Sail Away

by Celia Imrie

  In an hour’s time, Jason would be gearing up to put on his eveningwear, ready to grab supper before taking on the ballroom dancers. Suzy hoped to catch him then.

  Back in the cabin, sipping her tea, she opened the laptop and picked up her emails. Another from Emily.

  It really looks as though Jason is responsible for this banking thing. Not only that, but he’s in it with Stan. No one has heard a squeak out of either of them since we left Zurich. I even had Reg on the blower asking if I’d been in touch with Stan. Me! Why would I stay in touch with that odious glutton? What is it with people that they think because you play a double-act with someone that that means you knock about with them in real life? You’d expect that kind of cliché from a member of the public, but not a professional director. Mind you, I suppose we are talking about the charlatan that is Reg Shoesmith!

  Stan and Jason? Suzy baulked at the idea. It seemed an unlikely partnership. But hadn’t Jason said that Stan was also at that disastrous backer’s party? Maybe this was a bluff too. Perhaps Jason and Stan were in cahoots.

  While the computer was still online Suzy moved over to IMDb to look up the afternoon movie’s cast list. She typed in the film’s name: The Dangerous Season. She couldn’t remember the boy character’s name. So she scrolled down the cast list and reached the end. No actor called Jason. At the bottom there was a note saying that April McNaughten had won a BAFTA for her performance as French Resistance heroine Yveline Lenval. Suzy started again at the top of the list. No Jason, no Scott. She was wrong: the child actor wasn’t Jason at all.

  A rap on her door. She went to answer it.

  Standing there, grinning, holding out a plate full of chocolate cake, was Jason.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Sure.’ Suzy tried to remain cool. This was not at all how she expected their encounter to be. She had planned to corner him, catch him off-guard, but here he was presenting himself to her.

  ‘I don’t know how I can convince you, Suze, that I had nothing to do with this bank business. Nothing at all. The only thing I can say is that in the few weeks you have known me, you must know that that’s not the kind of person I am.’

  ‘I didn’t take you for a man who’d get into punch-ups with the director, either. But that happened. And, as a result, we’re all out of a job.’

  Suzy pulled out the desk chair for him, and perched herself on the end of the bed.

  ‘We really need a cup of tea with this,’ said Jason, taking a second plate out and splitting the cakes between the two. ‘But I didn’t have enough hands.’

  Suzy took a breath and went in on the attack.

  ‘Did you scam your friends out of their money, Jason? I really need you to tell me the truth.’

  ‘I don’t know how many times I have to say it, Suze, but it wasn’t me. Honestly, I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Was your own bank account cleaned out?’

  She realised that a good alibi would be for him to say yes, but instead he said, ‘As far as I can see, no.’

  He held out a plate of cake.

  Suzy refused.

  She thought it might choke her.

  ‘You don’t mind if I do? I’m famished.’ He took a huge bite of cake, leaving a brown clown-smile of chocolate on his cheeks. ‘Sorry about that.’ He helped himself to a tissue on her desk. ‘You do realise your internet counter is still logging up minutes?’

  Suzy reached out for the laptop, panicked. What a waste of money!

  ‘No problem.’ Jason swivelled on the seat. ‘I’ll log you off.’

  Suzy didn’t want him touching her computer. Maybe he’d have some trick to get her passwords or something. She grabbed the laptop.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Suze. I know how to do it.’ He stopped suddenly and handed it over to her. ‘Oh. I see.’ He spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘You didn’t want me to see that you’ve been checking up on me.’

  Suzy quickly tapped herself out of internet time.

  ‘Oh Suzy, Suzy, Suzy! You can go on checking me out for ever.’ Jason shook his head. ‘You’re not going to find that I am a serial killer in disguise, or even a high-grade embezzler with a Swiss bank account. I’m just an actor, like yourself.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ Suzy looked him in the eye. ‘I wasn’t checking you out.’

  ‘So why were you looking up my past?’

  Suzy had no idea what Jason was talking about.

  ‘The Dangerous Season?’ he said. ‘It’s there on your screen. Don’t try to deny it.’

  ‘So, it was you? I saw it this afternoon. Why are you not on the cast list?’

  ‘I am.’ Jason flipped back the laptop screen. ‘Right there in black and white.’ He pointed to the character called Henri. ‘Jacques Berry. That’s me.’

  Suzy peered at the screen through his fingers. ‘So where does the Jason Scott come from?’

  ‘I moved to England. I needed a British name. I tried Jacques Berry, but there already was a Jack Barry, and Equity wouldn’t have it. Not that I really would have wanted to use my father’s surname, even if I could have. There was a Jack Scott, too. So professionally I became Jason, because it was more memorable than Jack, which I wasn’t allowed, and Scott for my mother’s maiden name.’

  Suzy decided that while he was in confessional mode she would put another question to him.

  ‘What is your relationship with Stan Arbuthnot?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘What is your relationship with Stan Arbuthnot?’

  Jason gasped.

  ‘Stan, and you. In league.’ Suzy eyed him carefully. ‘Aren’t you in touch with him?’

  ‘What is wrong with you, Suzy? You know very well I cannot stand the man.’

  ‘It’s only that, from the facts I’ve been told, it looks as though you two were running this criminal scam together.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ Jason plonked down his plate of cake heavily on the desk, stood, and backed towards the door. ‘Seriously, Suze? Are you bloody kidding me?’

  He turned and strutted through the door, slamming it behind him.

  Suzy leaped to her feet, knew it was too late and realised that once again she had mishandled the whole thing. Instead of coaxing information out of Jason she had managed to put up an even higher wall between them. Or was it that whenever she touched on to a sensitive subject he got away, slippery fish, evading his need to answer her? Whichever, for all her detective work, she had got no further in finding out whether or not Jason was responsible for the thefts …

  10

  The wind, which had been howling round the decks, whistling through the davits bearing the lifeboats, vibrating through the slats of the wooden sunloungers on Amanda’s balcony, had died down.

  It was already dark enough to need to put the cabin lights on and evening loomed, with its dress code and formal dinner. Tonight, Amanda saw from her Programme, was the Ascot Ball. Presumably this somehow meant wearing a huge hat. She wondered whether all the other passengers had come aboard with a Stephen Jones model.

  That couldn’t be true! When she boarded, she would have noticed a spate of hatboxes lining up to go through the scanner. And that must mean that one had to improvise. Hmmm. She left the cabin to see what she could scavenge in the shops to make up a ‘creation’.

  There were a few hats in the gift shop, but they were sun hats and baseball caps bearing the ship’s logo. Next door in the fashion store there were no hats at all.

  ‘I suppose you ran out of hats because of the ball tonight,’ said Amanda to the girl behind the counter.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied the girl, with a smile. ‘We never stock hats, with the exception of the odd fascinator for onboard weddings and things.’

  ‘So where does everyone get their hats for the ball? Or have I got it wrong? The Ascot Ball – I presumed it had to be hats.’

  Amanda pulled out the day’s Programme and presented it to the girl, who laughed.

  ‘Of course! Look down
here. There’s a competition for best hat. Plus, if you rush down to the art studio on Deck 2, it looks as though there’s a hat-making workshop happening right now.’

  Thanking her, Amanda left the shop and made her way down to the studio. It was in the lower parts of the ship, where the echoing walls were unapologetic iron, painted in cream gloss. The hat-making studio was definitely happening here. Amanda could hear the bustle and laughter resonating along the metal gangway.

  She turned into the crowded room, where a hubbub of earnest people crouched over tables laden with coloured paper, tissue, cardboard, rolls of net, glue guns, tinsel, glitter and all kinds of ribbons and streamers. Some were giggling as they modelled their creations, others were solemnly stapling swathes of glittering net to long pieces of card.

  ‘Amanda! Darling! Come and help me pin.’ Across the room, Myriam La-Grande-Motte was waving with one hand while pressing a strip of tangerine card, covered in glittering sequins, up to her forehead. ‘Tyger has of course made the most divine creation. I predict he’ll be the new Philippe Tracy. Look at that hat!’

  Tyger stood in the corner, regarding himself in the mirror. On his head was a black and white top hat with a huge satin bow and an adornment like a paper feather, which resembled the keys of a piano. Amanda could see it might well pass for a Philip Treacy!

  She leaned in to whisper to Myriam. ‘I am hopeless with my hands. Never could do all that Blue Peter stuff with Fairy Liquid bottles and sticky-backed plastic.’

  ‘Who’s blue Peter? He sounds like a very naughty boy!’ Myriam gave a throaty laugh. ‘Tyger will help you. He may not be blue, but he’s very gifted.’ She presented the back of her head to Amanda. ‘Sweetie, could you just fix that clip so that I can staple it together?’

  Amanda fiddled with the clip then gingerly removed the orange hat from Myriam’s head. ‘There you go. Now for me to start. What colour do you think would suit?’

  ‘What are you planning to wear with it?’ asked Tyger, gathering pieces of grey card from the table.

  Amanda mentally ran through her wardrobe, and decided on the long red evening dress.

  ‘There are many shades of red, Amanda,’ said Tyger. ‘Scarlet? Crimson? China red?’

  ‘What is China red?’ asked Amanda.

  ‘In the UK I think it might be postbox red,’ said Tyger, his fingers manipulating the card into fantastic shapes. ‘Or maybe phonebox red. Or doubledecker-bus red to you.’

  ‘Yes. That would be the one. China red.’ Amanda felt awkward asking this boy for help, but could see that he was excited by the prospect of making another hat.

  ‘Do I assist you?’ she asked him. ‘Or do I just stand here and watch?’

  ‘Choose your favourite sparkly things or some point of interest for me to use,’ he said, wrapping the grey card around her head. ‘While I create the base.’

  ‘I’ve always adored balls, haven’t you, deary?’ asked Myriam, snatching a piece of flame-coloured velvet from the table and stabbing it on to her orange card with a safety pin. ‘Can never get enough balls. The bigger the better.’

  Amanda wondered whether Myriam really knew the things she said were ambiguous or if she maybe did it for effect. It certainly got the people around the table giggling into their chins.

  ‘I’m hoping to get another exhilarating tango with that charming boy, Jason.’ Myriam’s laugh pierced the intense concentration of the others gathered in the room. ‘Phwoar! He’s actually a professional, you know, working for the ship, but he’s a great little mover, and when you shimmy with a handsome young blade like him you can’t help feeling as though you’re Ginger Rogers.’

  ‘As opposed to ginger-vitis,’ said Tyger, stabbing a pair of plastic cherries on to Amanda’s hat.

  *

  Suzy went down to the entertainment office. A quizmaster was consulting some huge books and hastily writing out a page of questions. Nearby, the social and German language hostesses were bent over the photocopier, fitting a new ink cartridge.

  ‘Scheisse!’ called out the German secretary, as the ink cartridge tumbled on to the floor. ‘Pardon my French!’

  In the corner, Blake was concentrating on a computer screen where the next day’s Programme was displayed.

  ‘Hi, Suzy!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Just coming to print out some notes for tomorrow morning’s class. The students wanted to have some exercises to take away with them.’

  ‘We used to hand them useless diplomas in acting!’ Blake laughed. ‘Some people even got them framed at the photo shop.’

  ‘Diplomas?’ asked Suzy.

  ‘Bits of fancily printed paper which said they had successfully attended six classes and were therefore proficient in acting, blah-blah-blah. Meaningless. But people like make-believe things like that. Stuff they can put in their cases and show people back home. Bits of fakery.’

  ‘You don’t think people actually try to use them to get jobs, do you?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Blake, pressing return on tomorrow’s newsletter and sending it off to the print queue. He twirled round in his seat and faced Suzy. ‘Got any ideas for awards or things like that you could give out during your classes?’

  The two women at the photocopier let out a yelp as the machine lurched into action.

  ‘Who needs technicians?’ laughed Melanie, the social hostess. ‘Do you have your document ready to go into the queue, Suzy?’

  Suzy handed it over.

  ‘There’s about a five-minute wait, I think, if you want to go off and come back later to pick them up.’

  Suzy perched against the long counter, littered with lists, books and clipboards. She preferred to stay, to let Blake know she was serious about the job.

  ‘Don’t you go dizzy having to balance all this stuff?’ She waved her hands at the paperwork. ‘And dealing with the public too.’

  Melanie laughed. ‘It’s only a problem when you get whiners.’

  ‘There’s always at least one,’ said Blake, rising and stretching. ‘ “You call this cabin luxury? My dog’s kennel is bigger.” Or “Why do they always play country music for the line-dancing class, I prefer classical.” You wonder if some people don’t spend their whole life trying to find something to complain about.’

  Near to Suzy a phone rang.

  Melanie picked up.

  ‘Good evening, social hostess speaking.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, that’s right, sir. It’s the Ascot Ball, as it says in your Daily Programme.’ She cupped her hand over the receiver and shook the phone as though she would break it. ‘Yes. That’s right. Hats … It is customary to wear a hat, but it is not compulsory.’ She gritted her teeth while the man spoke. ‘Certainly, sir. It’s more usual for a woman to wear a hat, but there are many men who like to join in. It’s entirely up to you, sir. I’m sure no one will mind whether you choose to wear a hat or if you don’t. Thank you. No. No problem at all, sir. Enjoy your evening!’ She hung up and stuck her tongue out at the phone.

  She swung round to face Suzy. ‘That’s one of the annoying ones. Instead of simply reading his Daily Programme like everyone else, he phones up to check on every detail of what is “usual”.’

  ‘Makes me wonder why I bother to write the bloody things if people don’t read them,’ said Blake, pulling a stack of papers from the copier. ‘Instead of sweating over a hot computer every evening, I could be propping up the bar in the Digbeth Road.’

  ‘Digbeth?’ asked Suzy. ‘In Birmingham?’

  Blake laughed.

  ‘No, it’s our name for the lower portions of the ship. The private crew-only quarters. Has no one taken you down there?’

  ‘No.’ Suzy loved the idea.

  ‘Canteen for the waiters, and chefs. Bar for officers and crew. It keeps you sane when you can escape from the passengers now and then – go off duty. It’s not as though the crew could pop home for the evening, and as you’ve probably noticed, once you are out of your cabin you are always on
duty.’

  The copier beeped.

  ‘That’ll be your document starting.’ Melanie strolled across and whipped out a stack of paperwork. ‘Tomorrow’s class! Napkin folding. Care to come, Suzy?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Ten o’clock.’

  ‘Exact clash with mine, I’m afraid.’ Suzy wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. ‘Pity. I’ve always wanted to make one of those water lilies, or even a cardinal’s hat.’

  ‘Here you are then.’ Melanie laughed and handed Suzy one of the illustrated pages, still warm from the copier. ‘With that, as they say, you can work ’em up at home.’

  *

  Amanda whooped it up as everyone in the ballroom marched around to the Ascot Gavotte.

  She and Tyger walked hand in hand, while, behind them, Myriam danced along with a gentleman host, also wearing a fetching hat. Chris and Jennie sat stolidly in the front row, arms crossed, neither wearing hats, both looking glum.

  ‘Some people!’ said Amanda, nodding and smiling as she passed them. ‘They seem determined to be miserable. Don’t ever be like those two, Tyger. Whenever something gets you down try to find the sunshine. And don’t create your own gloom when everything is absolutely fine. Just look at them!’

  ‘They’re awful people,’ Tyger muttered, as though scared he would be overheard, although by now the dance had moved them to the other side of the floor. ‘They think that only the things that they believe are right.’

  ‘Desperate to be ordinary.’

  ‘That sounds like a book.’ Tyger slid slightly and gripped Amanda’s hand. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll write it.’

  ‘Do you want to be a writer, Tyger?’

  ‘I’m not sure what I want, yet. But I know that if I do write I’ll have to experience everything, to know what it’s like for real before I set it down.’

  ‘Not quite everything. I think you’ll find that Shakespeare and Dickens used quite a lot of imagination.’