by AJ Collins
I push Snap’s door open a fraction. The blind is drawn, and there’s a vaporiser on the floor beside his bed, hissing eucalyptus steam. He’s out cold, the doona pulled up to his chin, his hair pasted to his scalp. Poor thing.
In the kitchen, Shirley is waiting for the kettle to boil. There’s a pile of chocolate chip biscuits on a plate. My stomach growls; I forgot breakfast.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to use this coffee machine.’ She points to the Aldi pod machine on the counter. The one Snap’s always going on about replacing with a proper espresso machine with a gurgly milk frother. When we’re rich.
‘It’s okay, I’ll do it.’ I reach for the packet of pods, then think about the noise the machine is going to make. ‘Actually, I’ll have tea too.’
Shirley pops a bag in my cup. It’s a different brand to our usual. She’s either brought them with her or been shopping. She concentrates on negotiating the boiling kettle. I’m about to tell her to be careful, the lid’s cracked, but she manages just fine with her shaky hands. Her fragility reminds me of Snap’s first day out of hospital, when I forced myself to take a back seat and let him deal with everyday stuff.
Which makes me wonder: why has she only turned up now? Not when Snap really needed her? I’m blunt. ‘I thought you would have come to see him at the hospital.’
She flinches, stops pouring and lowers the kettle to the bench. She looks thoughtful, choosing her words while focusing on the cups.
‘I wanted to. I could have I suppose. But ...’ Her face is distressed, her hand moves to her forehead as if she has a sudden headache. I’m not sure if she’s faking it.
‘Hospitals remind me of all the time we spent ... his mother ...’ She shakes her head. ‘And I thought he might be angry with me. Sending money is one thing but ... I’ve missed so much time with my grandson.’ She smiles, hopeful. ‘He doesn’t mind though. He’s just happy I’m here now. And I’m happy to be here.’
She waits for my response, as if seeking my approval. Or forgiveness. Something. I nod. She sighs. ‘I suppose I have you to thank for that.’
I blush. Maybe she’s real after all. ‘So, you’re staying for a while?’
‘I hope so. But ... oh, if you need your room back—’
‘No, no. I’m leaving tomorrow on a cruise. It’s just Snap and I ... well, he was kind of shitty with me when I last saw him. I wanted to make sure he was okay. I’m glad ... relieved you’re here to take care of him.’
‘Me too.’
I chomp into a biscuit. ‘Starving.’
‘Good, hey? I made them,’ she says.
‘Mmmm.’ I reach for a second one. I am glad she’s here.
A few hours later, I’ve trawled the local op shops, scoring a couple of summer dresses, three t-shirts, a pair of cut-off shorts and old suitcase. As I arrive back home, my phone beeps.
Snap: Soz Kitten. Phone on silent. Miss you. Forgive me? Know I’ve been a bitch. BTW Gran makes bitchin’ scones. Come back tomorrow
Me: Can’t. Cruise. See you in a couple of weeks. All forgiven. Love you.
Snap: !!! Go get him, girlfriend
19. Sanguine
I peer out the window as my taxi rolls into the terminal. Wide-eyed as a kid, I stare at the ship – a white giant, towering above the port buildings. Passengers huddle in a queue snaking towards the luggage dock. Most are rugged up against Sydney’s drizzle, a few are hopeful in colourful summer clothing. They pull their wheeled suitcases behind, chatting and checking documents as they inch forward. I spot a young boy in a Hawaiian shirt, separated from his family. His face is tilted up, and he’s frowning at what he probably imagined would be a humungous and pristine cruise liner. Humungous it is. Pristine it’s not. Rust stains have dripped down its flanks, and as my taxi draws closer the layered patches where the rust has been painted over, again and again become apparent. Still, the ship’s presence is impressive.
I spot Harry before he sees me. He’s waiting outside the check-in terminal. I do a double take: he’s shaved off his beard. I like it. Then I go all hot and flushy remembering being in his bed. Maybe he’s forgotten? Fat chance; I was a fruitcake.
Now comes the crunch: how do we greet each other? I’ve been mulling over this dilemma on the plane trip, picturing him grabbing me, and me kicking up a heel, and us kissing like long lost lovers. Lame. Especially since I’ve still got this damned cold. But seriously. Do we hug? Exchange a peck on the cheek? Go back to our careful ‘professional’ relationship? And then there’s the cabin thing. Can I cope with that for twelve days?
Harry sees me and breaks into a grin. His teeth look ridiculously white against his tan. His hair is shorter, messy and wavy. Cute. He lopes towards the taxi, opening my door with a bow like a posh concierge. ‘Good trip, m’lady?’ He tries to look bright-eyed for me, but he’s obviously tired. Why? Aren’t cruises supposed to be ... cruisey?
‘Lovely, thank you. Have you prepared my cabin?’
‘But, of course. How are you feeling?’
‘Better. Still a bit snotty. Love the new look.’
I pay the driver, then take Harry’s offered hand. The wind catches my skirt as I climb out of the taxi. I focus on holding it down, glad for the distraction so I don’t have to make the first move. Harry grabs me into a hug, then lets go. I deflate. No kiss? Still, what did I expect? I’m a walking germ factory.
‘Look at that,’ he says, peering at the sky. ‘The rain just stopped.’
I shrug, nonchalant. ‘Well, I did order clear weather for my arrival.’
The driver pops the boot, and we head around the back of the taxi. Harry looks at the Hello Kitty backpack sitting beside my suitcase.
‘Sweet.’
I lift it up and tuck my purse into an outside zipper pocket. ‘No disrespecting the kitty bag. I kinda stole it from Snap.’
Harry insists on carrying my suitcase. Fine by me. Inside the terminal, we queue for our passes, just like all the other passengers. I notice there’s a separate line for crew that’s moving quicker.
‘Aren’t we crew? Don’t we get some perks?’
‘No. We’re guest entertainers. We get guest privileges. Trust me, it’s better. Once we’ve done our gigs, we can do what we like. Crew have extra hours, extra duties.’
The queue moves forward a place.
‘You know, as soon as we get free time, and the sun decides to put in an appearance, you’ll find me on a lounger, cocktail in hand.’
Harry nods. ‘Have you brought some Travacalm?’
‘Oh, yeah. I took it in the taxi. Not taking any chances.’
Harry shuffles my suitcase forward as the line moves again. I turn my attention to the receptionist at the counter. Her hair is pulled back so tight it’s giving her an eyebrow lift. She cheerfully greets each new passenger as they approach, then her expression drops as she doles out documents with a spiel she’s obviously repeated a thousand times.
Harry pokes me in my side. ‘Excited?’
‘Yeah.’ I crack a grin. I am. I actually am.
‘Miss me?’
I look up, intending to give a flippant answer, but something in his eyes catches me off guard. I’m hit with the memory of him standing in the doorway of his apartment saying goodbye. He had the same look then. Uncertainty. And now something suddenly occurs to me: I have some power here.
‘Nah.’ I toss my head, brushing off the moment.
‘Me neither.’
He nudges me with his shoulder, and I nudge him back. Good. Let’s keep it light.
It takes a good forty minutes to reach the counter and another twenty in the luggage queue before we’re free to board. We stop to have our photo taken at the security booth just inside the gangway. The booth operator is blank faced. I smile at him, but he doesn’t respond.
‘Passport and pass,’ he says. There’s no ‘please’.
We hand them over and Harry explains the process. ‘This is where we embark and disembark at islands
with ports. Check-in, check-out. If there’s no port, we take a tender. Same deal.’
I assume a tender is some kind of boat, but I don’t want to look stupid, so I nod. He leads the way along several corridors, then down two flights. A young, uniformed guy backs out of a cabin, pulling a vacuum cleaner with him. Harry’s already told me most of the service crew are Filipino, and they live and work on the lower decks of the ship on six-month to year-long contracts. I can’t imagine spending so much time with hardly any daylight.
‘Thomas.’ Harry waves.
‘Ah, Mr Harry. You’re back for another trip?’
‘Yep. I tried to escape, but they caught me.’ Harry turns to me. ‘Lauren, this is Thomas. He’s the man to ask if you need something.’
We shake hands, then Thomas moves aside so we can get by. We trundle further along the corridor and turn right. When we’re out of earshot, I murmur, ‘Glad to see some of the crew are happy. That guy at the security booth could crack rocks with his face.’
Harry nods. ‘Been on board too long. This rabbit warren can do your head in. Last week one of the orchestra musos got sacked for wandering around drunk in his underwear at two in the morning.’
I snigger.
‘It was funny until he got kicked off at the first island and had to pay his own airfare home to the States.’
‘Ouch.’
‘So, this is our room,’ Harry says, stopping outside a narrow cabin door. ‘I’ve moved my stuff in already. Nice to have a bit of privacy after sharing with two blokes.’ He puts the key in the lock, then turns to me. ‘I had to lie and say we were a couple to get this room. Doubles are in high demand.’
Doubles? Does he mean double bed? Are we sleeping together? He never mentioned that before. I flick back through our previous conversations. Bunk beds. I’m sure he said bunk beds. All this time I’ve been wondering about how it would work sharing a bathroom, getting changed, getting into bed. Should I have brought PJs instead of my usual t-shirt and undies? I’ve been telling myself to just roll with it. It’s only twelve days. If it gets awkward, it’s not so long. And if it does work out, and things ... develop ... well, maybe we’ll try crossing that bridge again if it happens. Baby steps. Stay calm, stay calm. Just wait. It might not be what you think.
Harry unlocks the door but turns to me again before he pushes it open. He grimaces apologetically. ‘Um, before you go in, there’s one thing. There’s something that needs fixing. And it will be fixed. I promise.’
He steps back and lets me enter and, as I do, a gross stench takes my breath away, even though my nose is almost blocked. It’s vomit-inducing.
‘What is that?’
‘Cigarettes. The musos before us were smokers.’
‘You’re allowed to smoke down here? God, it smells like industrial chemicals.’
‘They’re not supposed to. I think the sewerage lines must be backed-up a bit too. It’ll clear once we leave port.’
‘God. It’s like someone has left a basket of month-old stinky socks lying around.’
‘It’s not as bad as the other room I’ve been sharing with two blokes.’
I stare at him, disgusted. How can anyone live like this? There’s no air. No window or porthole. Now I know where the term ‘bowels of the ship’ comes from.
Harry leans against the doorway watching me. ‘I’ve asked for the room to be deodorised before we leave port. And we can keep the door open whenever we’re in here.’
‘So much for the glamorous life.’
I keep my hand over my nose and mouth as I take in the room and fittings. It’s neat, clean – even if it smells like toxic chemicals have saturated the furnishings – and it’s bigger than I expected. But it’s only now I realise how distracted I’ve been by the smell, because the most obvious thing is single bunks. Crisis averted. Still, I’m surprised by a teeny-tiny bit of disappointment.
Harry pats the top bunk. ‘Mine.’
‘K.’
‘So ... you’re okay with this?’ he asks.
‘Sure.’ I throw my backpack on the lower bunk. ‘I’m not great with heights.’
‘No, I meant with ... everything.’
‘I’m not thrilled about the foul eau de cologne but if it gets fixed, it’s okay.’
I sit on my bunk and try to bounce. There’s no spring, the bunk base is solid, and the mattress is half the thickness of my bed at home, but somehow, it’s comfortable. There’s a ledge against the wall to hold personal stuff and a little nightlight for reading.
‘Afraid of heights, huh? You never told me that.’
‘Never came up.’
‘Guess we won’t be doing that I’m the King of the World thing at the ship’s bow.’
Bolder, I give him a sly smile. ‘No, but maybe we can do other Titanic scenes.’
‘We can?’
Something in his eyes makes my pulse pick up. I didn’t mean right now. Not in the starkness of a fluoro cabin light and with my head full of snot. I immediately stand up in case he thinks he’s going to join me on my no-bounce mattress. He moves to the door and locks it. Oh shit. When he walks back to me, my brain is back-pedalling fast.
‘You know what?’ I say, ‘I’m a bit dry. Maybe we can get a drink or something?’
‘Sure.’ He comes over, plants his hands on either side of my face, lowers his forehead to mine. Is this how bunny rabbits kiss? I like it. And if my nose wasn’t half-blocked, and the room didn’t stink so much, I’m sure I’d be able to smell his scent – earthy like his bed. And I’m sure it’s not just my blocked nose that’s making it difficult to breathe.
‘Can I kiss you?’ he asks.
I falter. The impulse to raise my face, to join my mouth to his, is overwhelming. ‘I’m phlegmy. You don’t want you to catch anything,’ I murmur.
‘I’ve got a good immune system.’
He lifts my chin, lowers his mouth. A soft pressing of lips. I’m conscious of how tight I’m holding my mouth – hesitant, waiting to see if my body will betray me again. So far so good – maybe it’s the thought of all the little cold germs running around in my saliva that’s keeping the panic at bay. I put my hands on his shoulders, move closer. A tremor of warmth surges through me as his arms circle my waist, and he pulls me closer. I loosen my mouth. I want this, I really do, if my body will only co-operate.
Harry pushes me back towards the bunk. The top rack is lower than either of us anticipates, and I whack my head on the metal frame.
‘Oww. Fufffffruit!’
‘Geez, sorry. Are you okay?’
‘No!’ I sit on the lower bunk and rub my head.
Harry tries to smother a laugh. ‘Fuff-fruit?’
‘Don’t push it. I’m making an effort with the language. And it’s not funny. It hurts.’
‘Let me see.’ He sits next to me and prises my hand off my head.
I huff. ‘Spell concussion. I think my skull is cracked.’
‘No blood. You’re okay. Maybe we should save the reunion for later.’
‘You don’t say.’
There’s one of those awkward silences while I lick my wounds. Harry deflects the conversation. ‘Tour?’
‘Sure, but I hope they have a doctor on board if you’re intent on killing me.’
‘Come here.’ He grabs me and gives the back of my head a rub.
‘Ow.’ I shake him off. ‘Okay, let’s go,’ I say, determined not to let a headache ruin my arrival. ‘Wait, what about my suitcase?’
‘We’ll get it later. Let’s go. I’ll show you where we’ll be playing.’
He takes my hand as we leave the cabin, and I’m surprised to feel him shaking a little. He’s rattled. Something strange blooms in me again. Am I responsible for his happiness?
We pass through the narrow corridor and almost bump into one of our neighbours. Harry introduces me to Dwayne, a huge African American dude from New York. The trombone player has a big belly and a deep laugh to match it. I take to him immediately.
�
��I’m lookin’ forward ta hearin’ ya missus sing,’ he says, his voice gravelly and chocolaty.
Missus? I flick a look at Harry, but he doesn’t correct Dwayne. Instead he launches into telling him how he’s found a copy of some jazz record in a pile of vinyls at a street stall in Noumea. I’ve never heard of the album, so I stick to mulling over the thought of being called a ‘missus’. His missus. I guess if word gets around we’re married, it might save me from being hit on.
We climb a couple of flights of stairs and enter the main lobby. It’s wide and spacious with a grand central staircase. Several decks are visible above us, and guests are peering over the balustrades as though it’s a viewing platform. There’s a plaque on a nearby wall that says the ship is five times the size of the Titanic.
‘Wow. That puts things in perspective,’ I say.
Harry shows me one of the lounges we’ll be performing in. It’s decked out in a safari-style theme, complete with a life-sized bronze tiger. I sit on it, side-saddle, while he takes a photo with his phone. Nervous excitement is bubbling up. This is real. This is happening. I’m a legitimate entertainer.
We leave the lounge and wander further down the ship to a set of lifts. As Harry presses the button for level twelve where the main restaurant is, I do a double take. The buttons skip from twelve to fourteen.
‘Seriously? No thirteen? They actually do that?’
Harry looks at the buttons. ‘Ha. I never noticed.’
‘So the Sun Deck is really thirteen?’
‘It’s fourteen.’
I give him a do-you-think-I’m-an-idiot look.
He wrinkles his nose. ‘We’re playing up there for sail-away in a couple of hours.’
‘Let’s hope thirteen is lucky for us.’
Turns out it’s not. Just as we arrive on deck to set up our gear, the drizzle returns. It’s only light, and there’s a tarp above us, holding off most of it, but the occasional wet drift catches us. Harry curses as he pegs a sheet of plastic over his keyboard, then burrows his hands underneath to reach the keys. I’m just glad I thought to bring a jacket to wear over my sundress.
