by C. J. Skuse
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I think we’re both in a silly mood.’
‘Anyway, we’re not in Genoa. Did you not hear the announcement?’
‘What announcement?’
‘On the public address, first thing. We’re still at sea.’
Out on deck, Elton John was blaring out and I was expecting to see a port and heaps of shipping containers and cranes and a terminal building, but there was only sea and the ship had stopped dead in the middle of it. Passengers were craning their necks over the railings.
‘Someone’s gone overboard,’ said Caro as we walked past the two-person-deep lines for railings towards the Diamond Deck staircase.
‘Oh no, that’s awful,’ I said, trying to pack my face with the same amount of concern as her. I probably just looked like I was trying to stifle a fart. ‘Anyone we know?’
A passing deck hand – Devonte – filled us in on the deets.
‘Yeah, it was some time last night,’ he said, pointing up to the Jumbotron above the kids’ pool – a photo of the passenger, taken in happier times, raising a glass at some bleary-eyed, grey-gravy Christmas piss-up.
‘Goodness me, it’s that poor chap!’ cried Caro, her hand to her mouth the way people always do when they’re genuinely shocked. I did the same, more to hold back an ill-timed laugh.
‘His name’s John Carraway,’ said Devonte. ‘Did either of y’all see him last night at dinner? We’re trying to piece together his last movements.’
‘No,’ said Caro. ‘I think the last time I saw him was yesterday morning, walking around the pool. I was at bridge all evening.’ She looked at me.
‘Yeah, I was…’ Shagging my room steward before actively encouraging the old funt to go shark-side, if you must know. But to save face I said, ‘At the squash tournament.’
‘We’ve sent out three rescue boats. Something’s been spotted nearby,’ said Devonte, ‘and we’ve informed the coastguard so we just gotta pray now.’
‘Yeah, that always helps,’ I said piously.
‘It’s sad.’
‘So sad,’ said Caro.
‘It’s a sad, sad situation,’ I added. But Caro looked at me again with an expression I couldn’t read.
At breakfast, I caught her looking at me in the same way as I scrolled through Mabli’s latest vlog post on the iPhone 4. Her micro pig had got out onto the road and been hit by a car. Kid couldn’t catch a break when it came to animals. And when I looked up, Caro’s steely greys were on me like magnets. ‘What?’
‘You don’t seem all that concerned about John Carraway.’
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know the guy, do I?’
‘I suppose not.’ She sipped her coffee, flicking through her Cruise Letter.
‘So should I cancel Beatrice if you’ve got cold feet?’
‘I don’t have cold feet. I just don’t think it’s a useful idea for us to meet.’
‘Useful? What do you mean useful?’
‘Well, it’s not as though…’ But she couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘I know what you’re going to say. “It’s not as though we’d have much of a future together anyway because I’m dying and we’re all old and stuff.”’
She was about to argue but stopped herself at the last moment. ‘That’s exactly what I was going to say, yes.’
‘Well, don’t look at it as this important meeting which could impact how you spend the last days of your existence – look at it as meeting an old friend for lunch. An old friend who wants to see you. That’s all.’
‘You seem different today. Sort of happier.’
‘I am,’ I said, chewing toast. Caro looked out to sea and I nicked her Cruise Letter. ‘So what are we doing then? There’s a hop-on, hop-off bus tour of Genoa, a peek at Cinque Terre, a hike through Portofino, a coastal hop ending with the pretty markets of Alassio… Alassio.’
The name rang a distant bell. I couldn’t think where I’d heard it before but the name stuck in my head like a cocktail stick.
‘We can do Alassio if you want,’ said Caro, scooping out her grapefruit.
Alassio was where Marnie’s family had come from. She told me once that’s where she would go if she ever left her Übermensch husband Tim.
I wondered if I could go to Marnie instead of waiting for Dannielle to come up with the goods. At least I knew Marnie. At least I knew she loved me. Well, she hadn’t told on me. Yet. As far as I knew. I could go to her.
I spent a good hour seriously considering it, all through breakfast and when I got back to my cabin to pack my bag for the day but—
Realistically, calling on Marnie was not a great plan, for three reasons:
I’d left her husband down a deep, dark well to die a slow death. However much of a prick he had been to her, she wouldn’t have wanted her baby’s father to die like that. Marnie was a good person which was why, despite how much I liked her, we could never truly be friends.
If I did get caught, she’d be an accessory for hiding me. And I didn’t want anyone else to pay for my crimes, least of all her.
I wanted her to be happy. And free. And safe. Like Ivy. And the best way of achieving that was to ensure I was nowhere near her.
As I was leaving my cabin, the announcement came over the PA system.
‘Everyone – this is your captain. We regret to inform you that the Genoa excursions have had to be abandoned today while we search for the passenger who has tragically fallen overboard in the night. We will remain at sea for as long as we can. Our rescue boats are out searching the area for him…’
You won’t find him, I thought. I weighed him down.
‘These are exceptional circumstances. For anyone who had a shore excursion booked, the cost will be refunded to your Sea Pass cards and we will be putting on extra entertainments while you remain on the ship…’
Great. More line dancing and volleyball tournaments for the win.
‘…a revised Cruise Letter will be posted into your cabins within the hour. We hope you have an enjoyable day aboard the Flor de la Mer.’
I sat on the bed. A window of opportunity had opened but I had slammed it in my own face. Yet another infamous boo-boo. Not only could I not get off the ship, I couldn’t get any damn phone signal either, and for who knew how long? Dannielle could have found my one-way ticket out of Europe and be desperately calling me to make arrangements for all I knew. I was getting antsy in my massive maternity panties.
Meanwhile, I was stuck on the ship, in a Wonka-a-Thon in the Classic Lounge with shrieking children. Ivy was on my mind again and I needed to be where children were not but I was stuck on a ship full of them.
I ventured to the nearest child-unfriendly space – the gym.
There weren’t many people about – two middle-aged lumps in full make-up chatting on neighbouring treadmills, a 60-something woman who’d gone so hard with a tan towel she’d changed race, and a Russian guy doing bench presses and swearing at the FTSE index tickertape on Sky News.
There were full-length mirrors all over the place so everywhere I turned I couldn’t avoid the sight of my strangely shaped new body – my bigger arse, giant tits and disgusting stomach. All the treadmills were facing the mirrors – like what kind of arrogant gimp chooses to watch themselves flap about?
I chose the one treadmill facing the only blank wall and a TV showing Babe: Pig in the City. I stayed there for two hours – sometimes walking, sometimes running – and as the credits rolled I felt slightly better about things; sweaty, but less frustrated. Tired, but less angry. I remembered Mabli saying in one of her videos about her hamsters running their wheels all night long ‘to get their stress out’. It had worked for me too.
Of course when Ryan Prosser appeared, towel around his shoulders, loose-fitting vest and bulge-prominent shorts, new emotions crept into view. He spotted me and lifted a hand to wave and I carried on pedalling my recumbent bike, pretending I was concentrating.
Sandra Huggins’ mu
rder was the third item on Sky News, after the plane crash and ‘the worst cold snap to hit the UK in years’. I tilted my cap to cover my eyes. They didn’t call her Sandra Huggins – they called her Jane Richie, her alias. No link to her paedophile past. Police were on the hunt for the ‘sadistic killer’ who’d ended her life with an axe.
There were tickertape updates of the ‘grisly find’ in the quiet West Country town. Drone shots of motorists slowing on the dual carriageway to hang out of cars taking selfies with forensics teams. A white tent. Yellow evidence markers where her blood had dripped from my coat. Pieces of her being carried out in bags by police officers in HazMat suits.
And finally, an update from an officer who wasn’t Géricault – some keen-bean detective sergeant fresh out of the academy called David Stone. He stood outside the police building where they’d interviewed me.
‘We can confirm that an arrest was made today of a woman who has confessed to organising the adoption of Rhiannon Lewis’s baby…’
Which meant Heather Wherryman.
‘…we can also confirm that the baby is safe and well and in good hands. It appears Lewis gave birth and handed her over before she left the UK…’
Which meant Claudia Gulper.
‘And can you confirm whether you are any closer to catching Rhiannon?’
‘We are following a number of lines of inquiry but it is too soon to say…’
Which meant no. I couldn’t stop my mouth from stretching into a wide smile. Safe and well and in good hands. That was all I needed to know. They had a small fridge in the gym with fresh flannels rolled up in neat stacks. I was dabbing myself as Ryan sauntered over to grab one himself.
‘Hey, Hilary,’ he said, one fingerless-gloved hand around an isotonic drink. He’d generated enough sweat on his cotton vest to float a lifeboat. ‘I saw you deep in concentration there so I didn’t want to disturb.’
‘Ahh cheers, yeah, trying to work off some choccy biccies I had earlier,’ I said brightly, almost bouncing with renewed energy.
‘We’ve been hitting the chocolate a bit lately too. Jayde gets pissed off with all my training but I don’t wanna stop it cos it makes you lazy.’
‘I agree,’ I said, wiping my brow. He was shifting about on his feet and I have learned that this is a tell that people are trying to get away from you. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of dumping my ass like his beautiful bitch wife had done at lunch the other day at lunch so I got in there first.
‘Well, have a good one, catch you later!’ I was halfway to the door.
‘Hang on a sec,’ he said, as my face flashed on the screen behind him – a different photo where Craig had been cropped out at the Gazette’s last Christmas party. Lana was in the background, drinking WKD.
‘What’s up?’ I said, feet pointing in the direction I needed to go – out.
‘Jayde wanted to apologise for leaving you in the shit yesterday. She said you’d gone to lunch with her and she had to go. She wanted to explain.’
‘Oh no wukkas,’ I said, with a flap. ‘My language can be a bit much when I’ve blown the froth off a few. I’d avoid me too if I had the chance!’
‘No, no, it wasn’t you,’ he said urgently, still shifting awkwardly. ‘We had a bit of an emergency – Jayde miscarried.’
‘Miscarried?’ I said, my whole body flushing through with ice water. The little fridge towel was warm in my hand. ‘She was pregnant?’
‘Yeah.’ Ryan looked down. ‘Only eight weeks. We weren’t going to tell anyone yet…’ His face changed – he was crying. ‘It was awful. She’s being a warrior as usual and I’m the mess. I haven’t left her side till now – she made me come down here and… I can’t focus. Anyway, she wanted you to know she’s sorry she left you.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Ryan,’ I said quietly. The picture behind him was of my face again, square on, green eyes, unmistakable.
‘I wanna take her and the kids into Florence tomorrow when the ship docks in La Spezia. Try and give them a nice day. Would you come with us?’
‘Come to Florence with you?’
‘Yeah. No-Mum-and-Dad day,’ he smiled, wiping his cheek roughly with the back of his hand. ‘The kids have been asking after you – Ty keeps on about his “Best Friend Hilly”.’
My chest glowed from the inside out. ‘Yeah, I love that little dude.’
‘And, well, anything you can do to perk Jayde up, would be magic too. We’ll pay for your ticket, of course. Unless you’ve got something on?’
I pulled the cracked iPhone 4 out of my tracksuit. Having a full signal was reason enough to leave the ship and going on an excursion but with the Prossers in toe would at least afford me some kind of anonymity. ‘I’m free as a kookaburra, mate. Course I’ll join you. Wild roos wouldn’t keep me away.’
Another wave of emotion had taken him over and he was rolling with the tide. And it took me a few moments to realise this would probably be the moment to hug him. So I hugged him – more for me than for him. And he gripped on tightly – definitely more for him than for me.
Thursday, 10 January – Florence
People on social media who are all: ‘Eight days till my wedding!’ ‘Eleven months till our holiday!’ ‘Eighteen more years till my kid puts me in a care home!’ ‘Ten more minutes till I drive a stake through your ear.’
Anyone who uses a selfie stick
Anyone who wears sandals with feet that look like they’ve been dug up by an archaeologist
Snap-happy blonde on the bus to Florence who had discovered her iPhone had a camera – ‘Ooh an Italian drainpipe’, ‘ooh some Italian monument’, ‘ooh an Italian tramp having a shit in a doorway.’
Our excursion leader Doreen – ‘You understand where we meet, yes?’ ‘You hear time we back at bus, yes?’ ‘You enjoy yourself, yes?’ I didn’t know which were questions and which were direct orders
Learner drivers – here’s your first lesson. Use your fucking accelerator
The ship docked in La Spezia at 8.30 a.m. for the day’s excursions to Florence. But even when the iPhone had achieved full signal, there were still no messages from Dannielle Fairly. No voicemails, texts, no nothing.
Tu piezza di merda!
Fottuta stronza inutile!
Spero che tuo padre morto si alzi dalla tomba e faccia una merda nella tua vasca da bagno!
At least I had enough signal to look up Italian ways of saying she was a useless bitch and that I hoped her dead dad rose again to do a shit in her bathtub.
Sunny with a chance of rain, said the Cruise Letter. Turned out it was pissing down in La Spezia, with ‘a chance of brightening up later’ said the weather channel so they had that ass-backwards. Nothing on that sodding Cruise Letter was true. It also said the on-board entertainment was ‘among the best in the world’. That’s if the best includes acrobats who can’t balance, comedians who aren’t funny and singers who couldn’t hit a note with a shovel.
In my opinion, obvs.
When I got up to the Diamond Deck breakfast room to show Caro the latest message from Beatrice – a picture Enzo had scanned in showing both women younger and in bikinis on rocks as the waves sprayed up behind them – she was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t in her stateroom either.
‘She left early for the wine excursion,’ her room steward informed me as he sorted through towels on his trolley.
‘Caro doesn’t do excursions,’ I frowned.
‘That’s where she said she was going.’
If I didn’t know better, I’d have said Caro was avoiding me. I hadn’t been able to find her the night before either. So much for seeing me through my pain and helping me out. She’d ticked that particular box now, had she?
Nevertheless, I was booked on the Florence Museums tour with the Prossers and I had a job to do. I had to go into Super Turbo Hilary mode with extra sprinkles to help them over their miscarriage. I didn’t disappoint.
I bought Ty a colouring book for the two-hour coach ride into Florence a
nd regaled Ryan and Jayde throughout with jokes, anecdotes and tales of Bruce’s suspected food poisoning which meant he was still laid up in bed with the shits. Ty loved all the fart noises. And despite the air-conditioning on the coach being as effective as being breathed on by a small dog for two hours, generally I was a jokey, sparkly delight to be around.
I owned that coach journey. I was Hilary Sharp, commander of them all, general defender of children and animals, mother to an abandoned child, wife to a non-existent husband, Australian when she remembered.
And I would have my gelato, in this life or the next.
Jayde seemed OK, as far as I knew. Well, she didn’t cry. But I’m about as good at gauging emotions as I am at windsurfing, so who knew? As for myself, I was much more serene now – in a genuine, bouncily happy Hilary-esque mood now I knew Ivy was well. An emotional roadblock had been cleared and I could see a road beyond it again.
The moment the coach stopped in Florence, Hilary was sucked right up the drainpipe and Rhiannon emerged, like Pennywise’s balloon.
My expectations of Florence had been sizeable – Michelangelo’s David, the Palazza Vecchio, the Uffizi, the Duomo, the best pizza on earth, the best gelato in all Italy – and I’m pleased to say they were all met.
By somebody who isn’t me.
Because my experience of Florence was this – fucking tourists.
Not literally fucking tourists – just fucking tourists. Every fucking turn.
If you weren’t being pummelled and pushed out of the way by tourists over-eager to get their fifty-eighth Instagram shot of the Ponte Vecchio or a bench where some syphilitic pre-Raphaelite once got railed, you were being harassed by street hawkers thrusting selfie sticks and shit watercolours in your face. I say You, I of course meant Me.
The one highlight was a text from Dannielle Fairly. It said this:
Tenoch Espinoza, Hacienda Santuario, Camino Cabo Este, Rocas Calientes.
WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? I sent back, but again, nothing was clarified. It looked like I was going to a Spanish-speaking country at least. Bobby had mentioned South America, so that narrowed it down. I tried not to think about it until I got more info. Tried to lose myself in the priceless art all around me.
