; there were fresh flowers on every table, and a row of wineglasses at every place. A waiter led us to a table for four and presented us with menus stiff with gilt print. The napkins had been folded into intricate shapes; I was reaching for mine when the waiter whipped it out of my grasp and spread it neatly across my knees. I tried to look as if I had expected it.
Sweet and Bright took forever deciding on an appetizer; I had already ordered so I had leisure to inspect the room. The murals covering the walls were copies of famous tomb reliefs – not scenes of death and judgement, but bright, cheerful depictions of birds and animals and scenes of daily life. The one on the wall next to our table showed two pretty Egyptian maidens with long black hair and diaphanous robes, playing musical instruments. The third pretty maiden wasn’t wearing anything except a few beads. Sweet goggled appreciatively at her.
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