My Great Ex-Scape

by MacIntosh, Portia

  Oh, and I do realise that finding someone in New York sounds like a ridiculous thing to expect to be able to do. I am aware that New York is much bigger than Manchester. However, Simon is actually a pretty well-known photographer now, and it didn’t take me much searching online to find out where he works. I suppose I’m just going to turn up at his office and ask for him… that’s not weird, is it? I mean, once I rule out that it was Josh who sent the flowers, Simon is the only one left, so he’ll probably be waiting for me to reach out, right?

  God, now that I’m here, on the ship to New York, I really hope that I’m not making a mistake. I haven’t really thought this through, have I? I got a little bit of money and I let myself get swept away – not even swept away, propelled away (or whatever it is that makes cruise ships move).

  ‘There’s so much to do on this ship,’ my dad enthuses – my dad never enthuses. ‘I’m putting our names down for everything.’

  ‘Everything?’ my mum asks.

  ‘Everything,’ he confirms. ‘Up and at ’em first thing, have a lovely breakfast together, start making our way through all the activities.’

  Oh, lord. My dad is usually so subdued and serious. A simple man who knows what he likes and likes what he knows and rarely gets the urge to talk about it, but now that he’s in holiday mode…

  ‘What kind of activities does the ship have to offer?’ I ask. ‘You know, with it being… erm… erm…’ Desperate not to offend, I wrack my brains for a careful approach.

  ‘Mature,’ Eli tactfully interjects.

  ‘Yes, mature, that’s it,’ I say. ‘What are mature activities?’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting we’re old, young lady,’ Karen says, sounding kind of old just for saying it. Oh, yey, they’re back in our conversation already. ‘There are plenty of fun activities. Aerobics, dance classes – there’s even a gym.’

  ‘Don’t forget the shuffleboard court,’ Clive says.

  I mean, how can I forget something if I have no idea what it is?

  ‘Is that the game with triangles on the board and the black and white counters?’ Eli asks.

  ‘That’s backgammon,’ Collin snaps. ‘The board games are in a completely different area of the ship.’

  ‘How foolish of me,’ Eli says, otherwise biting his tongue.

  ‘There are some things up your street,’ my mum tells me. ‘Spa treatments, a pool, a cinema.’

  ‘Wow, it really is going to be a laid-back trip,’ I say.

  ‘I suppose you young ones want to get wild,’ Karen says. ‘We can get wild. We do get wild.’

  She’s drank half a bottle of wine already, I absolutely believe her.

  ‘Cool,’ Eli says with a level of sarcasm detected only by me.

  ‘There’s entertainment every night – singers, cabaret nights, one time we had a magician,’ she continues.

  ‘On this boat?’

  ‘On this ship, yes,’ she says. ‘We’ve been on it a few times.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ my dad says. Wonderful! My dad just described cabaret as wonderful!

  ‘Clive and I are taking these two lovely young ladies for a drink after dinner. Have a few cocktails, maybe a little dancing to the live music,’ Colin starts.

  ‘Oh God, they’re all going to shag after,’ Eli whispers to me.

  ‘You four must join us,’ he insists.

  ‘Marvellous,’ my dad says. ‘We’d love to.’

  ‘And now they’ve got your mum and dad involved in their weird OAP sexcapades,’ Eli whispers again.

  I shudder at the thought.

  ‘You two can stop whispering, you’re coming too,’ my dad insists.

  ‘Yes you are,’ my mum says, before leaning in to whisper into my other ear. ‘Don’t leave me alone with your dad and strangers.’

  ‘Lovely,’ I say. ‘Can’t wait.’

  As smaller conversations take place around the table and our mains are placed in front of us, I glance around the room at the different servers, looking to see if Josh might be one of them. It is a huge ship though, what are the chances he’s going to be the guy who brings us our bread? He could be anywhere, doing anything… I’ll just have to keep my eyes open.

  I reassure Eli that we’ll just go for one drink and then slink out to find another bar maybe or head back to our suite to watch a movie.

  ‘A few cocktails and Colin and Clive might start seeming more attractive,’ Eli jokes – at least I hope he’s joking. ‘Bagsy Clive though. Colin talks too much.’

  ‘Just one drink,’ I insist. ‘Then we’ll make our escape.’

  ‘Where do you think we’re going to escape to?’ he asks with a laugh. ‘You’re in the Atlantic Ocean. This ship doesn’t dock anywhere until New York. And with this being the private dining room for our suites, unless you want to venture to one of the more casual ones and give up this incredible fancy food, you’re going to have to make peace with your fellow diners.’

  Oh joy. Still, at least it’s just a week. Anyone can put up with anything for a week, right?

  11

  I wanted to go for a walk on the deck after dinner, but not only did Linda insist that it would be cold and dark and awful, I think Eli maybe thought I was going to try and boat-jack a lifeboat and head back towards Ireland. So instead of taking in the chilly sea air and staring out into the darkness, I am in the Backstay Bar, a sort of low-key (but still quite big) bar with speakeasy vibes. It’s dimly lit and kind of cosy. There are little tea lights on each table and there is easy-listening jazz music filling the air. The piano is soothing against the almost harsh sounds of the wind instruments that accompany it. Both extremes are balanced out by the singer’s gorgeous voice. I could almost forget I’m here with my ex, my parents and some random cruise people (and they really are cruise people through and through) – well, I could if I wasn’t about to ‘get wild’ with them, whatever that means.

  At the bar, the staff are wearing white shirts and black waistcoats with unfastened black bow ties – a clear stylistic choice, as opposed to scruffy barmen, one would assume. We order our drinks – a mai tai for me, even though that’s usually my summer go-to drink – before gathering around two tables, my lot on one and Colin et al on the other. The tables are very close together though, so there’s no escaping them.

  ‘Breakfast early,’ my dad says, a little more like his usual blunt self.

  ‘I’m not great at eating breakfast early,’ I say.

  ‘And I like to do my workout first,’ Eli adds.

  ‘Listen to me,’ my dad starts firmly. ‘We haven’t been on a family holiday in years. We are going to have a good time, so no more excuses, OK? Do it for your mum.’

  My mum looks left and right as if to say ‘leave me out of this’.

  ‘Tim, what’s this song?’ Eli asks, changing the subject.

  ‘“All Of Me”,’ he replies, keen to offer up a fact. ‘Frank Sinatra did a few versions of it.’

  My dad is a huge Frank Sinatra fan; this place is so up his street. I feel like we’ve somehow stumbled into my dad’s dream holiday. I suppose it’s nice that I can do this for him, even if it wasn’t intentional. He and my mum deserve a nice break.

  ‘This singer isn’t half bad,’ my dad says.

  ‘He’s a Michael Bublé impersonator,’ Karen informs us. I forget that they’re always listening, even when they’re not a part of our conversation.

  Now that I think about it, he’s got the voice pretty spot on – even his speaking voice, as he introduces his next song, ‘Feeling Good’, proves that he has the exact same strong Canadian accent as the real Bublé, as well as a spot-on match with his vocals.

  As the familiar, almost iconic intro to ‘Feeling Good’ plays, Eli bites his lip.

  ‘God, he looks like him too,’ Eli says, looking beyond me. ‘He’s like a younger, hotter Bublé.’

  I’ve had my back to the stage since I walked in. I turn round to check him out, just as the song starts getting into it, and m
y jaw drops to the deck below.

  I hop up from my chair and make my way closer to the stage.

  ‘Rosie?’ Eli calls after me. ‘Rosie!’

  I pause behind a pillar near the stage. Eli catches me up.

  ‘OK, he’s hot, but he’s not “salivate at the front of the stage” hot, come and sit back down.’

  This Michael Bublé impersonator is, without a doubt, a fantastic one. He’s got his vocals spot on, with that same silky smooth voice. He’s somehow managed to make himself look quite a lot like the real deal, in that uncanny way tribute acts often do, which baffles me. I always wonder what comes first, having the same voice as someone or looking like them – surely it must be so rare, to be blessed with both?

  This guy has even got Michael Bublé’s mannerisms down to a tee – the way he holds the mic, the way he moves his body… it’s all so, so familiar. It’s too familiar though – it’s familiar to me.

  ‘Eli, that’s Josh,’ I tell him.

  ‘What, where?’

  ‘On the stage, singing.’

  ‘What, Fake Bublé? Fake Bublé is your ex?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply in hushed tones, hoping Eli lowers his voice a little.

  ‘Oh wow,’ he blurts. ‘Sexy Simon must really be something, if he took the title over this guy.’

  Josh does look really good. So different to when we were together too. He had messy, longish brown hair the last time I saw him. He would be forever pushing it out of his gorgeous brown eyes – God, I loved his eyes. I always used to say the fact that they were almost always hidden behind his hair made them all the more powerful when I did get to look into them. It was a like a gift I didn’t get all that often.

  Similar to Eli’s glow-up, Josh looks like a man now. A big, manly, Bublé-looking man in a sharp grey suit.

  As the instrumental bit of the song plays, Josh pulls his tie a little loose with two of his fingers before dancing to the music, getting lost in it.

  I glance around the room to see that almost all eyes are on him – especially the women.

  ‘Get his attention,’ Eli says.

  ‘What, while he’s on stage?’ I squeak back. ‘You’re off your head.’

  ‘You’re just stalling because he’s blatantly much hotter than when you were with him, that’s why you’re so awestruck… unless you grew up to be a massive Michael Bublé fan.’

  ‘He’s working,’ I insist.

  ‘So you’re just going to hide behind this pillar and drool over him?’

  ‘Yep, that’s the plan,’ I reply. ‘I like this.’

  ‘Fine,’ Eli laughs.

  ‘I can see a few familiar faces out there in the audience. Some of you regulars might know what happens next,’ Josh says in his new-found Canadian accent. It’s so creepy, seeing him look and sound so different, and yet he is so obviously my Josh. I can feel it. I could feel something from the second I heard his voice, I thought it was just the Bublé factor making him seem so familiar to me – not that I did grow up to be a massive Michael Bublé fan, but everyone loves a bit of Bublé, right?

  Women in the audience coo and cheer. A decent handful get up from their seats and gather in a half-circle on the dance floor in front of the stage.

  ‘This next song is called “Save The Last Dance For Me”. For the instrumental I like to select a lovely lady from the audience for a twirl on the dance floor.’

  Christ, no wonder they’re queuing up. I’d be there myself, if I weren’t hiding behind this pillar because he knows me.

  As he starts singing, the volume of women gathered on the dance floor increases, with everyone hoping to be twirled by the next best thing to Michael Bublé.

  God, he looks so good up there. I can’t get over it. I can’t believe that’s Josh. My Josh.

  I stare at him as he hops down off the stage, ready to select a lucky dance partner. I can’t take my eyes off him, which is probably why I don’t notice the almighty force that comes from behind me. A force that feels suspiciously like a shove from the hands of my new best friend. A force that sends me hurtling into Josh’s arms.

  Josh catches me, saving me from taking a tumble in the centre of the dance floor, in front of an embarrassingly large number of people – I honestly can’t afford to have any more embarrassing incidents, my pride couldn’t take it.

  I don’t know for sure if Josh recognises me because he doesn’t falter. Assuming I am clearly just desperate to be the one who dances with him, he takes me by the hand and dances with me. It’s worth pointing out that I can’t dance to save my life. I don’t know any steps or moves or dances – unless you count the Macarena or the entire work of the band Steps, but I haven’t practiced those moves since I was a kid.

  Josh does most of the hard work, dancing me round the floor, twirling me, leading me into the steps he wants me to take. I expect him to release me – just another one of the anonymous women who he dances with every night for show – but he keeps me there on the dance floor with him and serenades me for the rest of the song. It might not be as embarrassing as falling flat on my face in the middle of the dance floor, but it’s pretty embarrassing standing here, being serenaded by a swoonsome man who probably doesn’t remember me, while a gaggle of ladies much older than I am shoot me daggers.

  I don’t know what to do with my face or my arms. And then there’s the fact I’m still wearing this super clingy dress – except now I’ve got three courses (that I ate in their entirety) in my stomach. I feel so awkward until I start getting lost in Josh’s voice, and in his eyes… his eyes might have been a rare treat when they were hidden away from me, but now that I can see them all the time they’re way too powerful, it’s like I’m looking at the sun.

  As the song comes to an end, the audience erupts with applause – for Josh, not for me. I’ve just been standing here awkwardly holding my tummy in for what feels like a lifetime but in reality is probably closer to under a minute.

  ‘I’ll come find you,’ Josh whispers into my ear.

  ‘OK,’ I say without a hint of warmth or excitement or anything – it’s barely audible. I feel sick with nerves. I’m not even sure if he knows it’s me yet, perhaps he does this with all the ladies?

  I exhale deeply as I make my way back to Eli.

  ‘Cheers, friend,’ I say sarcastically.

  ‘I just got you to first base with Fake Bublé,’ he says. ‘Thank me later.’

  I kind of do want to thank him. That was like something out of a movie.

  I slink back to my table to finish my drink, where the adults are still chatting, seemingly unaware Eli and I even disappeared. I’m hoping this social vanishing act is something I’ll be able to do a lot over the course of the week.

  ‘Mum,’ I say to get her attention, even though she’s captivated by another tale of life at sea from Karen. This one is about the time she married a ship’s captain – it doesn’t sound like they’re still together though. It sounds to me like she’s cruising for another man, and by the look on Colin’s face, it seems like he thinks he could be the guy for her. Maybe for her mum too.

  ‘Mum,’ I say again.

  ‘What?’ she asks me eventually. ‘Karen is telling an interesting story.’

  ‘I promise you, I have something better,’ I say.

  My mum leans in, ready for something juicy.

  ‘You see that singer? The Michael Bublé impersonator. It’s Josh.’

  ‘What?’ she squeaks – so that’s where I get that reaction from. ‘I knew he was a singer, but I didn’t know he was Bublé.’

  ‘You knew he was a singer?’ It’s my turn to squeak. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I thought he worked in the coal room or something.’

  ‘I knew watching Titanic while we were packing was a mistake,’ Eli says under his breath.

  ‘Oh, he’s still a bit of all right, isn’t he?’ she says, checking him out on stage.

  I wonder if my mum has always given my boyfriends a visual once-over or if this is something she has
started doing recently. Perhaps my boyfriends just get more attractive when they cut me loose. I’m not ruling it out.

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’ she asks.

  ‘She’s danced with him,’ Eli says.

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘He just did a bit where he dances with someone from the audience,’ I explain. ‘Eli… put me forward.’

  He sniggers victoriously. Well, he literally put me forward – pushed me forward even.

  ‘Well, that’s one way to bump into him after all these years,’ she says. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything,’ I reply. ‘In fact, I’m not even sure he recognised me. He didn’t say anything that suggested he knew who I was…’

  We’re interrupted by one of the barmen, who places a folded white piece of paper on a small silver plate down on the table in front of us.

  ‘I thought it was supposed to be all-inclusive,’ Eli moans before draining the last of his strawberry daiquiri. ‘I was going to have a few more of these.’

  ‘You’re literally a millionaire,’ I remind him. I don’t know that he is, I’d assume that he is, but when you live from month to month on a small wage, it’s hard to imagine large sums of money existing, never mind people living with it. ‘I’ll get it,’ I insist. After all, it’s my fault we’re all here in the first place. But when I unfold the paper, I realise it isn’t a bill at all, it’s a note from Josh.