Читать книгу Come Away With Me: The hilarious feel-good romantic comedy you need to read in 2018 - Maddie Please - Страница 8

Vanilla Vodka, Coconut Liqueur, Lime and Pineapple Juice, Egg White, Blue Curacao

Until you stand next to a transatlantic liner the size of the Reine de France you can’t imagine how huge they are. It was sensational to see it coming into view as our transfer bus pulled up to the quayside. A sleek black hull reared up out of the oily waters of the dock. There were hundreds of exciting-looking windows above us and people leaning over balconies to wave to their friends.

It turned out several people on the plane were going to be on the trip with us and none of them looked old or infirm or miserable. They seemed to be just as thrilled as we were to be joining a liner to sail up the coast and across the Atlantic.

There had been a bit of a discussion on the transfer bus as to whether we were allowed to bring our own alcohol on with us. Some said no, others waved innocent-looking water bottles and raised their eyebrows in a knowing way. I guessed it was gin or vodka. Someone else said they knew someone who had been chucked off a cruise for trying to sneak a case of wine on board and we wondered how that might be possible. I mean, you couldn’t exactly disguise a case of wine or slip it in under a blanket, could you?

This? Oh, this? Oh, it’s just my sewing machine/medicine/art materials.

We negotiated the snaking queues in a hangar-like building where bored-looking women checked our passports and asked if we had any firearms, animals or drugs. Happily we didn’t.

On board there were waiters who greeted us with trays of cocktails, which is the way every holiday should start. I took an orange one. India worried for a bit about calories and then gave in and had a pink one. The crowd swept us up to the reception desk where we queued to collect our cabin keys. When it got to our turn, another excessively chic young woman – name badge Marie-France – frowned over her computer screen and did a great deal of frantic typing.

Right, this is where we get chucked off, I thought; ever the pessimist. This was the point where she would discover I had an unpaid parking ticket I’d forgotten about or that someone had stolen my identity and opened up an online shop selling explosives and cocaine.

At last Marie-France looked up and smiled.

‘So sorry to keep you, Miss Fisher and Miss Fisher. You were booked into cabin 840. A twin with a window? Hmmmm.’

She typed some more and then turned away and picked up a phone. She rattled some French off at high speed and did some Gallic pouting and shrugging.

‘They’re not going to let us on,’ I whispered.

‘Shut up! For God’s sake, don’t start,’ India hissed back. ‘Honestly, Alexa, we have this every bloody time. You can barely get on a bus into town without assuming you’re going to be chucked off. It’s just a bit of admin. If there’s any problem we’ll just wing it.’

India might be scattier than I am but she can be far more assertive in certain situations. Winging it is not something I’m good at. Fixing Marie-France with a steely glare, India began tapping her fingernails on the desk in front of her. Then she began shifting her weight from one foot to the other in a don’t mess with me sort of way. Marie-France began muttering in French into the phone again.

At last she put the phone down.

‘So many apologies. Your cabin is unavailable.’

‘See, there you are, I told you,’ I said, bending to pick up my bag.

I could imagine myself slinking away down the gangplank and trying to get back to JFK in the rain, a tragic figure with my dark hair in rats’ tails around my face; although the September sun was still streaming in through the portholes so perhaps I was being overly dramatic on this occasion.

‘There has been – ’ow you say – spillage and the cabin must be redecorated –’

Redecorated? And spillage? What sort of spillage? A dropped breakfast tray? A carelessly thrown bucket of creosote? Blood splattered up the walls?

‘– and so we ’ave moved you with apologies for the inconvenience and our compliments. Cabin 1137. Your suitcases have been taken there. We wish you a pleasant voyage.’

Marie-France gave us a charming smile and handed over two keys. I took one before she could change her mind and ran for the lifts, grabbing another cocktail on the way for good measure. A blue one this time.

Cabin 1137 was not so much a cabin as a little suite, with two double beds, a bath and shower room and a small sitting area. Plus a balcony! Be still my beating heart. It was beautifully decorated in shades of blue and pale green with a load of pillows and the option for more if we weren’t satisfied as there was an extensive pillow menu. A card placed on the dressing table next to a small basket of fruit advised us our steward would be Amil and he would attend to all our needs. All of them? Really? Poor bloke.

We scurried around, opening all the doors and drawers and investigating the free toiletries in the bathroom, and then we discovered the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket with a note: Compliments de la Reine de France. We had that opened in no time flat and were clinking glasses yet again. How had I resisted the siren call of the sea and cruising this long? This was marvellous!

‘Let’s go out on the balcony,’ India said, ‘and watch the other people coming on board.’

‘Good idea!’

Outside the afternoon was glorious with a dazzling blue autumn sky. Above us planes were still criss-crossing the sky with vapour trails; helicopters were buzzing around.

Many floors below us on the dockside, yellow taxis were hooting their horns at each other and the coaches that were still disgorging people and huge piles of luggage on to the road. A policeman was trying to move vehicles on and we could hear him blowing his whistle and bellowing from our vantage point above him. It was all terrifically exciting. I wished I had some of those paper streamers that people used to throw off the side of departing ships, but I expect these days I would be prosecuted for littering.

India went back inside to scan through the ship’s newsletter so we could decide what to do with the rest of the day. I stayed where I was, leaning over the rail and sipping champagne and feeling rather glamorous and sophisticated. I heard next-door’s balcony door slide open and someone came out. There was a sort of half-barrier between our balconies but if they leaned on the rail like I was, they’d be able to say hello.

I arranged my face into a pleasant, welcoming expression, ready to be charming. And then I froze.

It was him.

The man from the airport with the grey eyes and pretzels all over his laptop. The one I had chucked champagne over. No! Surely not? It couldn’t possibly be! Oh, God.

Perhaps he wouldn’t recognise me?

He turned towards me before I could duck out of the way and for a moment I tried to look like someone different, though how I thought that would work I have no idea.

‘Oh, hello,’ he said, ‘you again.’

I gave a sort of comic twitch of my head.

‘Me again!’ I agreed. I held out my champagne glass a little. ‘Holding on tight here.’

‘Good,’ he said, and then he looked at me for a few moments and went back into his cabin.

Oh, bollocks.

I went back in to find India; she was sitting on the sofa with her feet up on the coffee table, looking at the newsletter and swilling back the champagne like there was no tomorrow.

‘Oh, look, someone’s just put a note under our door,’ she said.

‘It’s probably our next-door neighbour complaining,’ I said and briefly explained the situation.

I went to open the envelope expecting a terse written warning.

‘Oooh, marvellous! It’s an invitation to the Captain’s cocktail party – seven-thirty p.m. in The Lookout Bar!’ My spirits lifted.

‘Excellent. Here, have some more champagne to celebrate!’ India said, tilting the bottle.

At this rate we were going to sail up and down the East Coast of America on a sea of alcohol, completely plastered.

We unpacked, finished off the bubbly and went off to explore.

There must have been a couple of thousand people on board by now but the corridors stretched ahead of us, almost completely empty. And it was so quiet. Where had everyone gone?

We soon found out. They were at a Farewell to New York gathering around the pool on Deck 7. And, yes, there was alcohol involved yet again. I was beginning to wonder if my liver would last out the trip. Perhaps I would go a bit steady and just have some – oooh, Margaritas! I loved those. And Long Island Iced Tea! And some more of the blue stuff! Well, perhaps it would be sensible to eat something too. After all, what time was it, actually? Local time was about five-thirty but in my head it was midnight and it had been a very long day.

We took a plate each and loaded up with canapés that were miniature works of art. Blinis and stuffed sweet peppers and tomatoes, and a very sophisticated selection of vol au vents and tiny pizzas. Never mind the intensive diet and exercise regime. Never mind the hangovers heading our way. Twelve days of eating like this and we were going to have to be rolled off the ship. And the importance of India’s wedding dress still fitting her in December wasn’t something we should forget. I could just imagine us inserting panels into the sides like Dad said he’d once had done with some 1970s flares.

We said Farewell to New York for about half an hour and then decided to go back to our cabin for a breather. That’s the thing Mum always said about cruises: there’s never a moment to yourself; there’s always another party or another show or some interesting classes to hurry off to. I could only assume the travellers on the decks furthest away from the action were going to wear running shoes for the whole voyage.

We went back to our cabin via the shops, where there was a cluster of large American ladies around a special ‘Farewell to New York’ offer on white cardigans with gold anchor buttons and matching white trousers. Much taken with this look, India pushed to the front and hunted around until she found some jaunty white caps with faux braid across the front to complete them. She tried without success to persuade me I should try on the whole ensemble. She was convinced I would have looked amazing. Yes, in a horrific, Carry On, Captain sort of way.

‘Oh my God; your bridesmaid’s outfit,’ India breathed. ‘How about that for an idea? It would be so incredible! Really retro and different. I can just see it now. And the flower girls dressed in sailor suits.’

Perhaps she had enjoyed one too many Margaritas? I certainly had. I hurried her away, got her into our cabin and locked the door to stop her escaping.

*

We had a nice sleep for an hour and then, like the Duracell bunny, India was ready to go again. She sat bolt upright in bed, her hair all over her face, and shouted at me. India has never been a morning person, but she doesn’t like missing anything in the evenings. I, on the other hand, could give or take a late night … unless of course it involved pizza, ice cream and Prosecco in front of Netflix.

‘Come on! The ship is moving! We’ll be going under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge! We’re missing everything! It’s seven o’clock and the Captain’s cocktail party is in half an hour!’

‘Actually it’s about two in the morning,’ I said blearily, burying my face in my pillow. ‘Do we really need another party?’

‘Wash your mouth out. Come on, let’s get tarted up. There might be some nice men on board –’

‘India! You’re engaged! You’re getting married in a few months!’

‘For you. Let me finish, will you! What do you take me for? There might be some nice men on board for you. I’m only trying to help!’ she said over her shoulder as she riffled through her luggage looking for the perfect outfit.

‘I don’t want a nice man,’ I grumbled, swinging my legs on to the floor. ‘I’ve only just got those CDs back from Ryan. And yes, I know it’s been months, but I’m not in any rush.’

I didn’t really want more cocktails either, to be honest. If anything, I wanted a nice cup of tea and a chocolate digestive.

‘Well, just a man then,’ India said. ‘Mum said you weren’t to come back without one.’

‘What, like a sensible coat for school or a puppy or something?’

India rolled her eyes. ‘You can be so boring these days. Come on, get a move on.’

The Captain’s cocktail party was in full swing by the time we got there. There was even a bloke in a white tuxedo playing the piano and grinning and nodding at us like Liberace as we came in.

We shook hands with the Captain, who was an imposing old salt with beetle brows and a weather-beaten complexion that spoke of many years before the mast. Then I had some more blue stuff and India chose a gin and tonic that she said could more accurately be called tonic and gin. We soon realised we were part of a select band that had been invited from Decks 11 and 12 only, so we felt rather special and important.

There were several of the bulky American matrons there who were ‘golly gosh darned thrilled’ to be in close proximity to the Captain and his First Officer, almost as though they were the celebrity remnants of a boy band. They clustered round taking selfies and asking whether he had met any royalty during his time at sea. When he mentioned a Spanish princess and a member of the Swedish aristocracy they looked a little confused and disappointed so he cheered them up by mentioning the Duchess of Devonshire and Princess Michael of Kent and they all started taking selfies again.

Outside the evening was darkening and, in the distance, I could see the lights of Manhattan shimmering and flashing just like every picture you’ve ever seen of them but more so. It was breathtaking.

‘Bloody hell,’ India said as we moved to the end of the room, ‘look over there! It’s her! It can’t be!’

I looked to see who she had spotted. A tiny woman in a white sequinned cocktail dress was standing smiling and tossing her abundant red hair about, surrounded by a posse of Japanese ladies who were taking selfies and twittering like a flock of hyperactive starlings. The woman looked familiar, as though we had unexpectedly encountered an old school friend. Who was she?

I looked blank for a moment. Beside me India fidgeted with exasperation at my ignorance.

‘It’s only Marnie bloody Miller,’ she said.

I gasped. ‘Marnie Miller? Of course!’

The name was almost as familiar as my own but I couldn’t for the moment remember why.

‘Marnie frigging Miller!’ India said, her voice a deferential whisper.

Then Marnie swished her trademark hair over her shoulder, flashed a dazzling smile and I suddenly remembered. The self-help guru, lifestyle authority, cookery expert, writer and sometime agony aunt? The woman with possibly the most envied lifestyle in the world? That Marnie Miller?

I almost wanted to rush over and take a selfie with her too. She was the one celebrity India and I had agreed on. We had devoured her books over the years, watched her on television, tried to make her healthy carob and beetroot brownies, bought her books on Christmas crafts and had even heard her Desert Island Discs. I’m not a massive fan of Iron Maiden but if Marnie Miller wanted to take ‘Two Minutes to Midnight’ with her as one of her eight records, they must have something going for them.

‘Bloody hell,’ I breathed.

We stood back, watching her signing autographs and posing prettily for her fans. Her impossible to emulate (trust me, we’d tried) red curls were flickering and shining under the lights as only very expensive hair can.

I’d not met many famous people before. Well, I’d seen Alan Titchmarsh when he was doing a programme in Cheltenham about urban trees and I tripped on one of the camera cables and nearly knocked him over. And I saw Helen Mirren riding a bike once. Well, I think it was Helen Mirren.

But to be in the same room as someone as famous as Marnie Miller was a bit different. I just wanted to stand really close and stare at her, which obviously would have been weird and freaky so I didn’t.

‘I wonder what she’s doing here?’ I said. ‘I mean she wouldn’t just be having a holiday, would she?’

‘Hardly. She’d be off to Necker Island with Bill Gates and Richard Branson if she wanted a holiday,’ India replied, slipping her lip gloss out of her clutch to reapply.

A large American woman in a purple jumpsuit, which had probably seemed like a good idea when she bought it, was also staring at Marnie and had overheard our conversation.

‘She’s running two courses on the ship,’ she said in a loud stage whisper.

‘No! What on?’ India said, rubbing her little finger over her lower lip, looking perfect once more. ‘Whatever it is I’m going to it.’

‘I think it’s something like Love Your Life,’ our new friend said. ‘And Your Story. Isn’t she wonderful? She gives of her time so freely. She does such a lot of charity work too. Orphans and clean water. The last time I saw her on a TV appeal I cried. I could hardly see my credit card through the tears.’

Down at the end of the room, Marnie Miller gave a merry laugh and hugged one woman who promptly started crying. Wow. It was like one of the gods had come down from Olympus.

‘Isn’t she just gorgeous?’ our companion breathed, shaking her head in wonderment. ‘So pretty and so unaffected. And a figure to die for too. She can’t be more than a size four. Just the cutest thing.’

We all turned to stare at her again for a few minutes and then the crowds suddenly parted.

‘Come on,’ India said, smoothing down her dress. ‘Let’s go and say hello.’

I wasn’t too sure I was ready to be so close to Marnie Miller, but India had always been braver than me in these situations. So I shook my hair back in an attempt to look confident and we strolled across the room towards Marnie, who looked at me, a ready smile on her face.

‘Oh, hello, ladies,’ she said, smiling with lots of teeth that had probably spent a great deal of time in the company of an orthodontist and a veneer specialist. ‘How lovely to meet you.’

Yes, it was definitely her: that very faint trace of a Scottish accent that was so attractive; the flawless skin and pocket rocket figure.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ India said breathily. She beamed a genuine smile at Marnie, definitely more convincing than my wide grin.

Marnie’s face lit up. ‘Oh, how amazing! You’re from England?’

We nodded and smiled modestly as though we had done something clever.

‘We’ve read your books; we really love them,’ India said. ‘And seen your series on Finding Love Without Fear.’

Marnie’s face creased into a gentle smile as though this was the most wonderful thing she had ever heard, although I bet every single person before us had said the same thing.

‘How kind of you. Thank you. Did you have a particular favourite?’

I thought about it for a moment. There were so many but then most of them seemed to blur into one.

‘I really loved Marnie’s Christmas Crafts,’ India said.

We’d spent several hours trying to make reindeers out of pine cones. I don’t think the end result was quite as polished as the picture.

Marnie looked thrilled. ‘I loved that too! I have a special place in my heart for that book. And you?’ She turned her beautiful turquoise eyes on me and my mind went blank.

‘There was one about getting a promotion at work, making sure you didn’t get passed over for other people. Was it called Don’t Stop Moving?’

Her smile faltered for a second. ‘Maybe you’re thinking of Don’t Stop; Keep Moving. I think “Don’t Stop Moving” was S Club 7.’

‘That’s it,’ I said, feeling pretty stupid.

‘One of my favourites,’ she said with a delightful crinkle of her nose.

‘Could we take a picture with you?’ India said, after giving me a not-so-subtle sharp look.

‘Oh, of course!’

Marnie turned and clicked her fingers and a small, worried-looking woman dressed in rather droopy clothes came and took India’s phone to take some pictures of the three of us. Marnie was smiling in an attractive and controlled way that made the most of her perfect, white smile and India and I grinned like maniacs.

‘So what are you doing on the ship?’ I asked, trying to regain some dignity. ‘Someone said they thought you were doing some courses?’

‘I am! Do say you can join me? Spring-Clean Your Life has helped so many people come to terms with their failures, and I know lots of people would like to write but maybe don’t know where to start so I’m doing a little thing called Write for Love. Everyone has a story to tell after all. Love, loss, new experiences, disaster, triumph – it’s all there.’

Well, yes, I supposed so, although I was still waiting for the triumph bit to be honest. I’d done a bit of the love and loss recently, with Ryan enjoying new experiences with a frankly grubby-looking girl from the building society as well as his mother’s Avon lady.

Bastard.

Perhaps if I went to Spring-Clean Your Life Marnie Miller would help me focus on the positive things in my life and hopefully clear out the negative. The negative list included: my inability to find a decent man; my terrible ex, Ryan, who I’d allowed to come between me and my sister even before we started working together; living in my parents’ granny annexe; and my non-existent social life. Maybe I should focus on the positives instead; it might be easier. My job, which I enjoyed, if you didn’t count my sister ‘not-working’ next to me. An amazing cruise, where I should be making the most of my last holiday with my sister before she got married. My parents, who were in excellent health and at that moment probably at Heathrow waiting for their flight to Sydney.

Spring-Clean Your Life: yes, that’s exactly what I needed to do.

India and Marnie were still laughing, talking about the books Marnie had written and what she was planning to write next. I couldn’t believe how calm India seemed, and I was still feeling a little out of my depth at being so close to someone so famous when Marnie reached out a little hand and patted my arm.

‘Oh, do say you’ll come along too, Alexa? India says you were quite good at English essay writing at school. Who knows, we could make a bestselling author out of you.’

Was I? That didn’t sound like India.

Bestselling author?

I had a vision of myself smiling modestly for the cameras at the Booker Prize awards evening; signing copies of my book in Foyles; travelling first class to Los Angeles and finalising a film deal.

Yes, that would be a triumph, wouldn’t it? Something to make Ryan regret his treacherous trousers.

‘Brilliant idea,’ I said with a smile, imagining Ryan’s stunned face. ‘Where do I sign?’

Marnie clapped her hands together in delight, as though having India and me at her talks was all she needed to make them a roaring success.

‘Then I will look forward to seeing you in the Ocean Theatre on Wednesday at eleven.’

She looked past me and the warmth of her smile faltered a little.

‘Ah, there you are, Gabe. I was beginning to worry.’

I turned to see who she was talking to and saw the man from the cabin next door. The victim of my champagne and pretzel accident. He was looking rather gorgeous in black jeans and a soft grey cashmere sweater that matched his wonderful eyes. He gave a rather tight smile and came to stand next to me, hands in his pockets. My entire body seemed to fizz. I swear I had never been more aware of any other human being in my life.

‘This is my dear friend Gabriel Frost,’ Marnie said, gesturing towards Mr Grumpy.

‘We’ve met,’ he said tersely

‘Have you? Hmm. Gin and tonic?’ Marnie turned and clicked her fingers at her assistant, who was back in her preferred place, standing behind her boss oozing anxiety. The girl leapt to obey and was back in a few seconds with a lovely-looking drink on a tray, which Gabriel took with thanks.

‘Gabriel is working very closely with me this trip,’ Marnie said, smiling up at him.

I blanched. Was he her significant other?

Had I been fancying Marnie Miller’s boyfriend? Life was sometimes monumentally unfair. For example, Marnie Miller had a successful career, looked a trillion dollars, was petite, sweet-natured, had probably never heard the words hangover or cellulite, definitely didn’t own a pair of magic knickers, and on top of all that had Gabriel Frost to keep her warm at night.

Bugger. Sod it. Arse. Rats. Bugger.

And other expletive deleteds.

Not that he was my type of course. I’ve never ended up with good-looking, well-dressed, educated men. I’ve always landed the scruffbag, moody ones who borrow money from me, sulk when they can’t watch football on my television and never remember my birthday. I wonder if I’ve been short-changed?