Erm, no. I wasn’t happy. I was so far from being happy that I couldn’t even begin to express how very, very unhappy I was. How could I follow rules I didn’t know or understand? Every step I made seemed to be wrong; I didn’t understand the rules of the game on this ship, but everyone expected me to pick it up instantly. And I couldn’t.
I felt like bursting into tears, but instead jammed my foot into my shoe, tugged my top straight, and walked out of the cabin. I was proud of myself; I wanted to slam the door, but managed not to. I wanted desperately to throw a tantrum, but I managed to hold myself together until I got back to my cabin.
Caitlin was out, so for the time being I was spared the need to explain. I plonked myself down on the bottom bunk. The urge to cry had vanished; I was just floored, really. I couldn’t understand how my life had changed so much in a matter of months. I had spent years living with Dan in London, creating our happy future together and completely missing the fact that the relationship was withering into a very dead mess following Dan’s complete lack of respect for me, not to mention his lack of interest.
I had moved on, picked myself up, and run away to sea to fulfil my photography dreams. At least, that had been the plan. But now I was on this bloody crazy cruise ship and I was starting to wonder if maybe Dan had just been the symptom of a bigger problem. Or maybe the problem was me; maybe I was just somehow a magnet for men who were unequivocally prone to deception. I wasn’t sure what was worse, indifference or infidelity…not that it really mattered, since I managed to find men who were both. Was I completely incapable of recognising a useless, lying bastard?
The real problem, I knew, was that I was struggling with the fact that, seemingly overnight, I’d become a girl who jumped into bed with a guy as soon as he showed the slightest hint of wooing me. As much as I’d tried not to judge Caitlin’s actions, I’d felt somehow slightly morally superior—at least I didn’t sleep with anything that moved. And yet I’d just done it twice in a row.
Pot, meet kettle.
Over the years, I’d comforted many single friends over a broken heart. I had smiled at them sympathetically, glad I was in a committed relationship and not making the same silly mistakes.
I suddenly found myself on the other end, making mistakes of my own.
I was shaking my head at my own stupidity when Caitlin burst into the room. “Roomie!” she said. “I just saw Luciano up at the officers’ bar. He told me you would be here. What did that motherfucker do?”
“There are several other women… Oh, and a wife.” I was guessing she already knew.
Caitlin nodded knowingly. “Dude, I think we need to talk about how relationships work on board ships,” she said, sitting down. She reached out and put a gentle hand on my arm. “We’re not in the real world. People come and go all the time. Everybody has lives at home, and they treat their time on board like it’s a completely different life altogether.”
She sighed and continued, her voice soft and kind. “Luciano, Seth, and all the other guys probably have women at home who they say they love—and maybe they even do love them—and someone on board who they just have fun with.” Her mouth twisted as she added, “Nobody wants to be alone, and ships can be lonely places.” She looked down, wistful and sad at the same time, and I wondered how much of her confident persona was just a facade.
“Luciano must find it especially lonely,” I said, “given how many women he’s got on the go.”
“Hah,” she said. “Unfortunately, dude, he’s an officer and an Italian—baaaad combination.”
“I know, right?” I said. “I wonder when he had time for all these babes? Did he run a schedule, and keep it next to his work roster? Go door-to-door throughout the night? Sleep with two girls in one cabin to save time?”
I suspected that at least one of those was true. It was all so absurd that we couldn’t help but laugh. It was either laugh or cry, so on balance I rather thought I preferred to laugh.
“Come on, don’t let the bastards bring you down,” Caitlin said, pulling me to my feet. “Let’s go dance!”
I allowed her to drag me up to the crew bar. Loud music was pumping and ship life was going on as normal. People were drinking, dancing, kissing. Caitlin was right; I needed to grow up and move on. It was time for me to have fun—no more men, no more sad stories. I was going to drink, dance, and enjoy the Caribbean sun.
Starting with a drink.
I rocked up to the bar. “Jock, give me a Cuba Libre, please.”
Jock smiled warmly. The light caught his eyes, and I wondered how I’d never noticed how dark his eyebrows were.
“How’s my favourite photog?” he asked, pulling out a glass.
“Couldn’t be better,” I said, smiling. I didn’t want to bother Jock with my tales of woe, not again. He’d been supportive about the Maria thing, but this was just downright embarrassing. I knew I’d look like a right fool. Instead, I said, “You never did answer that question.”
“You’re right,” he said. “You really want to know?”
“Of course,” I said, leaning on the bar and batting my eyelashes. “You’re fascinating. I want to know everything about you.”
A funny expression flitted across his face, so fleeting that I thought maybe I’d imagined it, and then he rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. Tell you what, I’ve been thinking about getting a group together to go ashore one of these days. Why don’t you come along?” He grinned. “It’ll give you the opportunity to learn more about me than you ever wanted to know.”
Jock was lovely. Kind and not sleazy—I’d never heard about Jock sleeping around or breaking any hearts. I studied him as he reached up and pulled down a bottle of booze, watched the muscles move beneath his top, and wondered why I couldn’t fall for someone as nice as Jock. And then his words rang in my ears again, and I sighed inwardly. He wanted me to join a group. The tried and tested statement of someone who wants to keep things on a strictly friends basis. This was why I never fell for blokes like Jock; they were never interested in me.
Oh, well. That was fine with me. I certainly wasn’t going to ruin the friendship we’d been building.
That settled, my mind returned to the present, and my eyes fell on a girl a couple of feet away, standing with her back to me. She turned around, and I flinched. Maria.
Her eyes met mine, and that insincere sympathetic smile appeared on her face as she moved nearer. “Oh, Ellie, I heard that you and Luciano have finished your little fun already,” she said, somehow managing to look both sad and smug. “What a shame you did not ask me about him. Did you not think there would be a reason he was with you, and not me? We were together for a while, but I did not want to deal with his wife. He begged me to come back, because I was the best lover he ever had, but he eventually gave up when he saw I was serious. I see he did not need to pursue you too much.” Still smiling, she picked up my drink off the bar and turned to go, adding, “But I am so glad you can have fun with my cast-offs.”
The Brazilian Bitch had struck again. And she’d stolen my drink.
Jock frowned after Maria and then made me up another drink before I had a chance to ask. “I see things are going well in that area,” he said dryly, sliding the glass across to me.
I downed half the glass in one gulp. “Oh, quite,” I said. “We tell each other all our secrets.” I sighed and looked around the room for Caitlin. I finally found her pinning a guy I didn’t recognise against the wall, her tongue down his throat. I didn’t particularly want to interrupt—and realised, as she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him towards the door, that I was stuck here for probably at least an hour.
With my room about to be occupied and nowhere else to go, I settled in at the bar for the long haul. Jock gave me a sad smile and made me another drink.
“Cheers,” I said. I thought about introducing myself around and meeting some new people, to open my social horizons, but I was tired, and quite frankly, I knew that Jock at least wouldn’t let me down.
&
nbsp; I looked out over the room. Socialising, schmocialising.
I’ll start tomorrow.
Chapter Eight
It’s funny how quickly life moves on when you’re working and living on a ship. It had been weeks since I’d ended things with Luciano, and I’d had time to settle in and observe things a bit more. Nobody really tolerated you being sad and miserable, and they certainly didn’t expect you to mope about a lost fuck-buddy. I soon learned one of the most widely used expressions on ships: ‘It sucks to be you.’ It was useful in all kinds of situations.
If you were extremely tired, and your boss asked you to work extra hours, and you actually complained to someone, expecting sympathy, they’d generally respond with ‘It sucks to be you.’ Same went for pretty much any problem, sickness, or minor catastrophe. In short, I soon worked out that people on ships were, well, kind of heartless. I think it’s the nature of cruise contracts, especially on the big cruise lines with a fleet of vessels. You might never see your colleagues again, as they move from ship to ship, so why get too close, too involved? It just made it harder when it was time to say goodbye. It was harsh, but it was worth keeping in mind, lest you ever take anything too personally.
In taking no notice of any men for a couple of weeks (again), I finally had time to focus on myself. As the weeks went by, I managed to get ashore in every port, lugging along the fantastic camera I’d brought aboard and then forgotten about because of all of my romantic entanglements. It was lovely, really; I’d been able to explore to my heart’s content, and was rapidly amassing a portfolio that I hoped I’d be able to use to further my photography career when I finally left the cruise ships.
I was sitting in the cabin, scanning through a series of photos of doors, when Caitlin appeared carrying beer, Nick in tow. I set my camera aside and took the beer Caitlin offered me as Nick launched into a bit of a rant about his roommate, Tyrone.
Caitlin nodded in agreement as Nick talked, but she’d rested her chin on her hand and was staring off into the distance, her eyes soft and dreamy. She was clearly miles away.
“What’s his name?” I joked.
“Gabriel,” she said, breathing his name out slowly. “He’s the new…”
“Singer in our show,” Nick blurted out, cutting her off. “Seriously, Caity? That guy is such a jerk.”
Caitlin wasn’t in the least perturbed; not that I expected she would be. She took a big swig of her beer and said, “He is super sexy and funny, actually.” Laughing, she added, “You just don’t like him because he doesn’t play on your team, and you’re jell-y.”
Nick spoke seriously. “Caitlin, he’s not a good guy… And I’m not saying that just to be a bitch.”
“Oh come on, Nick, you know I can handle him,” Caitlin said, nudging him playfully. “I want him immediately, and I’m going to put my naughty plan into action tonight.”
Nick shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
After work that night, Caitlin was putting her man-scoring skills to work on Gabriel. I didn’t expect to see her anytime soon, and was pleased for the opportunity to have time alone in my room. If Caitlin came back with Gabriel, I would leave, but until then, I needed a night in. I was tired of socialising; watching a DVD in my granny pyjamas and going through my photos again was a sure-fire way to avoid all men and stick to my revised plan of spending time on my own to focus on my goals. I picked out The Hunger Games to watch; tension and death was rather more appealing than something romantic and fluffy. I had good intentions of having a movie marathon, but fell asleep before the end of the movie. I woke up several hours later, the pattern of the camera strap imprinted on my cheek, and properly crawled into bed.
In the morning, Caitlin’s bed was still untouched, although her early morning alarm woke me up rather earlier than I’d have liked. I assumed she was in Gabriel’s room, and was grateful I hadn’t got kicked out the night before. When she still hadn’t returned by the time I was out of the shower, I started to wonder if she was okay; she was meant to be shooting gangway.
It wasn’t long before Justin was banging on our door. “Where is she?” he spat. “I haven’t got time for this shite.”
Caitlin and I hadn’t discussed what should happen in this situation, but I wasn’t about to rat out my roomie. “She was here earlier,” I said, shrugging, “but she wasn’t feeling well, so maybe she’s gone down to the medical centre or something?” I was actually rather pleased I’d thought of a good excuse for her if she happened to have a raging hangover.
“Really?” he said disbelievingly, raising his eyebrows at Caitlin’s perfectly made bed. “She was just here?” I managed to keep a pleasant smile on my face and shrugged again. “I have a photo department to run, I can’t deal with this bollocks. Just tell her to hurry the fuck up.” He walked out and slammed the door.
Shit. Despite the early hour, I called Nick’s room in desperation, hoping he’d be able to nip down the hall and get Caitlin up and out of Gabriel’s cabin.
Ten minutes later, my bleary-eyed cabin-mate fell in the door, mumbling, “Fuck, roomie, I haven’t had any sleep. I’ve been up fucking Gabriel all night. Fuck.” I snorted, amused by her directness. “He’s so not like the other guys, you know. Much more serious… He’s just awesome.” She smiled dreamily.
I was sorry to break her mood. “Justin was in here looking for you,” I said, watching her carefully. “I told him you weren’t feeling well and might have been at the doctor.” I hadn’t totally lied to Justin—she clearly wasn’t feeling well.
“Thanks, roomie,” she said. “I appreciate you not telling him.” Caitlin brewed up a quick coffee in our little kettle and raced around the cabin like a hurricane for the next few minutes.
Once she was safely at work, I packed my little daypack and set out on an Antiguan photo shoot adventure.
Antigua’s main township, St John’s, was a bustling little trade centre full of shouting Americans in Bermuda shorts. The main street was lined with cute multi-coloured shops, many with white glossy trims on their doors and windows; judging from the foot traffic, most appeared to do an impressive trade.
Local women carrying armfuls of brightly coloured threads offered me braids, while T-shirt sellers came out of nowhere to show me shirts with slogans like ‘I did it 365 ways in Antigua’. “One for every day of the year,” I was told more than once—for the alleged 365 beaches on Antigua.
The enthusiastic traders of Antigua made me feel a bit ill at ease in a way that the business of London never had. Somewhere deep down, I was a little worried that if I didn’t buy anything, they might drag me into a dark alley and rough me up. There were always stories about those kinds of things happening, and even though I’d been going out on my own with my camera for weeks now, I was still always acutely conscious of the fact that I was a woman alone.
Getting great photos of the little town wasn’t difficult. There was an abundance of colour, texture, and life on display as I wandered around the local streets and Heritage Quay. I discovered an array of little huts like a jumble of candy coloured gems—mint green, aqua blue, and lots of sunny yellow, burnt orange, and dusky pink. Along with a plethora of dust-collecting souvenirs at every turn, Antigua made a quirky photo essay, and I took hundreds of photos in a matter of hours.
Taking a swig of my water, I flagged down a taxi to take me to Fort James Bay. I’d heard a few crew talking about the beauty of that particular beach, and was looking forward to getting the postcard shots I’d come all the way to the Caribbean for.
Pale, creamy sand hugged the coastline in both directions. Palm trees, fat, leafy bushes, and spidery bunches of long, spiky grass lined its edges, covering sand dunes and boulders, creating countless nooks and hidey holes. Without going more than twenty yards, I was overwhelmed with National Geographic-worthy photo opportunities.
The clear aqua blue beauty of the water was ridiculous. I mean, who lived in grey, cold, damp places like London by choice? Surely it was only the milli
ons of people who didn’t think places like this even existed outside of postcards and travel shows on the BBC.
It wasn’t totally idyllic, of course. Capitalism ensured that windsurfing operators, souvenir huts, and horse riding tours were dotted right along the beach. Loud, Hawaiian-shirted Americans and sunburnt Swedes were laughing, drinking beers, and yelling into their video cameras, while dreadlocked locals said, “Ya, ya, okay, no problem,” and pocketed fistfuls of cash.
Approaching some of the vendors for some ‘real Antigua’ shots, I was surprised how many of them were perfectly amenable to being snapped from every angle, enabling me to expand my portrait series. They smiled, nodded, and looked wistful while staring at the sea, all without prompting.
Later, in my cabin, I flicked through the few hundred shots I’d taken, marvelling at the beauty, colour, and rich flavours of Antigua. I couldn’t believe I’d be lucky enough to visit once a week. I was so glad I’d decided to abandon men and lust and pursue photographic fulfilment instead.
I spent that evening’s shift on a natural high, chatting with customers and brimming with confidence. I’d obviously caught a bit of sun, because people kept commenting on how ‘healthy’ and ‘glowing’ I looked.
When I arrived for my dinner break, I spotted Maria and Jacoline huddled at the end of the table, deep in conversation. Subtly eavesdropping, I was fascinated to hear about Maria’s latest drama. It seemed a handsome, eligible bachelor had come aboard and Maria was eagerly employing her plethora of feminine wiles to get his attention.
Sex, Lies, and Cruising Page 12
