by Celia Imrie
‘Oh, my word!’ fluttered Myriam. ‘Very grateful, I’m sure. I do love a glass of sparklers, deary. Amanda, darling, pull out the chaise lonzh for your friend.’
‘I don’t want to intrude, Mesdames, but your party seemed to radiate happiness. And I was feeling rather lonely in my solitary side seat.’
As Amanda adjusted a chair at the table next to theirs, turning it to join their circle, she noticed that Liliane shuffled her own chair back. It didn’t seem to be so much a move to enable Karl to sit with them, rather an attempt to distance herself from him.
‘Have you all had an interesting day?’
‘You betcha!’ Myriam rolled her eyes. ‘We went to the magic show and the magician made Liliane vanish.’
‘She appears to be here with us now,’ said Karl with a saucy wink.
‘We were all pretty scared,’ said Amanda. ‘It looked as though everything onstage was going wrong but it turns out that that is Arturo’s act. Very convincing it was too.’
‘Liliane was hypnotised! How about that!’ Myriam leaned forward and adjusted her necklace. ‘I’ve always wanted to be hypnotised.’
Karl turned towards Amanda. ‘And did you sort out the problems about your flat in Pimlico, Amanda? Is your son settling in well?’
‘Oh, Amanda, deary, moving to a new house is simply the end!’ Myriam threw a hand out in an expression of exasperation. ‘Don’t they say that it’s up there with all those stress-filled things you shouldn’t do if you want to live a long life, like going out to work or marrying a poverty-stricken buffoon.’ Myriam chortled and was about to carry on when the waiter arrived with a tray of snacks, an ice bucket, four glasses and a bottle of champagne. ‘Lucky the hooch and canopies arrived,’ she said as he laid everything out on the small circular table. ‘I was about to start a long tedious antidote about the last millionaire I married! Saved by the bottle, eh!’
The waiter popped the cork.
Myriam sighed. ‘I adore that smoke which comes out of the top, don’t you?’
‘It isn’t smoke, actually,’ said Karl, matter of fact. ‘It’s the condensation of water and ethanol vapour as the carbon-dioxide molecules expand with the dropping temperature.’
‘Oh my, listen to that, dearies. He’s swallowed a Lexington!’
‘Are you a scientist?’ asked Amanda, surprised at Karl’s detailed reply.
Karl shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I’m in computer finance.’
‘Online banking?’ Amanda nodded to the waiter as he filled her glass.
‘That kind of thing.’ Karl raised his glass. ‘Now I think it’s time for a toast.’
As the women clinked glasses, the ship lurched. Behind the bar, bottles shook and glasses rattled. At a nearby table a wine glass fell to the floor and shattered.
‘What was that?’ Amanda panicked. ‘Did we hit something?’
‘It felt like a large wave,’ said Liliane. ‘According to ze charts, tonight we are heading into quite a storm.’
Amanda was intrigued. ‘Where are these charts? I’d love to see them.’
‘On the landing, Staircase 3, right at the top, by the lifts. Deck 11 or 12. There is a little model of the ship which gets moved every day. But if it was to scale, the ship would be the size of Sicily.’
‘It almost is,’ laughed Myriam.
‘Are we halfway across yet?’ Amanda asked.
‘Please, Amanda!’ Still fiddling with her necklace with one hand, Myriam fluttered her fan with the other. ‘Don’t wish away our hours onboard, deary. Not when we’re all having such a lovely time.’
‘I’m just interested, Myriam,’ said Amanda. ‘And don’t worry, I’m really loving being here on the Blue Mermaid. It’s the familial storm which is happening at home that’s the problem.’ She nodded to Liliane, indicating that she must continue.
Liliane explained: ‘Tomorrow we will get to a point where we will be slightly nearer ze American mainland than ze European one.’ She speared an olive on a cocktail stick and popped it into her mouth. ‘Halfway ship, so to speak. But the isobars are tightly packed, indicating some strong winds, and therefore high seas.’
The ship swayed again, and some champagne spilled over the lip of Amanda’s glass.
‘Is that usual?’ She could feel herself panicking, especially after Liliane’s information that in a few hours the ship would be the furthest from land of the whole voyage.
Liliane put out a pacifying hand. ‘It feels worse because we are at ze bow of the ship, and on the highest deck. Here, every sensation will be multiplied. Zat’s why I love zis bar. In the daytime, you can see for twenty or more miles. It’s quite wonderful.’
Amanda saw that while she was talking to Liliane, Karl had edged his chair even nearer to Myriam and was now practically tête-à-tête with her. Myriam had her hand on her décolletage and was fluttering her eyelashes; Karl was smiling, and leaning in towards her.
Amanda realised, with another pang, that the sight made her feel rather jealous.
How absurd! First envious of people with the young dancing boy, and now Karl.
She’d only met the man for a few hours.
She reminded herself, she was not onboard the Love Boat.
*
Suzy started with the obvious routes. She went to the entertainment office, looking for Melanie intending to ask her straight for Stan’s cabin number, but Melanie was not there. One of the entertainment team, just back in from hosting a pub quiz, explained that Melanie was on duty, dining at the Captain’s table tonight, and wouldn’t really be free till around midnight.
On the off-chance, Suzy asked the quiz host if he could tell her the cabin number of Stan Arbuthnot. He shook his head vigorously. ‘Not allowed to give stuff like that out, I’m afraid. Do you know him?’
‘Melanie was talking about him …’ She could see that this was going nowhere, so she decided to lie. ‘And er … He was at one of my classes. I was going to leave him a book.’
The quizmaster grinned. ‘Simple. Just leave the book with me, and I’ll make sure it gets to him.’
Suzy winced. Caught out!
‘I didn’t bring it down tonight. Didn’t want to lug it around, just in case.’
She edged back towards the door.
‘No worries,’ said the quizmaster. ‘Just drop it in and Melanie will get it to him tomorrow.’
Next Suzy went to the purser’s office. Again she came up with a fudged story about wanting to talk to Stan Arbuthnot about the class tomorrow.
‘If you write a note, I could make sure it gets to his cabin,’ replied a tart little girl behind the counter, who was eyeing the long queue behind Suzy.
Suzy faffed a response. ‘Not a problem,’ she said. ‘It can wait till morning, when my class resumes.’
The girl gave a smug laugh. ‘I really doubt that. Don’t you feel the ship? We’re in for a bit of a rocky night. These people behind you will all be queuing to find out where to go to get the patch.’
‘What’s the patch?’
‘Anti-seasick patch. You fix it behind your ear. Do you want the form?’
The girl held out a piece of paper headed Dealing With Seasickness. Suzy took it and moved away.
A Dixieland jazz band in the central lobby was playing a jaunty tune, and Suzy marched along to the rhythm. Where could she try next? She sat down for a moment, listening to the music, and toyed with staying here and waiting until Stan walked past. He must pass through the lobby eventually, at some point in the voyage – everyone came here on their way to the lifts or the dining rooms, or the ballroom or the cinema. Suzy settled back into the sofa.
But then, what if this Stan Arbuthnot wasn’t their Stan but someone else of the same name?
She would be sitting here for nothing.
No.
This would not do.
The only way was to find the number of the cabin where Stan Arbuthnot slept, and stalk him from there until there was a suitable moment to challenge him.
Where else must it be possible to find room numbers? Whoever took cabin numbers after you first checked in? Suzy couldn’t remember once having had to give her number.
She pulled a copy of the Daily Programme from the nearby table and flicked through the glossy pages. There was nothing, no activity she could see where giving out your room number was called for.
She threw the Programme on to the table and sat back, closing her eyes. She was getting nowhere.
Perhaps she should give up for now, and start again fresh in the morning.
Her stomach rumbled loudly. She realised she hadn’t eaten since her early lunch and had to find some food.
She took a lift up to the cafeteria.
The usual late-night scene: dancers up from the ballroom, their smart attire now slightly awry; men with collars unbuttoned and bow ties askew, women with lipstick smudged or mere outlines remaining. Everyone bustled around the buffet, many of them grabbing a quick supper snack before heading back for more dancing at the late disco; others, exhausted from their evening spent waltzing and foxtrotting, grabbing a hot drink and a biscuit before heading for bed.
In the dark corners of the ‘canteen’ she could see some crew members huddled round a table, tucking into supper.
The ship was rolling quite heavily. People bearing trays were putting in fancy footwork as they zigzagged across the floor, trying to keep their hot drinks from spilling. As everyone had to counterbalance the same waves, they moved in similar directions at precisely the same moment. It looked like a segment from an avant-garde ballet.
Suzy served herself a fried egg, some baked beans and chips. Then she went to the hot-water urn and made herself a cup of strong tea.
She too moved to where it was darker and sat at an empty table and tucked in.
Halfway through her meal she wished she had stopped off at the bar and got herself a glass of wine to go with her snack. That was the downside of eating at the café. No alcohol.
She toyed with asking someone to keep an eye on her tray while she either dashed downstairs to the pub or nipped into the lift and went up to the Seahorse Lounge to grab a glass. Given the sway of the ship she realised it would be quite humorous trying to get it back here in one piece.
Then it struck her.
When you bought an alcoholic drink you did have to give your cabin number. It was the only time anyone ever asked for it, because drinks were the one thing for which you were charged. You signed a piece of paper and wrote down your number! Somewhere there must be a stack of small pieces of paper with Stan’s signature and cabin number on them.
But that was only if he’d had a drink in a bar. And there were quite a few bars onboard. And they had been at sea for almost three days since Stan had apparently boarded. No doubt the bar bills would all be taken from their spikes regularly throughout the day and totted up in the hidden depths of the secure area of the finance offices behind the purser’s office.
Suzy realised she was back to square one.
All this talk of drink had brought on a craving for a long gin and tonic, so, once she had eaten, she went up to the Seahorse Lounge, found an empty seat and ordered one. She kept her eyes scanning the people, looking for a fat, balding man with a purple complexion, probably bellowing tiresome theatrical stories, studded with outrageous name-dropping, to a small party of gullible fans. But no one in this bar came near the description of Stan.
When a very large wave rocked the ship everyone sitting around her let out a little gasp.
The storm they’d all been warned about had arrived.
Suzy had been so determined to find Stan, but sitting here she realised, short of plying Melanie with drink and subjecting her to the third degree, there was no way she could extract his cabin number from her. If she left a note, she would only prewarn him by letting him know she was onboard and give him time to prepare a story.
Mind you, if Stan read his Daily Programme he would soon know she was here. Her photo was in the latest edition.
A group of people asked if she minded them sitting at her table. They then proceeded to discuss Oscar Wilde with her, talking about productions and films they had seen, both filmed versions of his plays and biopics about his life and trial.
She knew that while she was in a public place she could not concentrate on finding Stan. So, after about a quarter of an hour, she finished her drink and, excusing herself, made her way back along the gangways and down the stairs to her cabin.
She chose the staircase nearest to the bar she had been in, at the bow of the ship. This was a mistake. With the rising and falling of the sea, the stairs seemed to fall away beneath your feet, then smash upwards, catching your feet mid-air. It reminded Suzy of a job, years ago, when she had played Peter Pan, and had to spend the whole show swinging about on wires high above the stage. Going down these stairs was just like theatrical flying. There were times during the perilous descent when she thought she must look like a cartoon character, paddling her feet in space while waiting for the ground to come up to meet them.
Once safely on her own deck, without having broken any bones, she turned into the entertainment quarters, passing Ong, her steward, who was squeezed into a corner, piling a trolley high with toiletries for the cabins.
‘Good evening, Miss Marshall.’
‘Good evening, Ong. Heading for bed now?’
‘Getting things organised first.’ The steward indicated the trolley. ‘Tomorrow will be hard day. Many people sick.’
Suzy winced.
‘Do you need a patch?’
‘I’ve got a form, but I think I’ve got sea legs,’ she said to Ong, crossing her fingers. ‘Like you must have.’ She put her keycard into the lock. ‘Goodnight, Ong. Sleep well.’
‘Goodnight, Miss Marshall.’
As Suzy pushed her door open she marvelled at how these stewards knew your name even though they usually only came into your cabin when you weren’t there.
She went inside and threw her bag down on to the bed.
She was about to turn on the little TV, when it hit her.
Stan Arbuthnot must have a steward of his own. That steward would know both his name and his cabin number.
She grabbed her keycard and left the cabin. The trolley was all ready for the morning, stacked and secured, but Ong was gone.
She ran to the landing and saw him heading down the stairs. She clung to the rail and leaped down after him, calling his name.
After giving him a cock-and-bull tale about wanting to be able to present a surprise gift to a friend who didn’t know she was aboard, she asked if maybe any of his steward friends knew a Mr Stanley Arbuthnot. And, if so, might she be able to talk to him? It was Mr Arbuthnot’s steward, she pointed out, that she wished to speak to, not Mr Arbuthnot himself.
Ong gave her a bright smile and said he’d do what he could, then with a cheery wave he headed off downwards in the direction of the lower decks, the Digbeth Road and crew quarters.
Climbing back up the staircase was exhausting. Suzy felt as though her legs were made of lead, every step a mountain which suddenly pressed down like one of those machines in a gym.
She turned into the entertainment quarters.
Any minute now Jason would be heading back.
14
Amanda felt like death.
She was up most of the night hanging over the toilet. Seasickness, she discovered, was relentless.
For several hours she lay on the bed in the darkness, wondering if this state of affairs would last all the way to New York. She hated the creaking noises as the ship rolled from side to side, which seemed to punctuate the waves of nausea which swept over her.
In her few lucid moments, she could hear the wind roaring past her balcony. She remembered some old saw she had been told in her youth: the secret method of combating seasickness was to keep your eyes on the horizon. This was all very well, but how did you do that on a pitch-black moonless night when there was no horizon to be seen?
&nb
sp; She prayed for dawn, wishing with all her heart that she was back on solid ground. Even that lovely cosy dormitory in London, where the worst thing happening was the sound of seven other people snoring, would be preferable to this hell. At least she could run away from that. But there was no way to get off this ship or to escape the relentless rocking and rolling of the sea.
When she saw the first streaks of dawn lighting the sky, Amanda felt wildly relieved. Although her nausea was no better, at least she might be able to contact someone, try to find some medicine or something, anything to put a stop to this horrible feeling.
Some hours later there was a knock on the door. She felt too weak to shout. And when she failed to reply, her steward, thinking no one was inside, naturally enough let himself in.
He briefly entered, saw her on the bed, apologised and turned on his heels.
‘So sorry, Mrs Herbert. I come back later.’
‘I’m not well.’ She waved her hand at him. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The steward was obviously used to situations like this.
‘Shall I get the doctor to come?’ he asked. ‘He can bring pills and patch.’
‘Please!’ Without a second thought, Amanda agreed.
When the steward had gone, she lay back, facing the windows, watching the horizon sway from side to side and heave up and down, until once more she found herself running for the bathroom.
The doctor eventually arrived, bearing a large grab-bag. By this time Amanda was back resting on the bed.
He gave her an injection, and explained how it was much easier to prevent motion sickness than cure it, so next time she should be sure to put on a patch at the start of the voyage. He also told her she’d probably feel drowsy, but, if she could manage it, to get up, dress, and order some room service – anything, but she really should eat. The jab, he advised, would take an hour or so to kick in, and, although it sounded like the worst thing to do, after that, she should get out of her cabin and spend the afternoon trying to do normal things.
Amanda wondered what was normal about being on a floating hotel in the middle of the ocean.
