It occurred to me that the fine spray, which bathed my sun-warmed cheekbones, did not originate in the salty swell. I'd spotted Drippit's tome, 'Flensing Tensing,' on the bookstore shelves but wasn't tempted by the grim tale of existentialist menopausal angst which, incidentally, had nothing to do with either famous Sherpas or the practice of removing meat from dead whales. It was simply a suitably pretentious title. Too bad, really, as I'd always rather fancied Edmund Hillary and some of my ancestors were well acquainted with the business end of a harpoon. So, Harry's ex had hit the wordy big time. Well, that explained Boner's sudden interest in matrimonial bliss. There always was method in his madness. He certainly wouldn't part with a cent unless it was blessed with a guaranteed return. Speaking of El Diablo, the grizzled wonder himself was bearing down for a repeat assault. Must have found the Dramamine. I braced myself for a fresh bout of ground scratching, flapping and pecking but it seemed a second cock fight was not in the program.
"Come along, Frip. It's nearly time for your vitamin regime and we must have a chat with Bjorn and Heidi at the gym."
"Just coming, dear. Thee you around, Harry. Jaylene."
The gaunt couple retreated at a brisk, cardio-toning march. They looked like a mismatched pair of pipe cleaners. My newly betrothed and I stared at each other in mutual incomprehension.
"What the heck did you see in her? She's got no tits! And she thpits!"
"Jaylene? What were you doing? Singing country and western?"
It was a long story. I sensed that Harry had a rambling, convoluted epic of his own. I slipped my arm through his.
"It's almost time for dinner, darling. We can't possibly grace the Captain's table dressed like this. We're going to have to rent some nice new rags. There's plenty of time to swap 'ex files.' By the way, the Captain's name is Ahab, and no, I'm not making this up! He's incredibly dishy. Just like Omar Sharif."
Harry sniggered.
"Omar Sharif must be almost as old as the Pyramids, these days."
"Don't care. I prefer old things."
"Thank you, Mrs. Neptune."
"You're welcome, Methuselah."
CHAPTER THREE: DEATH IS A CABARET
The Captain was just like Omar Sharif. Tall, dark, flashing eyes and gleaming teeth. You could just imagine him charging across the desert on a wild stallion, a curved knife between his teeth, and the heroine clinging to him from the rear pillion. His slicked-back black hair had a distinguished touch of grey at the temples, just like mine. He wore an old fashioned pea jacket with brass buttons closing almost to the neck. I could have sworn I glimpsed the flash of a Croix de Guerre hiding behind the collar.
I was resplendent in white jacket, black tie and cummerbund. The insignificant person in charge of the rental department had typically uninformed ideas about wing collars and flashy waistcoats. He didn't even know what I meant when I said I didn't want to look like a homosexual snooker player. I brushed him aside and chose my own apparel. Conservative and distinguished. A man of substance who sets fashion, doesn't follow it.
For the first formal dinner of our married life my bride chose a simple pearl-colored dress with plenty of decolletage. She has taste, too.
We were ushered to our seats in the chandelier-lit dining room. The champagne arrived with commendable speed.
The Captain made his entrance and sat at the head of the table as the men bobbed half up then back down again. He didn't have a limp.
"I am Captain Ahab. Welcome to my table on the fine ship Caribbean Conch."
We all murmured our good evenings.
The Captain was good. He had memorized the place settings on the small piece of paper I saw the purser slip him as he came into the room.
"On my left is the charming Miss Lawrence – nay, Mrs. Neptune! And the most very fortunate Mr. Neptune. May I offer my heartiest congratulations on this happy day!"
Polite applause and a couple of bravos came from our fellow guests, though with more enthusiasm in some quarters than others. Miss Lawrence wriggled a little closer to the Captain on her gilt chair.
"Next to Mr. Neptune is the lovely Miss Loretta Swat, familiar to us all as celebrity weather lady and for Loretta's Book of the Month."
I knew Loretta's Book of the Month could make or break authors and even publishing houses.
I turned to nod a greeting to my neighbor and barely managed not to turn it into a drool. I don't watch much TV, and I prefer to look out of the window to see what the weather is doing, so while I had heard of Miss Swat I was not prepared for the reality. She was thirty-something, tall, tanned, blonde, full bosomed, and half-naked. Her black cocktail dress could not possibly have hidden even the flimsiest foundation garments. Her eyes met mine.
"My, Mr. Neptune, what a pleasure," came a husky Southern voice. I wondered if the voice was real. I didn't care if the boobs were or not.
"The pleasure is all mine, dear lady, all mine," I replied gallantly, dragging my eyes up to hers.
I felt a small but determined foot kick my shin from the other side of the table. Here we go again. Well, it was my honeymoon. I returned my attention to the Captain. Mind you, Miss L likes a threesome as well as the next lusty bisexual vixen, so perhaps...
"And now, to help me entertain such a scintillating company, our ship's Medical Officer, Dr. Dunnett."
Dr. Dunnett was Scottish – one could tell before he even opened his mouth. In his early fifties, slightly stooped, half-moon glasses, his patently dyed red hair was brushed over a bald pate. Thin grey hair was growing out under the henna'd mess, and dandruff spattered the worn and shiny dinner jacket. He was obviously a man who knew his mind, because instead of the usual collection of wine glasses, he had before him a cut-glass whisky tumbler and a decanter in a silver swinging cradle. As long as the glass was in the right place, not a drop of the water of life would be spilled as the decanter tipped and poured.
"Good evening, Doctor," I said politely as I leaned forward slightly to get a better view of the decanter and stand.
They were somehow familiar. I cast my mind back to the last Reunion at Edinburgh Castle. I recalled just the same decanter before each of my assembled comrades, though not much else about the evening. At least not until we hit the bars behind Princes Street in the early hours, but that is another story and anyway there is an official record. Yes, there was the Castle crest, discreetly engraved on the side of the stand. It looked like the Old Medical School bash had been held at the Castle as well.
I leaned back and sneaked a peek at the Swat cleavage as I went. For my pains I got another kick in the shin.
"Next to the good Doctor, Mr. and Mrs. Boner-Drippit. Mrs. Boner-Drippit is of course well known to all of us on the Literary Cruise, and I am sure Mr. Boner also has a tale to tell."
Frippery was dressed in taffeta, as near as I could make out. The years had not been too kind, and her neck was better now described as scraggy than thin. She looked like an ostrich with stomachache. Or maybe that's just the thankful ex-husband speaking.
Boner had been taken in by the fashion idiot in the tuxedo rental department. Wing collar, paisley waistcoat in unnatural shades, trousers with red stripes down the sides, and a strange jacket with pocket cuffs in the same paisley as the waistcoat. He sat upright and nodded round the table. He seemed to think he looked good dressed as a clown.
"Finally, and far from least, the charming lady on my right..."
"Gigi! Gigi! You must all call me Gigi! Oh, what fun we shall have! Miss Swat, I watch your cookery program all the time! The maid does your angels on horseback so well!"
So la Swat was a celebrity chef too? Well, with a shelf like that I dare say she could get away with anything from gardening to political comment.
Mrs. Gloria Goldfinkel (of the Happachappabunket Goldfinkels) was still in pink. Lots of pink. Not to mention gold and sparkling diamonds. I couldn't begin to describe the ensemble. Jay is far better than I at that kind of thing. Suffice it to say that had she fallen overboard, she wou
ld be visible as a beacon from outer space, if the weight of wealth didn't drag her to the bottom first to be a hazard to submarine magnetic navigation equipment.
Mrs. Goldfinkel smiled radiantly around the table, the epitome of party fun.
Captain Ahab had finished his introductions and evidently felt like a break from social duties. He sat back and sipped at a glass of mineral water. There was silence for a few moments, then as the most presentable male guest (and as Harry Neptune) I took up the burden of conversation.
"How's your stomach, Boner? Up to the delights to come? A glass with you."
"I don't drink. Nor does Frippery."
* * * *
"Well, actually, I wouldn't mind just a teenthy-weenthy glath..."
"We don't drink alcohol," Boner continued, firmly removing the wine glass from poor Frippery's place. "It's the ruination of the western world. And an emerging problem in the Third..."
I switched off, as my former lover began to drone on in a familiar and dreary speech I'd heard a thousand times before. I could probably repeat it, word for word, just as I could still recall the lyrics of the musicals he played from dawn to dusk when composing his tomes. I turned my attention to the new Golden Delicious of my husband's eye, a peroxide blonde with suspiciously convex tits. She looked like she had a couple of colanders stuffed down the front of her frock. (Maybe she did.) Harry was obviously having a hard time (as it were) maintaining eye contact as they chatted knowingly of Caribbean cuisine.
"Oh, I agree, the flying fish filet at the Far Flung Farrago, is infinitely superior to the tunny tournedos at Terrapin Terrace!"
They laughed, comfortable in a smug shared world of culinary conceit. I wondered how long it would be until Ms. Swat discovered that Harry thought okra was an Afro-American talk show host. The first course arrived and Blondie examined it with an expert eye. I sighed deeply and briskly draped my napkin across my lap. Things could well get messy and I'd hate to get grease on my fine new frock. Not that H would notice if I'd rented a gorilla suit. I took a dainty bite of the chilled Crab Surprise. It was delicious so I decided not to commence the petulant neglected spouse routine until I'd sampled all six courses, then go for the conversational jugular with a soothing liqueur. The glamorous weather forecaster, cook, and serial fornicator (according to the tabloids she had a weakness for sportsmen – by the team) continued to turn her plate around, cooing and purring at what looked remarkably like a lettuce leaf, some crab meat and a large dollop of pink sauce. TV cooks indeed! Give me Nigella Lawson any day. That woman knows how to live. I laid down my fork and stared at my own plate. To my intense surprise, nothing happened whatsoever. The way the blonde was communing with it, I had expected it to get up and dance.
"Looks like crab to me. What's the surprise, I wonder? Don't tell me, it's lobster dressed as crab. "
Naughtily, I cast a pointed glance at Ms. Flyswat's frontage. She had to be at least forty-five. Even Joan Collins knows when it's wise to keep your baked goods wrapped.
Harry glared at me. Alas, it was one of those rare and unfortunate moments when a thought solidifies and becomes a barb (usually after considerable forethought and precision timing). I smiled sweetly at my dearly beloved. Then, in the brief moment when I had his attention, I mouthed:
I want a divorce!
Unfortunately, my amour had never been good at lip reading.
"Ask the waiter!"
Later. I returned to the crab and Harry reattached himself to the bimbo's cleavage.
"I Married A Leech."
Sounded like one of Boner's lurid efforts, which were generally ripping yarns set at a frenetic pace that made Indiana Jones look like "The Sound Of Music." Something was always either exploding or decomposing, frequently both, as in his magnum opus, "The Squishing." They'd make great B-movies, 'though.
I'd like to squish that blonde. Monopolizing my husband!
Suddenly, I realized that something very strange had happened. And it had little, if nothing to do with the crab. I was jealous. Furiously, green monsterishly, hand-me-a-dagger-and-I'll-make-a-kebab type jealous. This was a new emotion and I fought back a large lump in my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had discovered the secret in Crab Surprise.
* * * *
"Oh, Mr. Boner, what a lovely suit!"
Boner preened as Mrs. G turned her attention to him.
"I buried my third husband in one just like it!"
Boner depreened. A hint of a smile appeared on Frippery's prim mouth.
"He was such a dear! In oil, you know. I do so miss him. And the others." For a moment Gigi looked sad. The she brightened up.
"Perhaps I'll meet number seven on this cruise! Lucky seven!"
She gazed around the table as if sizing up the candidates.
"Now," she said archly, "who have we here for Gigi? Doctor Dunnett?"
Dunnett shrank.
"A confirmed bachelor, Mrs. Goldfinkel, wedded to my profession. Never had the time for courting."
Or the sobriety, judging by the rate the decanter was emptying.
"Ooh, Doctor, you are such a tease. I bet you have the ladies swooning over you on every trip!"
There was a faint snort from the Captain.
"Mr. Boner, you are of course spoken for."
Mrs. G moved on without further comment. Boner looked put out.
"Mr. Neptune, I am just a day too late! Poor Gigi should have got her skates on! And you look so good in that tux!"
I took my wife's hand across the pristine linen tablecloth and bowed to Mrs. Goldfinkel.
"The fates would not have it so, my dear Mrs. Goldfinkel – Gigi. I have captured all my heart's desire and could want no more in life. I shall dance at your nuptials to the fortunate seventh Mr. G, whoever he may be."
For some reason Mrs. Neptune dug her fingernails into my palm. I looked at her and she smiled sweetly. She mouthed, Bar Steward!
"Just empty your glass dear, he'll soon refill it."
Gigi turned her attention to the Captain. She linked her arm in his and rested her frosted head on his shoulder.
"Ah, Captain, I do love a man in uniform!"
Captain Ahab was no stranger to these scenarios. He disengaged his arm politely and stood.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a toast! To fine weather and a happy cruise!"
We raised our glasses – the Boner's were filled with some carroty colored liquid Boner had brought with him in a thermos flask – and repeated the toast.
"To fine weather and a happy cruise!"
Glasses were drained and replaced with a late model Burgundy for the main course.
"And what is the weather prediction for the duration, Miss Swat? Any frontal systems we will be exposed to?"
"Why, Mr. Neptune! If the weather don't oblige, Ah sho' will do my little bitty best not to disappoint yuh!"
This was a bit rich even for me, but if listening to it was what it took to get Swat in the sack for a honeymoon treat Harry was your man. I could see by the way Jay snuck glances round me at Loretta's magnificent unfettered chest that she was of similar mind.
"Darling, I left my hair brush in the cabin. Would you be a dear and fetch it for me?"
"Of course, sweetheart." I made my apologies to the table and trotted off. If I trotted rapidly I would get in a swift Old Turkey to wash away the taste of the Burgundy before I came back.
There was no sign of a hairbrush in the cabin, so I pocketed my comb as a reasonable substitute and headed off to accomplish the second, unofficial, part of the mission.
When I got back to the table Miss Swat was picking ratatouille out of her cleavage and Miss Lawrence was addressing Boner.
"Did the discharge stop, or do you still wear the protective underwear?"
* * * *
Harry's face was quite a picture when he resumed his seat at the Captain's table. Suddenly realizing that he'd been well and truly had, he shot me a masterful look and mouthed a warning. It looked a bit like:
I'm going to s
hag your button!
I smiled enigmatically and pretended not to notice. Boner had (thankfully) stopped talking ringworm and boils and Ms. Flyswat was taking the accident with the vegetable entree quite well really, all things considered. There had been a fairly major expletive when the piping hot slop hit her bronzed decolletage, but the ship had lurched just as I passed the bowl and my dainty little wrists have always been on the fragile side when it comes to lifting great big heavy items like dishes of steaming ratatouille. Oops. What was more, a brief but educational stint as The Great Superbo's glamorous assistant, Miss Fortune, taught me that the swiftness of the hand deceives the eye. It was a good flip. Superbo would have been proud. Meanwhile, the blonde was busy trying to turn the mess to her advantage.
"There was waaay too much liquid in that dish! Ah shall have a word with the chef. Ah might even offer to show him a couple of mah specialties."
There was a polite murmur of appreciation. I noticed that either Blondie's boobs had swollen with the heat of the sudden hot shower or she had artfully eased the melons another inch or so out of her skin-tight black gown.
Whichever it was, she looked ready to pop, her pronounced nipples defining the very edges of the plunging neckline. A glimmering crevasse opened up, like a bosomy gold mine and, unable to help himself, Harry grabbed his napkin and began to dab furiously, muttering inanely about the high cost of dry cleaning. And the Flyswat let him! A true Southern belle would have launched into outraged Scarlet O'Hara mode faster than you could say mint julep. Hmm. It wasn't just the boobies that were fake. In fact, there was something vaguely familiar about Ms. Swat. I calmly watched my husband eradicate every last molecule of ratatouille from the valley of the doll. I wasn't the only exponent of sleight of hand. He'd given her titties quite a massage beneath the white linen napkin. The harlot gasped as he finally withdrew. I swear her breasts looked as if they'd just been polished. The Southern drawl grew huskier and more pronounced.
"Why, Mistah Neptune. Y'all sure know how to treat a lady. Ah'm eternally grateful to you, ah'm sure. Ah mean, really grateful, if yuh know what ah mean..."
This was getting quite indecent. Then it came to me. The super-sized chest, the phony Southern drawl. I knew Loretta Swat's true identity or, at least, one of her former incarnations.
MASTER AND BABY : A Tale of Erotic Submission Page 18