by Laura Levine
“Stop this instant!” I commanded in vain, bolting after her.
Then, just as I was about to catch her, a woman came out from her cabin, an attractive blonde with the statuesque good looks of a Vegas showgirl.
Of all the rotten timing.
“What do we have here?” she cooed, scooping Prozac up in her arms.
Instantly Prozac shot her one of her wide-eyed Adorable looks. Somehow, when it comes to strangers, Prozac always manages to turn on the charm.
“Oh, god,” I started babbling, “she snuck out of my apartment when I was looking for my crossword puzzles and it was too late to bring her back home so I had to hide her in my tote bag because I couldn’t give up seven days in the sun with a 24-hour buffet and it was all going so smoothly until I found her in the trunk of my car. The last thing I need on this cruise is Prozac.”
“I don’t know about that, honey. You might want to take one of those Prozacs. Sounds like you could use one.”
“No, you don’t understand. Prozac is my cat.”
“What a sweetheart,” she said, scratching the little monster behind her ears.
“You’re not going to tell anyone about her, are you? They’re sure to quarantine her in some horrible cage, and even though that’s just what she deserves, I couldn’t bear for that to happen.”
“Don’t worry, hon.” She flashed me a friendly smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thank you so much!”
“I’m Cookie Esposito. I sing with the band in the Sinatra Lounge.”
“I’m Jaine Austen. No relation,” I quickly added, to forestall the question I’ve been asked 8,756 times in my life. “I’m one of the ship’s lecturers. I’m teaching a course in Writing Your Life Story.”
“A writer! How wonderful! Welcome to the Paradise Deck, Jaine. This is where they put all the hired hands. C’mon, I’ll walk you to your cabin.”
“It’s right here,” I said, spotting my cabin number.
“Great! Right next to mine,” she grinned. “We’ll be neighbors!”
What a stroke of luck. At least I’d have one neighbor who wouldn’t get suspicious if she heard meowing in the middle of the night.
“If there’s anything you need, just knock on my door. Bye, snookums.”
This last endearment was addressed to Prozac, whom she reluctantly handed back to me and then headed off down the corridor.
I took the keyless entry pass card I’d been given and put it in the electronic door lock. A green light flashed, and I turned the handle.
Because I was traveling for free, I wasn’t hoping for anything lavish in the way of accommodations. I’d kept my expectations low. But apparently not low enough. I blinked in dismay as I stepped into a windowless cubbyhole of a room with all the charm of a broom closet. There was barely room for me and my suitcase, which had been jammed between two narrow twin beds.
Prozac surveyed the scene.
For this I spent forty minutes in the trunk of your car?
With that she leaped up onto one of the beds and began sniffing around, no doubt hoping to uncover some minced mackerel on the bedspread.
Somehow I managed to jam my clothes into the cabin’s microscopic closet, then locked my wallet in the room safe, thrilled that I wouldn’t be needing it for the next seven days.
I was about to stretch out on one of the beds for a much deserved rest when I realized that there was only one pillow in the cabin—and Prozac was sprawled on it.
“Upsy daisy,” I said, lifting her up. “Mommy needs to rest.”
She shot me a laser look.
You’re not my mommy and I want my pillow back.
I had no sooner rested my head on the pillow when I felt her land with a thud in the general vicinity of my left ear. The next thing I knew, her tail was in my mouth. I gave her a gentle push, and she gave me a not-so-gentle scratch. One thing led to another and we were in the middle of a most undignified scuffle when I heard a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” I called out.
A soft unintelligible reply came from out in the corridor.
I quickly stashed Prozac in the glorified wash-basin posing as my bathroom and poked my head out the door.
A skinny guy of indeterminate nationality, dressed in what looked like a bellhop’s uniform, stood in the corridor.
“I’m Samoa,” he said. “Your steward.”
At least I think his name was Samoa. His accent was so thick I couldn’t be sure.
“Samoa show you around your cabin.”
Not much of a trip there. Besides, I doubted there’d be room for both of us.
“No need,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
His big brown eyes peered over my shoulder into the cabin. In the background I thought I heard Prozac meowing, but thankfully, Samoa didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “Just wonderful.”
“You need anything, just call Samoa.”
What I needed was another pillow, but I couldn’t risk having him come back to the cabin.
“Right. Great. Thanks so much,” I said, shutting the door on his smiling face.
I clamped my ear to the door until I heard his footsteps fading down the hallway. Then I let Prozac out of the bathroom and sank down into the cabin’s one and only chair. Obviously I was going to have to keep my DO NOT DISTURB sign on my door the entire trip.
“Thanks to you, Pro, I’ll be making my own bed for the next seven days.”
I’d have to call housekeeping and cancel steward service. Maybe I’d tell them that I was allergic to cleaning products, and that I couldn’t have anyone in my room who’d even touched a can of cleanser or I’d break out in hives. That might work.
I was just about to reach for the phone when I heard another knock on the door.
Drat. Not again.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me. Cookie.”
I opened the door and found her standing there holding a large plastic bin filled with sand.
“A present for Prozac,” she grinned. “A litter box.”
A litter box! I’d forgotten all about that.
“C’mon in,” I said, ushering her inside. Cookie was clearly shaping up to be my shipboard guardian angel. “Where on earth did you get it?”
“I filched the tray from the busboys’ station at the buffet and the sand from the kiddie sandbox.”
“What do you think, Pro?” I said, putting the makeshift litter box down in the bathroom.
She walked over and sniffed at it, clearly unimpressed.
What? No Mountain-Fresh Pine scent?
“I’m afraid she doesn’t like it,” Cookie sighed.
“She’ll learn to like it,” I said, glaring at Prozac. “Meanwhile, how can I ever thank you? You’ve been such an angel.”
Just as she was assuring me that no thanks were necessary, the captain’s voice came over the public-address system announcing the ship’s safety drill.
“C’mon,” Cookie said, grabbing two life vests from my closet. “We’ll go together.”
Leaving Prozac lolling on the fought-after pillow, I headed out for my first official event of the cruise.
“First we have to pick up Graham,” Cookie said when we were out in the corridor.
“Graham?”
“Graham Palmer III.” Her eyes lit up. “He’s my boyfriend. Wait’ll you meet him. He’s a real dreamboat.
“Graham, sweetie,” she called out, knocking on one of the cabin doors. “It’s me.”
Cookie did not lie. Graham Palmer III was a dreamboat of the highest order. He came to the door in white slacks and blue blazer—tall, tan, and graying at the temples. In a former life, he may well have been Cary Grant.
“Hello, darling,” he said, in a British accent that reeked of high tea in the Cotswolds.
“And who might this be?” he asked, flashing me a dazzling smile.
“This is Jaine,” Cookie announce
d. “She’s a writer. And one of the ship’s lecturers.”
“Welcome to paradise, Jaine.”
Another dazzling smile, this one accompanied by a wink. The guy was a charmer, all right.
“Graham’s one of the ship’s Gentlemen Escorts. You know, the men they hire to dance with the single ladies.”
“But my heart belongs to Cookie,” Graham said, kissing her lightly on the lips.
“It’s true,” Cookie beamed. “Graham’s heart really does belong to me. See for yourself.”
She lifted a pendant from her generous cleavage and held it out for me to inspect.
It was a gold half-a-heart, engraved with her initials, with a jagged line where the heart had been divided in two.
“Graham’s got the other half. Go on, Gray. Show it to her.”
He pulled out a matching half-a-heart from under his blue-and-white-striped sport shirt. Like Cookie’s, his pendant had been personalized with his initials, engraved in a fussy curlicued script.
“See? They fit,” Cookie said, putting them together. “It’s a symbol of our commitment to each other. Isn’t that sweet?”
“Very.” Any sweeter, I’d need a diabetes shot.
“C’mon, darling,” Graham said. “We’d better get a move on.”
Because elevator use was forbidden in the safety drill, we had to clomp up about a zillion stairs to where our passenger group was meeting in the Tiki Lounge. If this was what I’d have to endure in an emergency, I’d opt for going down with the ship.
The Tiki Lounge was done up in an ersatz Hawaiian motif—complete with fake palm trees, tiki masks on the walls, and a thatched canopy over the massive bar.
We put on our unflattering life vests and listened as one of the ship’s officers, standing under a stuffed marlin, lectured us about emergency evacuation procedures. Thank heavens they let us sit in the lounge’s booths while the officer droned on. I was sitting there watching Cookie and Graham play kneesies under the table when I became aware of a strange-looking guy at the next booth giving me the eye.
You should know that about me. Somehow I always seem to attract life’s weirdos. This one had a long, greasy ponytail and an unbelievably bad Sunkist Orange bottled tan.
Quickly averting my gaze, I went back to watching the kneesies action.
At last the lecture was over, and we started to go. I hadn’t taken three steps when I was cornered by Mr. Ponytail.
Up close I could see he had a stud in one of his nostrils.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, with an oily smile. “I’m Anton Devereux, Professional Ice Sculptor.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, wondering if the stud hurt when he blew his nose.
“Of course, ice isn’t the only medium where I ply my artistry.”
Ply his artistry? It looked like somebody was a bit full of himself.
“I do it all—clay, granite, sand, and sometimes when finances are tight, chopped liver at bar mitzvahs.”
“How interesting,” I lied.
“You must come to one of my poolside demonstrations. In fact, perhaps you’d care to take a stroll on deck right now. I can tell you about the time I carved Venus de Milo out of tuna salad.”
“Sounds like fun, but I’ve really got to go back to my cabin to finish unpacking.”
And before he could say another word about his tuna fish Venus, I was out of there.
Needless to say, I’d lied to Mr. Ponytail. I did not go back to my cabin. Instead, I made my initial pilgrimage to the holy grail of cruising, the twenty-four-hour buffet. What with climbing all those stairs, I was feeling a bit peckish.
I already knew what deck the buffet was on. It was one of the first things I memorized when I got my cruise information packet in the mail. I was trotting down the hallway, wondering if they had hot fudge sundaes on tap, when I heard someone call my name.
I turned to see Paige McAllister, the ship’s social director, heading in my direction.
I’d met Paige when I first came to the Holiday offices for my interview. A preppy blonde with shoulder-length hair swept back in a headband, she hadn’t seemed all that impressed with my resume.
“You write toilet bowl ads for a living?” she’d asked, her perfectly plucked brows arched in disbelief.
“Toiletmasters happens to be one of the leading suppliers of plumbing fixtures in the greater Los Angeles area,” I’d replied with as much dignity as I could muster.
“Is that so?” she’d said, with a dubious smile.
Frankly I’d been surprised when she’d called to offer me the gig.
She advanced on me now, clutching a clipboard.
“Welcome aboard, Jaine!” she chirped. “So glad you could join us. Just wanted to let you know you’ll be meeting with your class in the Galley Grill Restaurant.”
“We meet in a restaurant?”
“Yes, we often use our restaurants as lecture halls in the day to accommodate the crowds. Now remember. Our passengers are looking to be entertained. So keep it lively. Up and bubbly, that’s our motto!”
“You bet!” I said, trying to put some bubble in my voice.
“And one more thing. I’ve got your dinner seating assignment.”
“But I didn’t request assigned seating.”
“It’s part of the job, Jaine. Many of our passengers like to be seated with the ship’s celebrities. I’ve put you with the Pritchard party in the Continental Dining Room. The maitre d’ will know where to seat you.”
As flattered as I was to be thought of as a “celebrity,” this whole dinner thing was a bit of a curveball. I hadn’t expected to be eating with other people watching me. I guess that meant no doubles on desserts.
“And don’t forget,” Paige was saying, “tomorrow night is Formal Night. You do have something appropriate to wear, don’t you?”
Not unless she considered elastic-waist jeans and a Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs T-shirt appropriate.
“Not exactly,” I murmured, sans bubble.
True, I’d packed a pair of slacks and a few blouses for my classes, but I had nothing remotely formal. At the time I figured I’d be eating most of my meals at the casual buffet.
“No problem,” she said, with an airy wave of her hand. “You can rent an outfit in the ship’s rental shop. It shouldn’t run you more than a hundred dollars or so.”
A hundred bucks? It looked like the cruise wasn’t going to be free after all. Oh, well. It was a small price to pay for seven heavenly days at sea.
After I assured Paige that I’d show up on Formal Night dressed to the nines, she told me with an insincere smile how marvy it was to have me on the Holiday team and then trotted off, clipboard akimbo.
Free at last, I took the elevator to the Baja Deck, home of the twenty-four-hour buffet. The room itself looked like an upscale cafeteria, with the buffet in the center, and tables on both sides looking out picture windows onto the open seas.
I gawked, openmouthed, at the vast cornucopia of chow on display: fresh-from-the-oven rolls, panini sandwiches grilled to perfection, rosy shrimp nestling in a bed of ice, barbequed chickens, honey-glazed ham, roast beef, and broiled salmon. Not to mention a mammoth salad bar and an overflowing fresh fruit basket.
And there—in the dessert section next to the apple pie, cherry cobbler, and chocolate éclairs—there in all their glory were fresh-from-the-oven brownies.
No doubt about it. I’d died and gone to calorie heaven.
I grabbed some shrimp for Prozac’s dinner, and then, in a moment of restraint that was sure to go down in the next Guinness World Records, I took only one brownie for myself. This cruise was clearly going to be a floating snackfest of Olympic proportions, and I’d have to pace myself if I wanted to survive without busting my buttons.
Back in the cabin, Prozac and I scarfed down our chow eagerly. (I am happy to report my brownie was divine: moist and chocolatey, studded with nuts, and covered with a thick layer of frosting.)
When Prozac h
ad finished inhaling her shrimp, she curled up on the fought-after pillow.
Wake me when it’s time for the midnight buffet.
I rinsed out the bowl her shrimp had been in and filled it with water.
“Here’s some water, Pro.”
She eyed it balefully.
What? No champagne?
“It’ll be in the bathroom, your majesty.”
Leaving her purring like a buzz saw, I headed up to the pool deck, where, according to my copy of the ship’s newsletter, Holiday Happenings, the Set Sail Party was scheduled to take place.
It was already in progress when I showed up, a gala affair, complete with free leis and strolling mariachis.
As if on the Holiday payroll, the sun was in the midst of a spectacular sunset, sinking into the horizon in a blaze of glory.
I gazed out at the mass of gray heads surrounding me. True, there were a few honeymooners and couples with kids, but as Lance predicted, most of my fellow passengers were dedicated AARPsters.
But what did it matter if I was the only single woman on board with functioning ovaries? Not for me the shallow pursuit of romance. No, sir. I had my priorities straight.
I was content watching the sunset, smelling the sea, and eating my brownie.
(Okay, so I stopped off for another one.)
Chapter 3
Somehow I managed to cobble together a decent outfit for dinner that night: black slacks and a buttercream silk blouse I’d bought on sale at Nordstrom, topped off with a pair of simple pearls. I was going for an air of chic sophistication befitting my “celebrity” status.
“How do I look, Pro?” I asked, pirouetting in the few feet of space between our twin cots.
She peered up at me from where she was still encamped on the cabin’s only pillow. I’d long since given up hope of ever resting my head on that thing again.
“So what do you think?”
She yawned a cavernous yawn.
I think I’d like a tuna melt.
Ignoring Prozac’s pointed lack of interest in my outfit, I gave myself a final spritz of perfume and set out for the Continental Dining Room, eagerly awaiting my first free meal on board ship.
