The life-jacket drill was straightforward enough. They all learned how to wear one and that they needed to step off a ship in an emergency and not jump. Some people were obviously a bit dense because when the order came to watch the demonstration by a crew member, they put the life-jackets on as well despite being clearly told not to. Roz wanted to slap them. She could hardly hear the instructions being given out on the Tannoy for the rasp of illegal Velcro.
‘I don’t think you’d sink anyway with those knockers,’ said Ven to Roz.
‘Good, because I doubt I’ll be able to fit the bloody life-jacket over them. Where’s my strap?’ Roz replied grumpily, unable to locate it. ‘And I’ll never be able to get to the whistle!’
When it was over, the girls headed back to the cabin to put their life-jackets away, hoping they wouldn’t see them again – and went out on deck for the leaving party.
There was a band playing jazz outside the terminal. They must have been freezing because the weather was rubbish for August and there was a bitter breeze in the air. Plastic Union Jack flags on sticks were being distributed and waiters were scurrying around with expertly-balanced trays full of champagne.
‘Come on, we’ve got to have some bubbly,’ said Ven and signed a chitty for three glasses.
‘Wish we’d hurry up and leave,’ said Olive, checking her watch and finding it was twenty past five. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or excitement that was coursing through her system. She wondered what state the Hardcastles would be in by now, and whether David had known that his mother was about as much an invalid as Anton du Beke. Or whether Doreen knew that her ‘darling boy’ was just a lying, idle loafer with a perfectly functioning, if manufactured from jelly, spine. Well, they’d find out in the next couple of weeks, that was for sure.
There was a wonderful atmosphere building. Olive looked over the side of the ship and saw the waters being churned up, so something was starting to happen. She started mouthing the lyrics to ‘Goodby-ee’ which the band were now playing. People were leaning on the rails waving their flags towards the crowds over in the terminal who were waving back just as madly – friends and relatives come to see them off, presumably. The ship’s horn blasted out.
‘I think we’re moving,’ said Roz. ‘Yes, we’re definitely off. Oh no, look at that man running to stop the ship! It’s David.’
Olive’s heart bounced into her mouth.
‘Joke!’ said Roz. ‘Sorry, Olive.’ She laughed at the sight of Olive patting her chest, then that smile pinged shut like a snapped elastic band. Because walking towards her, bolder and brassier than ever, with a glass of champagne in her hand, was none other than Frankie Carnevale.
Chapter 18
‘What the frig . . .?’ Roz spun around to Ven, questions filling her expression.
‘Okay, I’m sorry, but if I’d told you, you wouldn’t have come, would you? And I wanted all four of us to be here. Like we always said we would.’
Meanwhile Olive had bounced over to Frankie and was hugging her like mad, and was being hugged back with the same ferocity.
‘Oh my God, you’re here. Last I heard, you weren’t coming!’ shrieked Frankie in her familiar smoky voice.
Roz’s face was as sour as a rotting lemon.
‘How are you doing, Roz?’ said Frankie, warmly but cautiously. ‘Long time no see.’
‘I feel like jumping off the side,’ growled Roz. ‘That’s how I’m doing.’ She felt herself shaking with rage. She daren’t look at Ven because she wanted to strangle her too much.
‘Oh come on, Roz,’ said Ven. ‘Please. For me. Bury the hatchet for sixteen days.’
I’ll bury it in her back, said Roz to herself. Where she stabbed me. She took a deep breath, nodded stiffly at Frankie and managed dryly, ‘You’ve changed.’ Which was putting it mildly. Once a plump girl with a flat chest, Frankie was now skinny-thin with a very generous bosom – surgically enhanced, obviously. It didn’t take an idiot to work out that was where a big lump of the money from her house sale must have gone. Or rather two big lumps. Frankie’s once long black sheet of hair was now very short, spiky and platinum-white. Only her diminutive height, her big dark Italian eyes and her curved and generous lips remained the same. She was wearing a two-piece trouser ensemble in beige. Frankie used to say she’d know she’d got old when she started wearing beige trouser suits, Roz suddenly recalled.
‘Well, it’s been a few years,’ said Frankie. She knocked her champagne glass against Ven’s. ‘Cheers, buddy. Am I ready for this holiday or am I ready for it?’
Roz was sulky-silent as the other three chattered on excitedly and the ship started to head towards the open sea. Ven didn’t drag her into their conversation. Roz would come round if she wasn’t pushed. She hadn’t tried to throttle Frankie yet or fling herself into the sea, so there was hope.
‘Where’s your room?’ asked Olive.
‘C162,’ said Frankie, tipping the last of her champagne into her mouth.
‘Next to me then,’ said Olive with a grin. ‘I’m C160.’
Roz was the only one not smiling. She should have questioned Ven more closely about Frankie not coming. All for one and one for all, that’s what they always used to say. Ven wouldn’t have left Frankie out, she should have known that. Ven wouldn’t have left any of them out because she was too frigging nice. And Roz had to hold herself back from killing her for it.
Behind them, people were swigging champagne and leaving their jobs and woes at the dock. Roz felt as if she were on the outside looking into the scene through a thick layer of glass now. She didn’t want to be here any more making small talk with this beige-wearing bitch, but what could she do about it? She roughly put her glass down on a nearby table and said, ‘Right, I’ll see you later. I’m going to finish off my unpacking.’ And with that she turned and headed off through the nearest door to the inside of the ship.
‘Phew, that went well,’ said Frankie with enforced jollity. ‘I thought she might have been a bit off with me.’
‘Aw, Frankie, she’ll snap out of it,’ said Ven. A reconciliation was long overdue and she was determined that bridges would be built on this trip. It was a miracle that she had managed to get all of them on board at all – and now they were, it was going to be bloody good. She would make sure it was – somehow! She just hoped she hadn’t made the biggest mistake of her life playing God. But then, the situation couldn’t get much worse than it already was – the only way was up!
Frankie put her arms around Ven and Olive and gave them a big squeeze.
‘Fate gave us this holiday,’ she began, mirroring what was going on in Ven’s head, ‘so it must have something nice in store for us. Bloody hell, Ven, I can’t believe we’re all here, can you?’
Ven tried to muster a smile. She almost pulled off a convincing one.
Roz stomped around in her room for a bit then realised, as those do who have cut off their noses to spite their faces, that she was alone whilst the other three were in the midst of gaiety and champagne. The reality hit her that she was on a cruise ship having a tantrum. And the friend who was giving her this free luxurious holiday had had a rotten time over the past couple of years. Ven still managed to keep that smile alight despite losing both her parents, her job, a load of money, her house and her husband, even if he was a prick. As sulky and annoyed as Roz felt, this was one of those times when she must look outside her own wants and needs and swallow it because this trip was all about Ven. She didn’t know how she’d keep her hands off Frankie’s throat, but she’d try; for a one-time offer of sixteen days only. So when Ven tentatively knocked on her door at twenty past six and asked if she was ready to come down to dinner with them, she made sure she was, complete with smile pinned to her face.
A few passengers had changed into posh frocks and suits, but most were very casual. Frankie was in a plain grey dress. Blimey – Frankie never used to dress in anything that didn’t require sunglasses to view it. She was a lot thinner than Roz could remember h
er ever being, which made her look even smaller than her five foot two height. She’d obviously been on a huge diet before her boob job.
They followed the complimentary maps they’d all been given of the ship and joined a stream of people heading to the Olympia restaurant on the sixth floor.
‘God, it’s like the Ritz,’ said Olive, feeling very underdressed in her black trousers and plain blouse. There was a sea of white tablecloths and waiters in crisp white shirts and black waistcoats, and greeting the guests were three smiling and beautifully dressed Indian head waiters with chocolate eyes-to-die-for.
Roz waited for Frankie to do a customary low growl of lust and say something lecherous like, ‘I want one of those buttered.’ She was disappointed, though. Frankie didn’t say a word.
They were led to a table for eight and were the first arrivals.
‘I’m loving this “ma’am” business,’ said Olive, as their waiters Elvis and Aldrin pulled out the chairs and draped serviettes across their laps. Their table was next to a huge window affording a picture of a very grey sea and some bobbing fishing boats.
‘Mr B Deck alert.’ Ven nudged Olive. To their horror the dapper old man seemed to be heading their way, with Mrs B Deck close behind.
‘I don’t believe it, he’s heading for our table,’ hissed Roz.
‘Evening, all,’ said Mr B Deck, holding out a hand to be shaken. ‘My name’s Eric and this is Irene. We’re from Barnsley. Weren’t you on our bus coming down?’
They were all in the process of shaking hands and making introductions when another couple joined them. Fifty-somethings Royston and Stella were Cockneys who now lived in Essex. It was obvious from the first that Royston was a barrow boy made good and wanted everyone to know about it. They’d not even opened their menus before they had learned he had driven to Southampton in his brand new BMW. Quite a bit of his money looked as if it had gone on operations on his wife. Ash-blonde Stella had a slightly tight, wrinkle-free face with a waxy sheen and an artificially smooth neck for someone her age. Underneath her very clingy silky blouse, her boobs were high and round as a pair of best grapefruits, and when she smiled she showed off ultra-white and too-perfect teeth. But the overall effect was of a very good-looking woman, if a little Barbie-plastic.
‘I reckon this could be fun,’ Ven whispered to Roz. ‘Wonder when the “how many times have you been on the ship?” questions will start.’
They didn’t have to wait long.
‘This will be our twenty-first cruise,’ said Royston, puffing out his chest.
‘Thirtieth for us,’ said Eric proudly.
‘Thirtieth?’ echoed Frankie, genuinely impressed.
Roz waited for her to carry on. She always was a master-bluffer. She used to have them in stitches.
Thirtieth? You’re like me then – once you find a good thing, you stick to it. This will be our fortieth. It’s such a nice change not to sit with the Captain either. He wanted our company so much last time that I thought we were being stalked. Do you have the room with the butler? My, not to be recommended – they get in the way awfully. Although they do make a fabulous Wallbanger. If you get my drift – fnar fnar.
But instead Frankie said, ‘Thirtieth? That’s amazing. This is our first. We’ve been planning it since we were at school together.’
Roz was gobsmacked. Boy, Francesca Carnevale had changed!
‘Evening, everyone,’ came the chirpy voice of a beautiful Filipino woman with cascading black hair tied back in a pony-tail, very much like Frankie’s used to be. ‘I’m Angel, your wine steward for this cruise. Would you like to order some drinks or something from the wine list?’
‘Blimey,’ said Olive. ‘We’ve got Jesus cleaning the room and an Angel bringing us drinks.’
‘I’m just waiting to see Saint Peter on port security,’ giggled Roz.
It turned out that it was Royston and Stella’s first cruise on the Mermaidia, so Eric looked pleased that he was the leading authority on the ship.
Ven took some almond and pistachio bread from the basket and buttered it liberally. The menu looked fabulous. So far she had narrowed her choice of main courses down to four.
‘If you don’t like what’s on the menu,’ said Irene, reaching a talon-nailed finger over the top of Ven’s menu and pointing to the lefthand side, ‘there’s always chicken, steak and salmon available.’
‘That’s me then, a sirloin,’ said Roz, snapping her menu shut.
‘You always have steak when we go for a meal!’ said Ven.
‘That’s because I like it,’ explained Roz with strained patience. ‘Soup, steak and a coffee, that’ll do me just fine. I’m a plain eater, as you know. At the end of the day, it’s only fuel.’
‘You never used to think like that,’ said Frankie. ‘You used to love your food.’
‘People change,’ replied Roz, trying to bat away the images attacking her brain of sitting at the Carnevales’ dinner-table and stuffing herself daft on pasta.
‘Well, I’m being adventurous,’ Olive decided. ‘I’ve never had John Dory so I’m trying that.’
‘If you don’t like it, they’ll bring you something else, you know,’ Royston jumped in. ‘You can afford to experiment on a ship, that’s what I always say.’
‘That sounds far too good to be true,’ said Frankie. ‘In that case then, I’ll have John Dory too.’
Roz bit back the snide comment about to rise in her throat that John Dory was a fish, not a man – was Frankie aware of that?
‘Going to the show this evening?’ asked Eric. ‘First one is usually a very jolly affair. Lovely theatre on this ship, but I advise you to get there by half past eight for a good seat.’
‘They’ve got a theatre on the ship?’ gasped Olive.
‘They’ve got two, actually. Broadway and Flamenco – which admittedly is half-nightclub, half-theatre. And there will be some sort of a show at each one every night,’ said Eric. ‘Didn’t you see the Mermaidia Today brochure in the post-slot outside your cabin door? It’ll tell you everything that’s happening on the ship tonight, and you’ll get another one before you go to bed about what’s going on tomorrow. Oh, and in case you didn’t know, the dress code for dinner is always formal on the second night. So if you ladies want to get your hair done, you’d better book up early because they’ll be busy in the salon.’
Two theatres! Olive was open-mouthed with astonishment for the three-hundredth time since she came aboard. Three-hundredth-and-one, when Ven clicked her fingers as she announced to her friends, ‘Ah well, I might as well tell you, we’re all booked in at the spa tomorrow. Massage and then a hairdo and make-up.’ She tagged on a whisper for the other three alone. ‘Part of the package,’ and tapped the side of her nose.
‘You should get some highlights, Olive. Go platinum like me.’ Frankie picked up a shank of Olive’s hair and thought that with a good sharp cut and a splash of peroxide she could lose years.
‘Yes, you should. Go for it, Olive!’ said Ven. ‘I’ll ring up and speak to the spa people and amend the booking.’
Olive leaned back in her seat as her Moules Marinières starter arrived and felt that she was in a dream. Mussels, massages and make-up. How far away was this from her normal life?
‘What the hell. I just might,’ she said.
Chapter 19
Back in Land Lane, Kevin was putting fish and chips from Turbot’s shop onto three plates. They always got whopping servings from there – enough to feed even them twice over. David was trying to pull a big cushion out of the washing machine. It was the one his mother had soiled. Funnily enough, when she realised that Olive really had disappeared and wasn’t going to sort her out with a bowl of water and a flannel she managed to struggle not only to her feet, but into the downstairs bath by herself – albeit with a lot of groaning, huffing and puffing.
The cushion had split, and very lumpy filling was all over the drum. Doreen noticed that David seemed to be having no trouble bending down to scoop it all
out. She was thinking that his back was very flexible when his wife wasn’t around.
‘Do you think she’s got another bloke?’ Kevin called to his cousin.
‘Olive? Give over!’ said David. ‘When does she have time?’
‘Where’s she gone then?’ Kevin dropped a fish piece on the floor and whipped it back on the plate before any germs leaped on it. He had always believed that it took ten seconds before it became ‘dirty’. Still, he wasn’t having that one.
‘How do I know? She’s playing silly buggers. She’ll get bored after a couple of days and come home and then we’ll find out why she’s gone doolally. But I know two things for sure: she hasn’t run off with another fella and she hasn’t gone on bloody holiday!’ Boy, would his wife get a mouthful and a half for having him run round like a blue-arsed fly after his mother.
‘I bet it’s the menopause,’ decided Kevin. ‘It’s always something to do with periods either stopping or starting when they go weird. Have you rung her mobile?’
‘Of course I have, I’m not thick,’ snapped David. ‘The bloody thing is switched off, isn’t it?’
‘Why don’t you ring that mate of hers? Venice. The one with the gorgeous bum.’ Kevin’s tongue snaked out lustily.
‘I’m not ringing and chasing her,’ David grumbled. ‘She’ll be home soon enough with her tail between her legs. She knows which side her bread is buttered best.’
‘David! Fetch me some clean pants!’ came a screech from the bathroom.
David thought that his resolve not to chase Olive and bring her back might crumble sooner, rather than later.
Chapter 20
After a magnificent three-course menu and then coffees, the four ladies excused themselves from the table, to bag some good seats in the theatre, leaving Eric, Irene, Royston and Stella comparing past cruises.
Here Come the Girls Page 8
