Читать книгу Come Away With Me: The hilarious feel-good romantic comedy you need to read in 2018 - Maddie Please - Страница 10

Tequila, Chambord, Lemon Juice, Agave, Orange Bitters, Ginger Beer

It was the second night on board and, according to the daily newsletter, tradition dictated that now our non-existent maids had unpacked for us we would be able to don some evening finery. Tonight was going to be the first of the gala dinners. The main difference was the dress code (posh frocks) and the food (five courses instead of four). Blow the diet and fitness routine. After a day traipsing around Newport with only an open sandwich and a glass of red wine to sustain us I couldn’t wait.

By now India had completely recovered from her hangover and had a plan.

‘I’m going to stick to water and soft drinks from now on,’ she said, as we got dressed for dinner that evening.

‘Really?’

I paused as I zipped her into her blue sparkly dress. To be fair, her diet and fitness regime of the last few months had paid dividends and she looked amazing, but then she always did.

‘Absolutely,’ India said, looking slightly martyred. ‘It’s called pacing myself. And I’m not going to mix wine with cocktails and other random spirits. I might just have an occasional white wine spritzer. But no cocktails before dinner. Well, not every day anyway.’

‘If that’s what you want to do,’ I said.

‘You could do the same,’ India said, looking a bit less sure. ‘After all, alcohol has a lot of meaningless calories and you were supposed to be losing weight before the wedding.’

‘Are you saying I’m fat?’ I challenged, feeling fifteen again, swatting away my younger sister bouncing around calling me names.

‘No, but remember the bridesmaid’s dress? I’m just saying you could lose a few pounds,’ she said, checking her eyeliner in the mirror before flashing me a look. ‘You said you wanted to.’

‘Then I’ll make sure I only drink meaningful calories in future,’ I said crossly. ‘Like vintage champagne and twenty-year-old brandy.’

God forbid we should get on to the wedding again.

I clambered into my dress, which was black and unstructured. By which I mean loose. Next to my sister I was definitely the big one, even though I was only a size twelve. Well, fourteen, especially in stretchy fabrics. And occasionally a sixteen if I’m honest. The high street can be so random.

I looked at myself in the full-length mirror and had a moment’s doubt. Perhaps India was right? Maybe I should have a small white wine spritzer and some filtered tap water with my meal? Yes, that would be the way to go. Moderation in all things. One day on, one day off perhaps?

Ten minutes later we were making our way towards the Champs-Elysées restaurant, teetering along in our high heels, admiring our reflections in the bronze-mirrored walls. Suddenly we spotted a table next to the window in the Picasso cocktail bar. There was a wonderful view of the sunset over Cape Cod, the colours a dazzling blend of gold and apricot with clouds as fluffy and luminous as Donald Trump’s hair. Well, of course, we stopped and sat down to appreciate the beauty nature had spread out before us, and before you could say zut alors a bedroom-eyed waiter, name badge Giovanni, had appeared beside us. Three minutes later we were appreciating nature’s beauty with a large Gin Sling each and a silver bowl of salted cashew nuts. Perhaps our moderation would start tomorrow.

When we got to our table it was fun to catch up with our new friends and find out what everyone else had been doing. I hadn’t realised the people you sat with on your first night were your table companions for the rest of the trip and felt very lucky we had met such a nice bunch. Marion had struck gold in the handbag shop and was proudly displaying an exquisite little evening bag at which Marty was glowering. Evidently her idea of an essential purchase and his were poles apart.

Ike and Caron had been to Newport on a previous cruise but had never seen The Breakers before, and they filled us in on all the details of the gilding, the marble, the furniture and sheer excess of the place until we felt we had been there too, but without the expense, the queuing or the sore feet. I wondered what it would be worth, if it ever went on the market. Imagine doing the floor plans!

As it was a gala dinner – the theme being Sparkle – there was champagne on the table, so that put paid to our evening of moderation good and proper. There was also an excess of sequins and lamé so that the room fairly crackled with light bouncing off the dresses and, in the case of two ladies on the next table, tiaras. I think I stared a bit to start with, finding it a bit OTT, but after a while I thought they were rather snazzy. I mean, why not?

‘I rather think I’d like a tiara,’ I said, pausing for a moment to let my cutlery cool down. Eating with Marty and Ike did tend to speed things up a bit.

‘That’s because you’re English,’ Marion said, looking at me over the top of her wineglass. ‘You English are used to such things. I’m surprised you didn’t bring one.’

‘We don’t actually all own them, you know,’ I said.

‘No? Well, I call that a shame. You should get one. You have the face for it.’

India snorted with laughter.

The face for a tiara? I wondered what that meant. Anyway, I ploughed on with my sea bass with its lemon spume and asparagus tips, while Ike, who had finished his long ago, turned round to see what the next course, which had already been delivered to the tiara wearers, looked like.

‘They’ve got beef,’ he said after a moment. ‘Looks good. I ordered that to make up for the chicken last night. How about some red wine? Any preference, ladies?’

‘No, but we’ll buy it. You got the wine yesterday,’ I heard myself say. India kicked me under the table and I pulled a hopeless sort of expression. Having a day of abstinence and moderation was going to be difficult.

After dinner the others decided they were going to the casino and we allowed ourselves to be swept along with the tide of people going to the Ocean Theatre for the evening’s entertainment. We found a table near the back and prepared to order some water, but somehow found two Long Island Iced Teas in front of us, in the inaccurate belief that they were diluted and therefore not really alcohol.

Onstage there was a tribute to the sixties. The girl dancers bopped and shrugged in white Courrèges boots and the boys were in Beatles wigs – it was terrific. We had just about finished our drinks when the waitress brought over two quarter bottles of champagne with paper straws in them.

‘We didn’t order these, did we?’ India said.

‘Compliments of the gentlemen,’ the waitress said before she darted off.

We looked around to see who was trying to attract our attention but couldn’t see anyone other than a couple of stout men two tables away who I thought were waving at their wives.

‘Which gentlemen? Have you been chatting random men up again?’ I said. I’d been feeling quite friendly towards India; maybe it was all the wine. ‘Up to your old tricks?’

‘Bloody cheek! What old tricks?’ India replied, outraged, completely missing my gentle ribbing and taking it seriously.

‘Don’t play the innocent,’ I said, feeling suddenly annoyed and hurt; after all, I had been trying to be nice, or at least not ‘boring’, as India always seemed to think I was. The old resentments came swirling up. ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

‘No, I bloody don’t. God, you’re such a misery sometimes,’ India said.

‘Laura’s party?’ I snapped back. ‘You never did explain what happened there.’

We sipped our champagne in tense silence.

*

The following day we woke up rather hungover again, but perhaps not quite as bad as the previous day. Either we had indeed been more measured or we were developing immunity to alcohol. India’s irritation from last night seemed to have dissipated; perhaps it had just been a little spat fuelled by too much alcohol and not enough sleep. Or at least that’s what I tried to tell myself. In the end it was only another eight days at sea with my sister. I could get through that. Especially with enough cocktails …

The ship had moored in Boston overnight and, excitingly, was immediately underneath the flight path of Logan International Airport. Like everyone else we went up on to the top deck to watch the huge planes coming in to land and almost taking the funnels off the Reine de France.

We had booked the excursion to the town of Concord and enjoyed a nice snooze on the coach before being unloaded in one of the prettiest New England towns for our tour around Louisa May Alcott’s house. Having always been a particular fan of hers it was my idea of heaven. India trailed after me grumbling as I ooohed and aaahed at Roderigo’s boots and Beth’s piano and wondered which of the houses nearby had been the inspiration for Laurie’s.

Having tolerated this slight detour into culture, India wanted to shop. So we did the rounds of some of the dinky little stores in which Concord specialises, and bought some excellent knick-knacks and the palest pink cashmere sweater, which India couldn’t live without. Before long we found a place for a late lunch and ended up having more wine. And a bowl of fries. And ice cream. I mean really, how did that happen?

The trouble was the wine bars were so sweet and the staff so incredibly welcoming. Even the menu cards were cute in a retro, Disney-ish way. And everything seemed so reasonably priced. It would have been hard to stop at a cup of coffee when it came with a slab of cake for half-price. And it was damn near impossible not to have two glasses of wine and be given the rest of the bottle for free and a bowl of fries.

We decided tomorrow would definitely be a day of moderation and healthy eating. I mean, after all, we were going to have a whole day at sea, sailing past the coast of Maine that Gabriel loved so much. Who knew, we might sail straight past his parents’ house!

Tomorrow was also going to be the day of Marnie Miller’s first talk; eleven o’clock sharp. After that India and I would both be really enthused and motivated and would spend the rest of the day writing in a quiet corner somewhere, far away from other people or waiters or any food or cocktails. We wouldn’t stir except for some herb tea and perhaps a handful of quinoa.

Well, that was the plan.

*

Back on the ship India had reread the daily newsletter and discovered there were cream teas and a fine selection of French patisserie available in the Marie-Antoinette Lounge, courtesy of Juan Del Martino, the ship’s head pastry chef. Like a pair of Muppets we followed the herd and had even got as far as the doors to the place when I grabbed India’s arm.

‘We really don’t need this,’ I said.

Her face fell for a moment and then, as if she had been awoken from a trance, she nodded.

‘You’re right! What am I doing? I had cake in Concord only a couple of hours ago!’

Instead we went back to our cabin and had a little bit of a lie-down. This then deteriorated into a sleep that saw us waking up at eight-thirty.

‘I do not need a four-course dinner tonight,’ I said, feeling abstemious and full of good intentions. ‘I know I have it in me to be eighteen stone, but I’d rather not.’

‘Oh, all right.’ India sighed, although I’m pretty sure she agreed with me. She picked up the newsletter and put it into her handbag. ‘Let’s read about some of the things we can do over a salad in the food court. I mean we’ve been on board for days and hardly even tried anything – other than the food and drinks.’

‘Great idea.’ I had been completely captivated by the idea of activities when I was back home, listless and dreaming of my luxurious holiday, determined to make the most of every moment; and all we’d done was eat, drink and wander around picturesque towns. It was time to get down to business – maybe I’d find a new hobby, something I’d be good at … not like the time I tried to make a patchwork quilt and sewed it to my trousers.

In the food court we went to find a simple green salad and came back with lobster. In butter. With French bread.

‘So tomorrow,’ I said, once we were settled at a table by the window, ‘we have Marnie Miller in the morning. What else can we do?’

India pored over the paper. ‘Right, here we are. Dancing tomorrow afternoon at two p.m. Learn the waltz with Omaha dance champions, Peter and Paula. And towel folding at half past three with Jaresh.’

‘I can fold a towel already,’ I said.

‘Into the shape of a swan? Or a monkey? No, I thought not. Looks like there are some groups on board too. Dorothy has some friends and so does Bill W. I’ve noticed they always seem to have little get-togethers every afternoon.’

‘I think the Friends of Dorothy are single gay people and the Friends of Bill W are AA meetings,’ I said quietly.

‘Really? How marvellous! There’s a talk about Fabergé eggs and another one about whisky. There’s bingo and then at three p.m. there’s adult colouring-in.’

‘You’re joking?’

‘I’m not. There’s a talk about Halifax. On the Atlantic crossing we can do fruit carving, learn the foxtrot and go to a talk about the Titanic.’

‘Now you’re joking?’ I said.

‘Nope, not at all. Listen to this. That perennially fascinating ship and the voyage of doom towards its tragic end. Well, that’s what it says here. We’re missing the entertainment by the way. It was Tribute to Elton John Night.’

‘I’ll bite back my disappointment,’ I said.

‘Sarky. And of course we have Marnie Miller first. We will be stimulated, pissed, educated, be able to fold towels into unusual shapes and have dancers’ thighs. You couldn’t ask for more really, could you?’

‘I suppose not,’ I agreed, as I mopped up the garlic-butter sauce with my remaining bread.

‘Right, shall we go and have a nightcap? My round?’ India said with a grin as she pushed her cleared plate away from her.

‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘What did happen at Laura’s party? You can tell me – I won’t mind.’

‘Oh, leave it!’