Here Come the Girls

by Milly Johnson

  He had nice smiley eyes, Frankie noticed. Blue. Although she couldn’t see much more of his face under all that hair.

  They sat in silence for a while after the ship gave a big jiggle.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Vaughan, passing her a creased sick bag from his pocket.

  ‘No,’ said Frankie, breathing through her nausea. ‘I want to go home and be in my nice stable house which doesn’t move. How can anyone think this is a fun way to holiday?’

  ‘Is your . . . er . . . other half not affected then?’

  ‘I’m here with three friends,’ said Frankie. ‘We’ve been planning it since we were at school. We didn’t bank on this though.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to get to Malaga,’ said Vaughan. ‘I’d kill for some dry land under my feet.’

  To Frankie’s relief, the doctor’s door opened and out came Mr Nine Cruises. She was next. But she doubted anything but a trip home could quell the rising and falling of her stomach.

  ‘Good luck,’ called Vaughan, as she followed the doctor into his surgery. Frankie nodded, because if she had opened her mouth to speak, more than words would have come out.

  The doctor had the sexiest French accent Frankie had ever heard. He should have been doing voice-overs on porn films. Dr Floren was pudgy-faced with a paunch pushing at his uniform, but he could still have made knickers melt all over the world with his purr.

  Satisfied that the best course available for Frankie was an injection, Dr Floren positioned the needle in her buttock.

  ‘You may feel a little tired shortly,’ warned the doctor. ‘But this is very effective at removing the nauseous feelings. It will last for about eight hours.’

  ‘Great,’ said Frankie as the needle went in and she tried not to jerk. Why hadn’t Ven won a holiday to Torquay instead? She hoped she would fall into a coma and wake up just as the ship was docking back into Southampton.

  She made a comical show of rubbing her bottom as if in agony when she left the surgery.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ asked Vaughan.

  ‘It’s murder,’ she grimaced. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bigger needle in my life!’

  Vaughan’s pallor faded another notch towards bleached snow. ‘I hate needles,’ he said.

  ‘I’m joking,’ said Frankie. ‘Really, it was just a little prick.’

  ‘What – the needle or the doctor?’ said Vaughan, as the door opened and Dr Floren appeared, making Frankie giggle. She was feeling slightly better already.

  ‘Hope it works for you,’ said Vaughan, raising his hand in a man-wave as he followed the doctor in. ‘Have a nice holiday.’

  ‘Same to you,’ said Frankie, passing the young newlyweds on the stairs, who had also been on the Easy Rider bus from Barnsley. It looked as if they too were heading for the sick bay.

  ‘Why did your bloody mother tell us we’d enjoy a honeymoon on a ship?’ the young woman was saying. ‘I knew she didn’t like me!’

  Olive knocked gently at Frankie’s door to see how she was doing after taking her nap and to ask if she felt well enough to venture out with them for a small bite and a swank around in her evening dress. She didn’t expect Frankie to open it with a flourish, dressed in a long black frock and looking the picture of health, complete with pink cheeks.

  ‘Worked like a treat,’ she explained to her delighted friend. ‘I had an hour’s kip and now I’m ravenous. Show me the way to the nosebag!’

  Roz and Ven had gone on ahead, up to the Vista lounge where the ‘Welcome Aboard’ party for diners in the Olympia restaurant was being held. There the Captain was greeting guests and posing for photos with them. There were two entrances into the Vista, one for people who wanted a photograph taken with him and one for those who would rather get straight to the free booze and canapés.

  ‘Are you bothered about getting your photo taken with the Captain?’ asked Ven.

  ‘Not really,’ said Frankie. ‘I think I might feel a bit daft posing,’ which seemed to answer for them all. So they went in the quick way, noticing Eric in a tuxedo and Irene in a pale pink evening gown waiting in the queue for photographs.

  Roz spotted Royston and Stella across the room and waved. Stella had on the most beautiful silver sequinned to-the-floor evening dress, which made the best of her lovely figure and accentuated her breasts. Must have cost a fortune, thought Roz. She wondered how rich some of the people in this room were. Lucky buggers. Must be nice to have a lot of disposable income to come on holidays like this, she mused. The first thing she would do if she found out she was rich was to tell old Sour-Tits Hutchinson to stick her job up her arse. To be fair, the job was okay if a bit boring, but Margaret Hutchinson was a one-woman PMT machine – always nit-picking, never happy. If she smiled, her face would crack like an ancient vase. She’d never need Botox, that was for sure. Compared with Miss Hutchinson, even Roz would look like the laughing policeman. The second thing Roz knew she would do would be to buy Manus the empty building next door to his garage so he could extend it, and she would work with him, doing all the paperwork he hated to do because he was a hands-on man who liked nothing better than to tinker with machinery. He was so good at it too – a genius with cars and vans. Then Roz snapped back to reality. There was no point in thinking about stupid stuff like that which was never likely to happen. Dreaming was a waste of time. And, God knows, she had wasted enough time dreaming about Robert Clegg in the past – and where had that got her?

  Frankie caught the attention of a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. She swept a glass of red wine from him, raised it in the direction of her friends and said, ‘Cheers.’ ‘Cheers,’ returned the others with their gin and tonics; Roz said hers through gritted teeth, Frankie noticed. She swivelled around to take in the frocks and suits. There were some gorgeous dresses and lots of bling. She wondered if the flashy stones in Stella’s ears were paste or real. They were massive.

  ‘Have you had a look at the menu? It’s posted outside the restaurant,’ Ven said. ‘I fancy . . .’

  ‘No, shush!’ said Olive. ‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know in advance what there is.’

  ‘Why?’ said Roz.

  ‘Because it’s a nice surprise for me then,’ Olive explained. ‘I want to sit at the table and decide.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll shut up,’ said Ven, with fond amusement. She was quite the opposite. There were so many lovely things on the menu, she needed half the day to decide what she was having.

  ‘I’m a bit disappointed with the Captain,’ sniffed Olive, looking at the smart, but quite short and square man in the gorgeous white jacket with four gold stripes on his black shoulder epaulettes, black trousers and black bow tie. ‘Thought he’d be a bit more “Captainy” than that.’

  ‘What, have a big beard and look like Cap’n Birdseye?’ scoffed Roz. ‘Carrying a tray of fish fingers with a parrot on his shoulder?’

  ‘No, just . . . just . . .’ Olive struggled to clarify what she meant until Ven rescued her.

  ‘I know what you mean. You envisaged someone tall and handsome, big-shouldered and just mature enough to have a flash of grey at the temples. A sexy commanding-type with a Superman-type chest and a butt to die for.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it exactly,’ Olive nodded.

  ‘I’m not bothered what he looks like as long as he can spot an iceberg and avoid it,’ said Frankie. ‘You always did like a man in uniform, didn’t you, Ven? Remember when we all went round to yours to watch An Officer and a Gentleman on your dad’s video? I never realised your tongue could loll out that far.’

  Ven slid into a recollection of Richard Gere scooping Debra Winger up in his whites and sighed.

  ‘Were there many people in the sick bay, Frankie?’ asked Olive, choosing a smoked salmon canapé from the waiter’s tray. She hadn’t had a canapé before. After tasting her first, she believed that she could very easily live off them.

  ‘Four of us,’ said Frankie. ‘I can’t believe I feel so good after that jab in my bum. It was miraculous.’


  Roz swept her eyes over Frankie, whilst Frankie was sweeping her eyes over the room. No brash jewellery, a plain-cut dress . . . where was the Frankie Carnevale of old? This Frankie in front of her was a second-class Doppelgänger for sure.

  ‘Shall we head off on a slow walk down to dinner?’ said Frankie, watching the Captain take up position on the stage and dab on the top of a microphone to check that it was working.

  ‘Aye, come on,’ said Ven. ‘I’m not bothered about listening to any speeches.’

  ‘Great,’ said Frankie. ‘That sea-sickness jab has made me cocking starving.’

  Frankie had eaten a full bread roll and two slices of speciality of the day bread – raisin and walnut – before she had even opened the menu.

  ‘Soup and then steak,’ said Roz, deciding quickly.

  ‘You had that yesterday,’ said Ven.

  ‘So? I’m happy with that.’

  ‘Well, now’s the time to be wanton,’ smiled Frankie. As soon as the words were out, she expected a backlash, but surprisingly didn’t get one. Roz, for Ven’s sake, was trying to throttle back on rising to any of Frankie’s baiting and she just hoped that Ven appreciated it because it was killing her.

  ‘Evening all,’ said Eric, as he and Irene came to the table. ‘Sorry we’re late but we’ve been hobnobbing with the officers.’

  ‘We saw you waiting to have your pictures taken,’ said Ven.

  ‘Oh yes, with Philip – such a lovely man. He’s been on at least five other cruises with us.’

  ‘Did he recognise you?’ asked Olive.

  ‘He did,’ said Eric, puffing out his chest proudly.

  ‘Once seen, never forgotten,’ whispered Frankie behind her menu.

  ‘Evening all,’ said Royston, holding out the chair for Stella. ‘My, don’t you ladies look the bees’ knees tonight.’

  ‘Don’t they just!’ added Eric.

  ‘Not looking so bad yourselves, boys,’ beamed Frankie.

  ‘So what have you girls done today then? Did you get ashore?’ laughed Eric, after giving Elvis his order.

  Behind him Irene was rolling her eyes.

  ‘He always says that on sea-days,’ she explained in her whispery voice. ‘It’s his little joke.’

  ‘You see, you can’t get off, can you?’ Eric went into joke-explanation-overkill.

  ‘Ah.’ Ven nodded and prepared to play the game. ‘No, we thought we’d stay on board. We just lounged about and drank coffee and then went up to the spa.’

  ‘Your hair looks very nice,’ said Stella to Olive.

  ‘Oh thank you,’ said Olive, embarrassed to be centre of attention as a wave of agreement rippled around the table.

  ‘Did you go up to the salon? I always go on formal nights.’ Stella patted the back of her heavy lacquered ash-blonde hairdo. It wouldn’t have budged out of place in a hurricane. ‘I’m always up for a bit of self-improvement,’ she winked.

  ‘None of you were sea-sick then?’ asked Eric.

  ‘Frankie was,’ said Ven.

  ‘Bay of Biscay,’ nodded Eric. ‘It can be a bit of a bugger. Although this is nothing to one crossing we made in the Atlantic – do you remember, Irene? In that force twelve cross wind? Even I had to have a lie-down that day!’ He smiled fondly as if he was remembering something sweet and wonderful as he recounted how the waves reached as high as deck twelve and three million glasses whizzed off shelves in bars.

  Their head waiter was doing his rounds – a huge wardrobe of a man with an ear-to-ear smile and a thick black quiff. He looked like a benign military dictator. The girls never did learn his real name because Eric leaped up and greeted him with a vigorous handshake and introduced him to the table.

  ‘This is my friend Supremo. He’s the big man on this ship,’ beamed Eric. ‘If you have any problem in any restaurant, this is the man to come to.’ Supremo laughed with a mix of pride and bashfulness – but mainly pride.

  After a brief chat and his announcement that tomorrow night there would be a Mexican buffet in the Buttery, Supremo distributed the red carnations he was carrying to each of the ladies before moving on to the next table. There were quite a few empty places on tables that evening, Frankie noticed as she looked around. People who hadn’t done the sensible thing and sought medical help for their queasy tums. She felt fantastic, even though the ship was still lurching quite a bit. She wondered how Vaughan felt. She was curious to see how well he would scrub up in a suit too.

  Her wish came true as they filtered into the theatre to watch the vocalist/impressionist after dinner. She caught a fleeting glance of his ponytail against the back of his tuxedo. He was fingering his collar as if it was trying to cut his head off. Frankie smiled at the sight of him trying to conform and not having a cat in hell’s chance. He looked like one of those men who are happiest covered in oil and grease, like Manus.

  After the act had finished, they went to the Vista lounge for an Irish coffee, but by half past ten the four of them were almost nodding off and decided to call it a day. Never had doing nothing been so tiring.

  DAY 3: AT SEA

  Dress Code: Semi-Formal

  Chapter 27

  Frankie was up and dressed by nine-thirty the next morning. She opened the thick curtains on a cloudy but calm sea, thank goodness. There was no sign of life from her friends’ cabins, so she took herself down to the Samovar, the coffee shop on deck five, and picked up one of the ship’s daily newspaper leaflets – the Mermaidia Times – to read with an espresso. It gave a précis of world and UK news, international city temperatures, sports results and share prices. It made for miserable reading – another soldier killed in Afghanistan, a teenager stabbed, the death of a famous actor . . . Frankie put it back down. She didn’t want to know what was going on in the world outside the ship. She didn’t want to hear any bad news on here.

  She was determined, however, to find out who ‘Dorothy’ was. The third copy of Mermaidia Today had announced that there was yet another meeting in the Planet room for ‘Friends of Dorothy’ at ten-thirty. She would just go up, take a quick look to satisfy her curiosity, then have a late breakfast, or a brunch – or possibly hang on for lunch.

  Frankie walked up the stairs to deck sixteen, vowing to get at least some exercise whilst she was on holiday. There was a buzz of people inside the Planet room. Frankie walked past, tried to look casually inquisitive rather than downright nosy, but she couldn’t see much of what was going on, apart from the ‘Friends’ holding cups of tea and one or two of them eating pastries. Pretending to be looking for someone in the Vista, she walked through the bar and full circle back to the Planet room, just as a familiar figure in jeans and a denim jacket was walking up the stairs.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Frankie with a ready smile. ‘And how are you today?’

  ‘Oh, good morning,’ said Vaughan, mirroring her expression. ‘I’m very well, thank you. That sea-sickness injection worked wonders, didn’t it? It gave me the munchies a bit though. And yourself?’

  ‘I’m great, thank you.’ Someone laughed in the Planet room and Vaughan rubber-necked inside.

  ‘So, are you a friend of Dorothy?’ asked Frankie.

  ‘Me?’ Vaughan’s eyes twinkled. ‘Do I look like a friend of Dorothy?’

  What an odd question, thought Frankie. What did friends of Dorothy look like? Did they have some kind of distinguishing costume?

  ‘I don’t know if you do or not.’

  ‘Are you a friend of Dorothy?’ Vaughan then asked.

  ‘Me? No.’ Frankie beckoned him closer and whispered, ‘Who is she?’

  A light seemed to switch on in Vaughan’s head. ‘Ah,’ he said in a low, conspiratorial voice. ‘Didn’t you know? She’s a girl with a dog.’

  Frankie’s eyebrows arched in confusion. ‘I didn’t know you could have dogs on board. How come she’s had a party up here for the past two days?’

  Vaughan studied Frankie to see if she was winding him up. It amused him to see that she was dea
dly serious.

  ‘She’s a popular girl,’ he said.

  ‘Is she very rich? Or famous?’ Frankie bent her head around the door but could only see a mingling group of men and two elderly women.

  Vaughan opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. ‘No, I can’t do this to you,’ he said. ‘It’s so tempting, but I won’t.’

  Frankie hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. He pushed her gently into the Vista, away from the Planet-room doorway.

  ‘Friends of Dorothy. As in Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Judy Garland.’

  ‘Judy Garland’s dead though, isn’t she?’ puzzled Frankie, still no wiser. What was he talking about? Judy Garland couldn’t be hosting a party. Not unless it was via a Ouija board.

  Vaughan shook his head and laughed.

  ‘Judy Garland, gay icon?’ he went on.

  ‘Yes, I know she was . . .’ Then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, there’s no Dorothy!’

  Vaughan clapped his hands. ‘It’s a meet-up for gay people.’

  ‘I am so thick!’ said Frankie. ‘And a bit deflated actually. I was hoping for a Hollywood actress or someone really grand dripping in diamonds and holding one of those big cigarette-holders.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint,’ said Vaughan.

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ sighed Frankie. ‘I should have left myself in blissful ignorance, believing that someone looking like Barbara Cartland was on board. Shouldn’t have been so nosy, should I?’

  Vaughan chuckled again. He had a nice friendly laugh, which was quite at odds with his angry Viking-like appearance.

  ‘Well, I hope it hasn’t spoiled your holiday too much,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll try not to let it get in the way,’ smiled Frankie, betting that Vaughan was really a looker under all that facial hair.

  ‘Bye,’ they said together. Vaughan went off into the Vista, and Frankie noticed he was still chortling as he walked off.

  *

  Roz arrived at the belly-dancing class to see that a few had dropped out, but there were still enough there to constitute a fair-sized class. Gwen had brought along a case of scarves with tinkly metal coins sewed onto them, and little finger cymbals. Some of the women were rifling through the things and playing with them.