‘No,’ Dad said, pulling the chocolates towards him as his attention waned. ‘I don’t remember and I hate to break it to you but that’s still ten quid each, by the way.’
‘Well, I bought a book.’
‘What? A hundred quid! You spent a hundred quid on raffle tickets? It’s not as though that club fundraiser doesn’t cost me an arm and a leg already! Jeff Bosbury-Wallace is a bloody bandit! They should have given them to us for nothing.’
‘Have you won something?’ Jerry said, being the perfect potential son-in-law and breaking the tension.
‘I have!’ Mum said triumphantly, sitting back in her chair and sending him a fond look.
Behind her I saw India wander up to the wine cabinet and pick out a couple of bottles. Things like this had started to annoy me over the last few months. I mean, why did she still have to behave like a pigging student? Jerry earned a packet and Dad paid India almost as much as I got. Which was so grossly unfair it was almost litigious.
‘So? Well? Are you going to tell us? For God’s sake, please tell me it’s not more disgusting wine?’ Dad said.
‘It’s not!’ Mum said.
We sat in confused silence for a moment until Dad gave her a wide-eyed look.
‘So? For the love of God, what?’
‘A holiday!’ Mum said. ‘We’ve won a holiday.’
‘Have we? How marvellous!’
‘The first prize was a trip to see Santa in Finland with up to four children. Thank God we didn’t win that. Second prize was probably a trip to see Santa in Finland with eight children. Now I’ll go and find my diary.’
I think India and I drifted off at this point; our parents went on holiday so frequently that it was no longer of any interest to us. We had even been named for holidays they had particularly enjoyed in their youth: Alexandria and India. They were due to take a month-long trip to Australia soon to visit relatives who lived on the east coast in a place that sounded like Boomerang. Mum had shown us pictures of her cousin and his family, red-faced and cheerful, having a barbeque on the beach and probably in imminent danger of skin cancer.
India came out of the kitchen with a supermarket carrier bag filled with swag. Bloody hell, the place would be stripped bare by the time they left! She did this every time.
‘Hey you, that’s a 10p Bag for Life, I’ll have you know,’ Dad said, outraged, not apparently noticing the bacon, tins of baked beans and the dozen eggs.
Mum came back, riffling through the pages of her diary and frowning.
‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘Houston, we have a problem.’
‘What?’
‘Well, we can’t go. We’ll be in Australia.’
‘When we’re married, Jerry and I are going to go to Australia,’ India said, never one to miss an opportunity. ‘We might go for our first anniversary.’
Dad ignored her. ‘Well, can’t we swap the dates of the prize holiday?’
‘No, it’s September 23rd or not at all. Non-transferable, that’s what it says.’
‘Well, how unreasonable – that’s no time at all. Surely we could go a week or so later?’
Mum looked at him over the top of her glasses. ‘I know you’re a persuasive character, Simon, but I don’t think you could persuade the ship to wait for us.’
His face fell. ‘Ship? Oh, don’t tell me I’m going to miss out on a cruise!’
Dad loved cruising even more than Mum did. They’d been on over thirty.
By now India had collected up an unopened pack of paper napkins, some dishwasher tablets and a new bottle of loo cleaner. If this carried on they’d have to borrow Dad’s trailer so they could get all the stuff back to their flat. And it wasn’t as though they didn’t already have their own Toilet Duck. It was just an ingrained habit with her.
Mum and Dad huffed and argued over the prize holiday dates, and Dad was seriously trying to work out if it would be possible to catch up with the ship halfway through their Australia trip until Mum described the sort of jet lag and expense he would be incurring and he thought again.
I went upstairs to see if there was any shampoo I could take down the garden to my place before India nabbed it. I justified this by telling myself I’d been too busy with showings and keeping the family business in the black to make it to the shops. I could hear my parents still rabbiting on, trying to work out a way for them to take two holidays at the same time, a logistical challenge unheard of even for them. I came back down with some of my mother’s overpriced conditioner and a couple of loo rolls. Through the open front door I could see India loading up the boot of Jerry’s car with some barbeque charcoal and a box of firelighters. They have a barbeque on their cool roof terrace. Of course they do.
In the dining room Mum was pushing down the cafetière plunger and looking pensive.
‘I suppose someone could go,’ she said.
‘What? You mean I go to Australia and you go on the cruise?’ Dad said. ‘Well, it’s a thought.’
‘No, you twit, I mean if we can’t go …’ She paused and raised her eyebrows meaningfully.
‘Oh, I see. Well, yes, I suppose so. We might be able to keep some food in the house for longer than a week too.’
‘Simon, come into the garden for a moment,’ she said. ‘Bring your coffee.’
I had another chocolate and looked at my watch; it was half past four and Jerry and India would be leaving soon, God willing. I watched my sister and her fiancé trying to guess the flavours of the chocolates with their eyes closed and making the other one promise not to trick them with the coffee one.
Jerry would drive them home in his groovy car, to their hip, blonde-wood apartment, and unload their ill-gotten gains before India went to have a long soak in the bath, surrounded by Diptyque candles, and he spent the evening playing on his Xbox. You wouldn’t think a hotshot barrister would waste his time doing that, would you? Not that Jerry looked like a hotshot barrister; he was tall, thin and pale, with leather elbow patches on his tweed jacket. I wondered what India could possibly see in him at first, but I had to admit he was extremely funny, very successful, and besotted with her in a way that resulted in extravagant presents and compliments. Who wouldn’t like that?
When they got engaged last year they’d started out wanting a small, cute wedding with a few friends and family. Now it had grown into something Prince Harry might have envied, in a country house hotel with a complete year’s flower produce from The Netherlands, gauze bags of almonds and embossed scrolls. God knew what it was costing.
I hadn’t a clue what I was going to do for the hen weekend. India wouldn’t co-operate and I was sick of thinking about it. I was a bit off that sort of thing at the moment anyway, thanks to Ryan. Bouquets for the mothers, the honeymoon wardrobe, four or five tiers for the cake? Not to mention the three flower girls I was supposed to keep under control while necking back as much champagne as possible. And before you ask, no, I wasn’t planning to cop off with the best man. The best man was Jerry’s cousin Mark, who was delightful, gay, and would probably have done a better job of styling the event than any wedding planner ever could.
‘So that’s settled then,’ Mum said.
We all looked up as they came back in from the garden and India took the opportunity to wedge a chocolate into Jerry’s mouth. He spluttered in disgust and spat it into a paper napkin with a plaintive cry of ‘Bunny, you promised!’
Bunny?
‘What’s settled?’
Mum sat down and tapped on her coffee cup with a spoon.
‘Dad and I have come up with a solution to this holiday problem. We’re going to let you go instead.’
Mum sat back beaming, waiting for our reaction.
‘Jerry and me? To Australia?’ India said, her eyes widening with excitement.
Over my dead body.
‘No, the other one,’ Dad said.
‘Well, I’m not going to Australia with Jerry,’ I said.
Mum tutted. ‘You girls can be dense sometimes. You a
nd India can go on the cruise.’
I had a moment’s wild excitement at the prospect of a break from what I had been doing for the last few months: sulking in the granny annexe at the end of my parents’ garden after that nightmare weekend when my boyfriend, Ryan, and I had broken up and my flatmate, Karen, decided it was the perfect time to go off and find herself in Sri Lanka.
But then work had been so busy recently and showed no signs of easing up, what with showing builders round dilapidated renovation projects or cajoling fussy metropolitan couples who, without exception, thought they wanted country kitchens, wood burners and gardens big enough to keep chickens. They didn’t. I mean, have you smelled a chicken house?
I hadn’t had a holiday for ages. You honestly couldn’t count that trip to Paris last year, when it rained every day and Ryan and I spent the whole time arguing about where to go. Recently I’d been spending most of my time at the office, so this could be the perfect chance for a break, sunshine and perhaps a few cocktails.
This idea was then replaced by the mental image of a boat filled with elderly people, shuffling around a wave-lashed deck on their Zimmer frames.
And finally I registered the utter horror that would be going on holiday with my sister.
Since the engagement we hadn’t been particularly good friends, despite what India thought – she seemed pretty oblivious to everything these days. I suppose somewhere deep down I still had affection for her, but nothing I could dredge up on a day-to-day basis.
India looked at Jerry and then at me. From her expression she seemed to be thinking much the same.
‘You’ll love it. And who knows, Alexa might find herself a nice chap to bring to the wedding. You can treat it as your hen weekend, although it’s longer than a weekend, obviously. A hen holiday,’ Mum announced proudly, seeming to think it was all settled. She’d been doing this a lot recently – every time she heard us squabbling she would produce a plan to reconcile us and consider it a job well done. Not this time … I wasn’t five any more.
‘How long?’
‘Twelve days.’
‘What! We can’t both take twelve days off!’ I said.
India’s gaze flicked hopefully between Dad and me. ‘Can’t we?’
Considering it was only August and India had already taken two days out of next year’s holiday allowance, I thought it was pretty unlikely.
But Dad had it all worked out. ‘I’ll get Charlie Smith-Rivers from the Exeter office to pop in.’
‘But twelve days?’ I said, thinking how much I hated Charlie Smith-Rivers, who always swanned around pretending he knew more than everyone else in the room. And nothing was ever in the right place when he left.
Twelve consecutive days with India. I hadn’t spent much time with her outside of work for ages and I was barely managing to get through this lunch as it was.
‘Well, that’s how long the cruise is.’
‘Where are we going?’ India said.
‘You fly in to New York. Then board the Reine de France, sail up the East Coast to Halifax and then back to Southampton across the Atlantic.’ Mum read out the itinerary from her phone.
‘Wow,’ India breathed, her blue eyes wide.
The mental image of the elderly Zimmer walkers faded and was replaced by one of glamorous, fur-swathed Hollywood stars, politicians and Princess Margaret complete with cigarette holder. It was quite possible, too, that Noël Coward would be playing the piano in one of the cocktail lounges. I didn’t know why but I seemed to have slipped back several decades.
‘That’s really generous,’ I said, trying to concentrate on something other than absolute panic at being on board a ship, in the middle of the ocean, with my sister. Think of the shoes, I told myself, the evening dresses (I’d have to buy some new ones), gala dinners and sparkly things. Really, given the chance, I could be pathetically shallow.
India leapt up and wrapped her arms around Mum’s shoulders.
‘Mum, can I borrow your turquoise evening bag, the one with the beads?’ she wheedled.
You see? She was no better. I was about to ask the same thing. Perhaps we still had something in common after all?
Chapter Two
The Wet Spot
Dry Gin, Apricot Brandy, Elderflower Liqueur, Apple Juice, Lemon Juice
Dad took us to Heathrow very early on September 23rd.
By then I had parked all my reservations and prejudices about joining a boat full of old crocks with my wedding-obsessed sister, especially after Mum gave me a pretty stern talking-to about being the bigger person, making allowances, blah blah blah. Yes, Mum, okay. So I did my best to think positively. I was firing on all cylinders and ready to go. I mean, if nothing else, we were going to spend a few hours in an airport lounge, complete with free champagne and magazines, before flying to New York. As far as holidays went, this was a result.
After a tearful farewell dinner with Jerry the previous night, India, burdened with a hangover, had spent most of the car journey convincing herself our flight would crash into the Queen Mother Reservoir shortly after take-off, or – failing that – into the Atlantic, where our remains would never be discovered. She’d always been a bit dramatic when it came to air travel. No idea where she got it from, what with our parents spending more time in the air than on the ground these days.
Dad eventually reassured her by promising that if anything happened he and Mum would throw a wreath over the probable crash site and give Jerry the insurance money. There had then been a mild argument about whether Jerry should get my insurance payout too. Once we had agreed Mum and Dad would get my bit and put it towards a world cruise, India calmed down and got into the spirit of things, which was good as we were just coming up to departures and I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. Surprisingly, the subject of the wedding hadn’t come up once so far. I was just hoping it would stay that way …
Dad hated lengthy farewells at airports because they tended to make him sentimental, or maybe just jealous? I couldn’t think why because, in two days’ time, he was due to get on board a massive Emirates plane to fly first class to Australia. Anyway, we pulled up at the doors of Terminal 5 in good time and he practically chucked us out of the car, slinging our luggage on to a trolley before driving off with a jolly wave through the sunroof.
India and I stared at each other for a moment, unused to being left alone together and, to be honest, rather uncomfortable.
‘Let’s drop our bags and check in first and then head to the lounge?’ I said, not sure I sounded as excited as I should have, but determined to make an effort.
India nodded and we went to get rid of our bags. Heathrow was always busy at this time of year, everyone jetting off for last-minute sunshine, so we had to weave around a lot of luggage racks and pushchairs parked in awkward spots, not to mention massive suitcases wrapped in clingfilm. Then India spotted two very elegant representatives from the Voyage Premiere cruise line waiting behind a help desk and we dragged our cases gratefully over.
They were glamour personified with those slight French accents that always make people sound sexy and interesting, even if they are discussing the Guatemalan economy or washing-up liquid. In short, tight red suits and dinky little hats like saucers, all set off with silk scarves with nautical flags sprinkled all over them and tied in that careless, impossibly chic, way French women probably learn at primary school.
‘Welcome, Miss Fisher and Miss Fisher. Hmm, India and Alexandria; beautiful names. We are delighted to welcome you on the first stage of your exciting journey.’
I watched her fabulously manicured nails typing our details into her computer and waited, as I always did, for her to frown and say I couldn’t go because my passport photograph wasn’t attractive enough or something. However, all that happened was that she produced some glorious red stickers for our cases marked Voyage Premiere. And then she directed us to our private lounge where, as we had hoped, there was free champagne and comfortable chairs where India could nurse her hang
over, flick through Vogue and text Jerry, and I could watch planes taking off and not crashing at all.
India had already been on a strenuous diet and exercise regime since setting the wedding date and I had fully intended to do the same thing, but it hadn’t quite worked out. But I had been on a diet and exercise regime for the last three days, which I thought was better than nothing. Although there hadn’t actually been much exercise, if I was honest, other than lugging my cases on and off the bed and repacking them. And not much diet either, other than not having some toast and marmalade yesterday morning because I was too excited. Oh well, we couldn’t all be a size ten like India, could we?
I had looked at the Voyage Premiere website on several occasions, of course, so I knew what to expect. The photographs of our ship, the Reine de France, showed a selection of exceptionally elegant couples with marvellous teeth who were always laughing and happy, whether they were tasting wine, eating exquisitely fine-tuned canapés in front of a perfect sunset or relaxing in the Jacuzzi while drinking cocktails. Was that even allowed? Alcohol in a Jacuzzi? Perhaps the clientele of the Reine de France were so classy and sophisticated that they didn’t get drunk and force each other’s heads underwater as most of the people I knew would have done.
In the private lounge we looked around, wondering which of the other people were going to be on the ship with us. None seemed quite glossy or elegant enough to fit in on board, but then, as India pointed out, in our jeans and T-shirts, neither did we.
‘That man over there,’ she hissed. ‘He looks the sort.’
The man in question was tall, quite good-looking and had a swoop of grey hair that made him look rather distinguished. He was with a two-dimensional woman in black who looked far too bad-tempered for the Reine de France. I couldn’t imagine her frolicking in a Jacuzzi with a Gin Sling.
Then there were a couple of exotic-looking women who were rocking the big eyebrows, white trousers and perma-tan look. They seemed to have cornered the market in gold jewellery and had six unruly children with them who had taken full advantage of the free refreshments and were busy building a tower with their empty cola bottles. Would they be taking six children on a cruise? Wouldn’t they prefer a fortnight on a beach? Or was I being mean?
Come Away With Me Page 2
