‘Have we all had a nice day?’ Nigel addressed the table collectively.
A merry chorus of chirruping yeses came in response.
‘I heard it was a bit of a crush getting in and out of the Pile Gate.’
‘It was really scary,’ said Olive. ‘We were all caught up in it.’
‘I tried to berth another day, because there were too many ships in, but it was impossible,’ said Nigel.
‘We didn’t bother going into the city,’ said Royston. ‘We got a taxi to a lovely little beach, didn’t we, boss?’ He turned to his wife for confirmation. Stella had obviously collected quite a few more rays today – she was making Dom Donaldson and Tangerina look like Frosty the Snowman.
‘Nice when we got through into the city though,’ said Olive. ‘Beautiful.’
‘We walked around the city walls,’ said Eric proudly. ‘Marvellous view. I’ve never managed it before so we were determined this time, weren’t we, Irene?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Irene, who was looking lovely that evening with a creamy light tan building nicely and her lovely brave-pink dress contrasting beautifully with her white hair, which had obviously been done in the salon for that evening.
‘Do you ever get off with the passengers, Captain?’ asked Ven, trying to contribute something sensible to the conversation and ending up doing quite the opposite. ‘I mean, go off with them . . . leave . . . disembark.’
‘Here, have a big roll, stuff it in your mouth and shut yourself up,’ Roz whispered in Ven’s ear as Buzz reached between them with the bread-basket.
‘Sometimes I do,’ said Nigel, crinkled eyes fully trained on Ven. Her cheeks could have given the red-wine patch on the tablecloth a run for its money. ‘I’m getting off at Venice actually. I always try and “get off with the passengers” at Venice.’
Ooh, was that a hint of a flirt there, Olive, Roz and Frankie each asked themselves. Interesting.
‘You must go on a gondola at Venice, Venice,’ said Eric, chortling at himself.
‘We fully intend to,’ said Frankie.
‘It’s a beautiful name: Venice,’ said Irene.
‘She hates it,’ Roz thumbed at Ven. ‘She used to go mad at school if anyone called her anything but “Ven”.’
‘Hark at you – Rosalind!’ said Frankie.
‘Hark at you as well – Francesca!’ returned Roz.
‘Why would you all want to shorten such lovely names?’ tutted Irene.
‘Venice is okay if you’re a film star,’ said Ven. ‘You need to have a fancy surname and parents with bags of money to carry it off. Venice Smith just sounded so wrong. Like Tatiana Riley or . . . or Fanny Sidebottom.’
Oh NO did I really say Fanny? Ven tried not to cringe, then Nigel said, ‘I have a niece called Tatiana Riley.’
‘Oh, please tell me you’re joking,’ said Ven with panic straining her voice.
‘Yes, I’m joking,’ Nigel grinned.
Ven’s heart-rate had just about slowed down when the starters arrived. She liked the sound of the Feuillête of Poached Egg, but she wasn’t going to show herself up trying to pronounce it, so she plumped for the roasted beetroot and rocket salad, followed by steamed lemon sole stuffed with a prawn mousseline in a dill butter sauce. Roz was really going for it tonight with loin of pork with rosemary and roasted pumpkin. And for someone who was supposed to be watching her carbs, she didn’t half get stuck into the croquette potatoes when Buzz expertly served them up.
‘So what are you doing for your big day tomorrow then, Venice?’ asked Nigel over a dessert of rich chocolate rum slices garnished with fruit coulis.
‘Well, we’re riding on a gondola, having lunch, then I’m going to try and find the hotel where Mum and Dad had their honeymoon and conceived me.’
‘Ah, so you were a honeymoon baby?’
God, he said ‘honeymoon’ so beautifully, thought Ven. Honimuin.
‘Yep,’ said Ven. ‘I’m leaving the others to their own devices for a bit and wandering around by myself.’
‘There’s no nicer place to wander aimlessly,’ said Royston. ‘Get to Saint Mark’s Square and just let yourself off the lead, that’s what I always say.’
‘Then we’re having caviar and champers!’ put in Olive, who really couldn’t imagine what caviar tasted like. She hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed – like she was when she first had oysters. Yeurch. They didn’t make her feel randy, only nauseous.
‘You should get up about six o’clock tomorrow morning and watch us sail into the Grand Canal,’ added Eric. ‘Stunning.’
‘Six?’ said Frankie. ‘Sod that for a lark, Eric.’
‘Well, maybe you’d all like to come up to the bridge tomorrow and watch us leave the Grand Canal instead,’ Nigel offered.
‘Ooh, could we?’ twittered Irene. ‘That would be marvellous.’
‘Eeeh, it would that,’ echoed Eric. ‘Thank you very much, Captain. We’d like that.’
‘Settled then,’ said Nigel, dabbing at his lips with a serviette and making a move to stand. ‘All of you meet me at Reception at half past four tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, have a wonderful day tomorrow, won’t you? Venice, have a very happy birthday.’
‘Thank you, Mr . . . Captain O’Shaughnessy,’ said Ven, thinking that even though she’d remembered his name correctly, she still pronounced it Ocean Sea.
‘What a lovely man,’ said Stella as she watched the Captain having a word with Supremo. ‘Very handsome. Bet he’s got a girl in every port.’
‘Port, that’s a good idea,’ said Royston. ‘Angel? Angel love, can we have a round of ports after the coffee.’
Eric protested immediately, brandishing his cruise card. ‘My turn.’
‘No, mate, I’m loaded,’ said Royston. ‘I insist.’
‘Oh let him, Eric, he gets his pleasure from flashing his wad. Don’t ruin his holiday.’ Stella flapped her hand at him to shut up. And she had great intentions of letting her husband be very happy in some jewellery shops in Venice tomorrow.
After coffee and the most delicious home-made cherry fudge accompaniment, the four women headed off to the theatre to watch the Mermaidia Theatre Company perform Rocket Man, a tribute to Elton John. Roz, however, suddenly darted off, telling them to save her a place and that she’d be there in a moment because she needed the loo. She didn’t; she had just spotted Dom Donaldson and Tangerina Orange Jelly having a drink in Darcy’s – the bar next to the theatre. Darcy’s was a plush-seated, non-children bar which allowed smoking. Roz pulled out the small birthday card she had bought from the Emporium a couple of days ago, and which she had been carrying around with her in the hope of bumping into him. You couldn’t miss him tonight though, in a dark blue sequinned jacket that only someone very macho could pull off.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, quite meekly for Roz. ‘I know it’s an imposition but it’s my friend’s fortieth birthday tomorrow and she’s such a fan of yours. It would absolutely make her day if you would just sign this card for her. Her name is Venice – as in the city.’
Dom Donaldson, so twinkly-eyed and smiley on the soap in which he acted, turned an ice-chipped gaze onto Roz who was holding out the card and a pen hopefully. He took them, without saying a word, and scribbled something on the card before closing it and thrusting it back to her.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Roz. ‘She’ll be thrilled. I’m so sorry to have interrupted you. Have a lovely evening. And thank you again.’
She mouthed, ‘Miserable bastard,’ to herself as she left the bar. Anyway, Ven would be thrilled and that’s all that mattered. Outside the theatre, she stole a peek at what he’d written. There in angry capitals were the words GO AWAY I’M ON HOLLIDAY!
The rotten . . . Roz turned on her heel and took two steps back to Darcy’s to tell that jumped-up little turd a word or two of hard truth, then she stopped herself. What good would that do? It wasn’t as if he’d apologise and say, ‘Oh I am sorry, let me get you another card and do it proper
ly for your friend.’ He was just one of those smarmy actor types who’d got a bit of female attention and become a god in his own eyes. He made Russell Crowe look like Graham Norton, the bad-tempered cock. Plus he couldn’t even spell ‘holiday’! Why didn’t these celebrities realise that all they had to do was be nice to the people who had given them their status in the first place? He just had to write Happy Birthday on a card, for God’s sake, not donate a kidney.
Roz contemplated buying another card and faking his signature, but knowing Ven she would go up and thank him and then he’d take pleasure in putting her right and that would ruin her day. Better just to abort that surprise. Roz ripped up the card with a strength she would have liked to have exerted on Dom Donaldson’s head and put it in the circular bin outside the theatre. Venice would have a brilliant birthday without that vain shite’s contribution. They’d all make sure of that.
Roz took a deep composing breath outside the theatre before joining the others. She was standing with her back to the wall, opposite the staircase. Her breath had just about got back to normal when a man came down the stairs and her eyes fixed on his and could not tear themselves away. For there, in a magnificently cut black suit and bow-tie and the whitest shirt she had ever seen, was Raul Cruz. His eyes were locked onto Roz’s with equal force. And though he did not say anything, but merely nodded his head to her, she almost slid down the wall and became a pool of drool.
DAY 9: VENICE
Dress Code: Semi-Formal
Chapter 43
For David Hardcastle, 24 August would forever after be known as ‘the day when his life went totally tits up’. It was on this date that everything as he knew it was totally slaughtered with a wrecking ball and then immediately began to reconstruct itself in an entirely different way. Like the old Co-op on Newland Street, razed to the ground and quickly rebuilt as a gym. Although maybe that wasn’t the wisest parallel, seeing as the gym developed a structural problem and had to be demolished within six months.
It started innocuously enough with a planned cooked breakfast. He hummed as he snipped at the sausage links and cut up tomatoes and mushrooms and thick slices of black pudding. As the lard in the frying pan began to melt and give its first limp spit, the phone rang. He heard his mother pick up and start talking to someone on it.
‘Yes, this is Doreen Hardcastle . . . Oh, I am so sorry to hear that,’ she was saying. Then her voice dropped to a low whisper and he didn’t hear anything again until, ‘Yes, yes . . . tomorrow. I’ll be here . . . Yes, of course I still do – need you ask? . . . Till later then.’
The smoky breakfast smells snaked up David’s nostrils and made his enormous stomach growl with anticipation. He reached for the egg box, deciding he’d cook three this morning – two for himself and one for his mother – but he was to discover that the egg box had been sitting in the cupboard empty. It was one of Kevin’s many annoying habits, putting empty packages back on shelves instead of throwing them in the bin.
‘Bloody Kevin!’ he growled. The only thing he didn’t use and abuse in this house was toothpaste. There was no way David could have a cooked breakfast without fried eggs – it was illegal in the Hardcastle household. Angrily, he twisted the knob of the hob down to the lowest setting and felt in his pockets for some money. Apart from two pence and a ball of tissues that smelled vaguely of cheese, they were totally empty.
‘Mum, have you any money for eggs?’ he called. ‘I’ll have to nip to Warren Street shop and I’ve got no cash at all. Not a bean.’
He went into the lounge to find his mother deep in thought, staring into space.
‘Mum? We haven’t any eggs. Have you any change?’
Doreen shifted her attention to her son. He looked crestfallen. She didn’t see a man one step away from a monster cooked breakfast, only her little boy with a pushed-out lip of sadness. Doreen studied him. It was the same face he used to pull when he wanted a Curly Wurly and had spent all his pocket money. So like his father when he needed solace.
Yes, she decided, it was time now. The fates had stepped in this morning and told her as much. She reached into her cleavage for the key she wore as a pendant.
‘I’ve got some change upstairs,’ she said. ‘In the trunk under my bed.’
‘Oh heck, haven’t we anything down here? I’m going to ruin the breakfast otherwise.’
‘In the trunk under my bed upstairs,’ Doreen said again, holding out the small key. It felt warm and sweaty in David’s hand.
‘Okay,’ he sighed, taking the key and running upstairs as fast as his bulk would carry him.
His mother’s bedroom was the biggest one in the house, a total waste seeing as she never slept in it. Olive kept it dust-free and as immaculate as the rest of the house, though. David got on his knees and reached under the bed for the trunk which he had always presumed his mother kept her ‘treasures’ in – the Mother’s Day cards he’d made at school, photos, memorabilia, etc. He tugged it out but it took considerable effort.
‘Blimey, Mum, what have you got in here? It weighs a bleeding ton,’ he said to himself. He slid the key in the lock and the lid sprang open. Inside were indeed a scattering of photos and baby bootees and the Blue Peter badge he had found in the park but told everyone that he earned it for inventing a machine that turned vegetables into chocolate. Not exactly the sort of currency that the Warren Street shop would accept.
‘Mum, there’s nothing . . .’ he began to shout.
‘Lift the flap in the bottom, son!’ Doreen’s voice cut in and travelled upstairs.
David felt around and found a metal loop. He pulled it and a flap was released. He lifted it and stared down at what lay underneath. Wads and wads of paper money, neatly tied with elastic bands, and bags of two-pound coins. The box was so deep it seemed to go on for ever; it was like something out of Treasure Island. The sight trampled over all thoughts of his cooked breakfast on the floor below. Something not even pictures of Samantha Fox in her heyday could have done.
He was hallucinating through lack of food, obviously. He closed the lid and snapped it open again, but yes – the money was still there. He took out a single five-pound note, closed the lid again, locked it, slid it back under the bed and lumbered downstairs in a haze. Had his mother robbed a bank? It sounded incredible, but then again, she had a secret ‘able-bodied’ life he’d not known about until recently. Who was to say that masquerading as a poor disabled lady wasn’t part of some bigger, stranger charade?
‘What . . .where . . .’ he blundered, pointing upstairs.
‘It’s a nest egg,’ said Doreen. ‘It’s all yours.’
‘Mine!’ said David.
‘I didn’t put it in the bank because I don’t trust banks. I turned out to be right as well, didn’t I?’ Doreen nodded smugly, although she had had more than a minor panic recently when she thought Olive had found her secret stash and run off with it. ‘Plus I don’t want any greedy council bastards taking it off me if I ever went in a home.’
‘But where’s it come from, Mum?’
‘Your father,’ said Doreen.
‘Dad? Dad? Dad didn’t have a pot to piss in!’
‘Your father,’ corrected Doreen, ‘had a selection of pots to piss in. Plus I added to it by betting some of it on horses. I used to be very good at winning on the nags. I should have been a professional gambler, your father used to say.’
‘Dad? He never gambled in his life!’ Herbert Hardcastle was a non-drinking, non-smoking, non-gambling paragon of virtue.
‘David,’ said Doreen with a softness in her voice he hadn’t heard for years, ‘we’re going to have a visitor later on today. I want you to tidy around a bit so it’s nice, like Olive does it. All will become clear, son.’
‘Who’s coming?’ David asked, scratching his head.
‘Wait and see,’ said Doreen, putting her hand over his and giving it a fond squeeze. ‘Now, get out the Hoover, love, after you’ve been to the shop. There’s a good lad.’
Chapter
44
Venice awoke to a none-too-gentle knock on the door. It was only eight o’clock, but when she opened it, her three friends pushed their way into her cabin bearing cards, presents, hugs, streamers and flowers.
‘Happy fortieth birthday to you . . .’ they sang.
‘Fabulous day as well, weatherwise,’ said Olive. ‘I had a look on deck. It’s so beautiful outside. Look,’ and she pulled Ven’s curtains open. The weather might have been lovely, but the view was disappointing – lots of tall industrial chimneys and scrappy-looking boats – even if they were bathed in early-morning misty sunlight.
A second later and there was another knock at the door.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Roz, who knew who it was, because she had arranged it. Or at least some of it. In came Jesus trundling a trolley containing four long flutes of Bucks Fizz, a huge plate of handmade truffles, an arrangement of pink flowers and a pretty posy of yellow roses. Jesus was grinning and wished Ven a very happy birthday also before leaving the women to raise a toast to the birthday girl and dive on the choccies.
‘Coffee truffles!’ said Roz. ‘We didn’t order these – or the roses. I bet they’re from the competition people.’
‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Ven, looking rather puzzled.
‘Ooh,’ said Olive, spotting a card under the posy and wolf-whistling. ‘“From Captain Ocean Sea and the crew.” Ooohhhh! He’s actually written “Ocean Sea” as well, not “O’Shaughnessy”.’
‘Oooh,’ the others joined in the trill.
There was yet another knock on the door – more flowers. This time the card read From Andrew and all at Figurehead Cruises.
Then more flowers – from Royston and Stella.
‘Bloody hell, it looks like Donny Road Crem in here!’ laughed Roz. ‘Here, open your presents.’
There was the beautiful, old-gold heart-shaped locket which Olive and Roz had bought. It had a tiny ring of red roses engraved on the front, circling a swirly letter V. From Frankie there was a huge showy diamanté necklace and matching earrings – Ven could never have enough jewellery, they’d always known that. Manus had sent a silver bracelet, the links all cats with tiny green eyes. Roz felt a dull ache when she saw it released from its clumsy wrapping. He had chosen that gift so carefully because it was perfectly suited to Ven. She gulped down a sudden tearful feeling and wished she could ring him.
Here Come the Girls Page 21
