by Celia Imrie
‘Won’t it take days?’
‘No. There’s a train leaving Zurich for Milan in less than half an hour, and if we make it, we’ll be in Genoa at a quarter to five. And it’ll cost us less than a hundred quid each. Ninety-seven euros in fact.’
‘You don’t have to come …’
‘I’ve nothing better to do, have I? Might as well escort you down to the coast then perhaps I’ll stay there, earn myself a few euros waiting on tables on the Côte d’Azur. It’s only just along the coast from Genoa. No job, no agent. Got to do something.’
Suzy looked at Jason and, however angry she felt about him starting the catastrophic termination of their job in Zurich, she couldn’t help herself liking him. And he would hardly have done whatever it was he had done in order to hurt her. After all, he too was out of work and broke as a result of whatever had happened last night.
En route to Zurich Hauptbahnhof, Suzy had phoned her agent again to tell him what she was doing. He then gave her the details of the job in Genoa.
‘Don’t laugh – it’s on a cruise ship. They’ve been left high and dry after the social hostess ran off with a ghost in Rome.’
‘Max dear, please don’t talk in riddles.’
‘I’m not,’ said Max, laughing down the line. ‘You can dance, can’t you?’
‘I’m a bit rusty …’
‘Don’t say that. What they’re going to need is five days of you teaching people the foxtrot and the cha-cha-cha, and going to all the balls and things like that. And in return you get free bed and board, plus the journey home, and a very modest fee.’
‘What’s the catch?’
‘There is no catch. It’s a regular job.’
‘Max?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you mean by she ran off with a ghost? Is there something weird about this job? I don’t think I could take two bizarre engagements on the trot.’
‘No – a ghost. A ghost! It’s cruise lingo for what is essentially a charming gigolo. They wear smart clothes and dance with solo ladies. Officially known as gentlemen hosts. But you see what happens once that gets abbreviated on the call sheets – G. Hosts equals ghosts. They’re men with a bit of charm who can sweep a lonely lady off her feet.’
Suzy flashed a look at Jason, sitting opposite her. Surely it would be more fun to have an ally onboard, someone to talk out the events with?
‘Does this mean that they also need a replacement ghost?’ Suzy cupped the phone and whispered to Jason, ‘Can you dance?’
He nodded.
‘Ballroom?’
‘Natch,’ said Jason. ‘Great Strictly fan!’
‘I’ve got just the man for you.’ Suzy spoke again into the phone. ‘A lovely actor called Jason Scott. He played Jack Worthing.’
‘His own agent should deal with that.’
‘He doesn’t have one.’
‘I’m on it.’
7
Amanda had dragged her suitcase into Victoria Station, boarded the train to Gatwick and flown into Genoa without a snag.
On the Genoa Airport concourse there was a woman holding a sign with a blue mermaid on it, and Amanda had asked her if she was anything to do with the Blue Mermaid cruise.
‘Exactly,’ she said, pointing to the picture of the fish-tailed woman. ‘The bus is waiting outside.’
The luxury coach took Amanda right up to the doors of the embarkation building. While she was waiting for her suitcase to be unloaded from the coach’s luggage compartment, she looked up at the ship. The curved white prow, reflecting the water’s ripples, seemed to twinkle against the cerulean sea. What a magnificent sight. She was thinking ‘just like the Titanic’, but realised that was not quite the thought she wanted to have before boarding.
As she took her suitcase from the collection of luggage on the pavement, a man rushed over and snatched it away from her. For a moment she imagined she was being robbed, but when she reached out to grab the case back he said, ‘It a-wait for you in cabin, Madame.’
Thus, clutching only her handbag, Amanda moved into the check-in area, and within half an hour was through security, walking up the gangway and on to the boat.
As she stepped into the central lobby, a small chamber orchestra was playing ‘The Blue Danube’. She so wanted to swoop into a waltz right there and then. Amanda passed along a wall of bellboys and officers – or at least men and women in the ship’s uniform – and into an area carpeted in royal blue with little yellow mermaids. There was a sweeping staircase leading up to a gallery and, at the far end, a large counter with a sign which said ‘Purser’s Office’.
Amanda remembered when she was a child travelling on cross-Channel ferries that her mother was always going off to do important things at the purser’s office. At the time she had not understood what these were, but vaguely recalled it was things like exchanging money and getting her visa stamped. She also remembered her mother saying that the purser’s office was always in the centre of the ship, and wondered whether that snippet of useful information was still true. If so she would use the purser’s office as her compass.
With the help of many smiling bellboys and porters, Amanda found her way to her cabin, which was amazingly luxurious, especially when compared with the dingy hotel bunk-room she had been in last night, or, indeed, her daughter’s sofa.
On the table there was a bottle of sparkling wine in an ice bucket and an elegant vase of fresh flowers with a card bearing her name. Amanda slid open the glass doors and went out on to the balcony. She looked out at the bustling harbour and took a few deep breaths of sea air.
Why had she never done this before? she wondered. It was fabulous.
The only way to travel.
Coming back inside, she popped open the bottle and poured herself a drink, then, taking the shiny brochure called Daily Programme, she went out again and lay on one of the sunloungers, basking in the warm Ligurian winter sunshine to read. According to the brochure, tonight was ‘Informal’. Fine, thought Amanda, I can stay as I am. Then she read on and discovered that the ship had a very different definition of informal than she did: ‘Cocktail dress or stylish separates; no denim, shorts, trainers or sandals.’
She went back into the cabin and unpacked her suitcase. Amanda realised that for this trip she had grabbed quite the wrong pieces of clothing from the storage facility. She could dress for an evening in the heat of Egypt but not for the cold of Europe. Tonight she would have to let the side down a little, but tomorrow she would force herself to a clothes-buying spree in the onboard shops.
She made a quick phone call to her solicitors’ office back in London and told the very talkative secretary that she was going on a cruise, which would call in briefly at Southampton in a few days, and would then take her to New York, up the coast and back again. Therefore, any messages would be best done by email, as her phone would be out of signal. The girl was a bubble of excitement, telling Amanda it had always been her ‘dream come true’ to go on a cruise and that she fancied going on one round the Far East. She was interested in which cruise line Amanda was on, and whether the cabin was ‘comfy’. Sometimes they had famous people, the girl told Amanda. People like Sting, Rod Stewart or Alesha Dixon. Were there any stars on Amanda’s cruise? She wondered whether Amanda had tried the food yet. ‘You can eat as much as you like, all day and all night,’ the girl informed her. ‘So you need to be careful with the exercise regime.’ Amanda thought she would never get the girl off the line and when, finally, the call ended she worried that the receptionist had been so excited by the information about cruising that she would never pass on her actual message. So Amanda fired a quick text message off on her phone, then did the only thing she could – trusted that all would be OK, and went and lay outside again to make the most of the December sun, shining low in the sky, sinking down into a rose-red sea.
When she awoke some time later it was cold and dark. She could hear a bleeping noise, which was followed by an announcement over the speakers that pa
ssengers who had embarked today at Genoa must take their life jackets from their wardrobes and go immediately to their muster stations.
Amanda had no idea what a muster station was, but felt sure someone would tell her.
Once she left the cabin there were crew everywhere, all wearing life jackets and waving their arms about, ushering her towards the stairs down to Deck 7.
After the drill was over, still carrying her life jacket, Amanda took a stroll around the ship. She noted the cinema, which was showing a film she would like to see. She passed any number of cafés and restaurants, a casino and an indoor pool. There was a row of shops too, selling everything from cameras and binoculars, to bags of sweets and toothbrushes.
Near the purser’s office the string quartet had now been replaced by a harpist in a green velvet evening gown.
Amanda flopped down on to one of the large sofas and enjoyed the music.
She suddenly felt the ship move, and the ship’s whistle blew a growling low blast.
They were off.
Amanda took the lift up to the boat deck. There was a distinguished-looking man inside already. He was obviously crew.
‘Boarded today?’ he asked.
‘Yes. It’s all very exciting. My first time on a cruise ship, in fact.’
They both stood in awkward silence for a few seconds as the lift went up, then, simply to make conversation, Amanda said, ‘I have to say you all have very attractive costumes.’
The man made a little grunt and said, ‘It’s a uniform, actually.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m the Captain, by the way, heading for the bridge.’
‘The bridge? A kind of gangplank? You’re not getting off, are you?’
‘No,’ said the Captain, as though speaking to an idiot, which Amanda was starting to think she was. ‘The bridge is like the driver’s seat, except that it’s a large room in the bow – the front of the ship, to you. If we were all pirates we’d put on a Devonian accent and call it the fo’c’sle.’ The lift door opened with a ping, and the recorded sing-song woman’s voice announced Deck 7. ‘And if you’re looking for the boat deck, otherwise known as “outside”, you get off on this floor, oh, I mean this deck!’
Amanda left the lift. She turned to smile at the Captain who winked and, as the doors closed behind her, she was sure he said ‘Aaaargh! Avast and belay!’ in a piratey voice.
Rather embarrassed, she pushed the door open and walked out on to the open deck. Leaning against a wooden rail, feeling the chill evening breeze against her face, she watched the sparkling lights of the Italian coastline vanish into the black.
How much more fun this was than trudging around London, looking at flats, or sitting in a lonely hotel room watching The Great British Bake Off.
At dinner Amanda treated herself to a glass of wine. She had been placed at a table with a lone elderly lady and two rather camp young men who talked about art-deco concrete work and antiques. As she adored knocking around boot sales and second-hand markets, she couldn’t have had a more interesting conversation, complemented by her vast knowledge of the shabby-chic and distressed furniture with which she had spent many an afternoon trying to tempt her Clapham clientele.
After dinner Amanda explored the rest of the ship, strolling through the miles and miles of corridors lined with slightly naff artwork. There was even a replica of an Olde Englishe Pubbe, inside which a big crowd was gathered to partake in the ubiquitous pub quiz. She picked up the menu and was happy to see the place served typical pub fare – fish and chips, hotpots and ploughman’s.
Eventually, after yet more corridors lined with spectacularly populist paintings and objets d’art, Amanda found herself approaching the ballroom.
As she got nearer, the thrill of an echoing live dance band hit her. She loved that sound. It made you feel as though you were in a film – all very exciting, all very romantic.
She strolled through the open ballroom doors. The place was decorated with Italian flags, presumably as they had just set sail from Italy.
The dance floor was heaving with couples, swaying on the parquet to the slow waltz which played. She took a seat quite near the front, and before she could get her bearings a waiter was at her side asking what she’d like to drink.
‘A glass of champagne,’ Amanda replied. Drinks and sundries she presumed would all get charged to a bill which she wouldn’t get till the end of the voyage, so why not live now and worry later? After all, she felt that, having survived the last few troublesome days, she deserved a drink.
She looked around and noticed quite a few women of her age sitting it out. Were they all here alone too? she wondered. Widowed perhaps, or simply dumped for the younger model. Was this ship a posh version of the ladies’ over-sixties singles club?
While she waited for her drink she watched the dancers. She was relieved to see that the ballroom wasn’t only populated with old people. The age groups were quite well balanced; a few couples looked as though they were barely out of their teens. She was very impressed by the dancers’ technique and the ease with which they twirled around the floor. Of course, Strictly had gone a long way to suddenly encouraging young people’s interest in ballroom dancing.
Amanda wished she had someone to dance with.
Feeling as though she had inadvertently rubbed some enchanted lamp before making the wish, she thought she heard the phrase: ‘May I have the pleasure?’
She looked up to see a stout man of about her own age, with a little military-style moustache, holding out his hand.
What the hell! thought Amanda. These ships are like magic. All you have to do is think of something and it appears!
She stood, taking the proffered hand. The tempo had changed now to a brisk foxtrot, and she enjoyed having a go. It was years since she had had such fun.
After the first dance, to her delight, she was approached during the evening by any number of men and she danced for about half an hour without a break.
She was amazed that she could still do it. It was a long time since she had taken a spin around a ballroom floor, yet she remembered all the steps.
After a particularly exhilarating quickstep she collapsed into her seat. She certainly wanted a few more sips of her champagne and to get her breath back.
To think that this time last night she had been on the brink of despair, lying in a bunk bed in a smelly rucksackers’ hostel!
Her mind wandered to thoughts of her new flat. She hoped that while she was away there would be no more complications. The solicitors had assured her that everything was fine, but after so many twists Amanda still felt nervous. Meanwhile in a few days they would put in at and then leave Southampton to sail across the Atlantic. A great adventure lay ahead. She’d been lonely for too long. Who knew – she might meet someone aboard, and the solo flat for one would become history.
She raised her glass, and mentally proposed a toast to the mix-up which had landed her here.
*
Suzy lay on her bed, in an echoing little cabin with a small porthole to one side. She was exhausted, having spent the best part of the six-hour train journey from Zurich to Genoa in the corridor practising the waltz, the foxtrot and the tango with Jason. He was a good dancer, but they both knew he needed to arrive seeming like an expert rather than an actor who had just learned to dance at drama school some years back. They were happy to use the first part of the journey as a rehearsal, with a break for a genuine Italian espresso when they changed trains at Milan.
On the second train, they took their seats and caught up with some sleep. When Suzy tried once more to broach the subject of what had happened the night before, and find the reason the show had been cancelled, Jason clammed up.
‘I’m tired,’ he moaned, ‘I didn’t sleep at all last night.’ He shut his eyes and leaned his head against the window.
Suzy knew that there was much more to his story than he had so far told her.
But like in all acting work, once one job came to an end, it was straight on to the next.
It was too late now to do anything about Zurich’s English Theatre. Once they were on the ship, she’d have all the time she needed to get an explanation out of him.
The train arrived in Genoa with only a quarter of an hour to spare before the ship’s latest boarding time of 5 p.m. so they grabbed a taxi for the short ride from the railway station and went straight down to the Stazioni Maritime, even though they could easily have walked it in five minutes.
They were hastily checked in, ushered through security and brought on to the ship via a lower gangway, reserved for staff and crew only. Jason said that it reminded him of those places where you get your tyres changed. Wheeling their suitcases, together they found their way into the main part of the ship, and up to the entertainment quarters, an unmarked corridor where the luscious carpeting suddenly stopped and was replaced by a squidgy lino which smelled of swimming pools. Once through the secret door, they were in a practical working world of gloss-painted metal walls, where the cabins were rather basic. They peered into their respective rooms. Suzy’s was tiny but at least she was lucky to be alone. Poor Jason had to share with a stranger, a fellow gentleman host named George.
They parted company and went to their rooms to settle in. They had agreed to meet in forty minutes for a snack. Neither had eaten anything for hours.
Suzy was just dozing off when there was a rap on the cabin door. She yelled ‘One minute’ and got up, taking a quick glance in the mirror before opening.
In the doorway stood a small man in steward’s uniform, a slimline jacket buttoned up the front and pillbox hat which he wore at a jaunty angle. He was holding out a large letter.
‘Hello, Miss Marshall. I am Ong, your steward.’
‘Hello … there!’ Suzy wasn’t quite sure she had caught his forename so omitted using it.
‘I will be looking after you on the voyage. If there’s anything you need, you can ask me. I will be making up your bed in the morning, so please don’t forget to put out the sign, when you go to breakfast. Here is your information package. Good evening. And welcome to the Blue Mermaid.’