Dry Gin, Liqueur de Violette, Lemon Juice, Egg White
The following morning I woke with the usual foggy feeling of too many late nights, too much rich food and far too much alcohol. Looking at her rather pinched, grey expression, I think India felt much the same. Outside, instead of the usual calm, quiet ambiance, we could hear people hurrying up and down the corridor, the occasional thump of a bag against our door and once or twice a distant laugh as people shut their cabin doors for the last time and went trundling off with their hand luggage in search of breakfast.
Without really speaking much, India and I got dressed, packed up the last of our hand luggage and swiped what was left of the Jo Malone toiletries from the bathroom. Another notice had been pushed under the door with details of how to disembark. It sounded very efficient, with people being asked to go to the theatre at specific times. We had to be there at ten-thirty and we had two red stickers to identify us.
We made our way to the food court. India found a table and I brought back some coffee and a selection of Danish pastries and muffins. Let’s be honest, we didn’t need them, but by that point it was habit. Or to put it another way, we were being greedy. What difference would one more meal make?
We sat placidly munching and people-watching. Some of the passengers were already clearing the food from the display cabinets with the speed and efficiency of a pack of Velociraptors. A lot of people seemed to look the way we felt: sort of tired and lethargic after so many days of jollity and overindulgence. And there was just a muted rumble of conversation, enlivened only when there was a minor disturbance somewhere by the area dealing with hot breakfast food and we heard a plaintive cry of ‘My bacon, I think you’ll find, buddy!’
The coast of England slipped slowly past with its coves and beaches and hotels and oil storage depots. It was strange to see buildings and other boats again. I think we had the same sort of out-of-it feeling you get when you’ve been in hospital for a few days and someone comes to drive you home.
Then the ship slowed down, we stopped for a moment, there was a deep and distant rumbling somewhere far below us and we began to turn. It seemed the Captain was going to take us into the dock backwards. Speaking as someone who finds it hard to parallel park even when the rest of the street is empty, that’s just showing off in my opinion. Inch by inch we backed into our parking space or whatever it’s called. Left hand down a bit. It was exactly ten-thirty. Considering we had travelled 3,365 miles, I think that was pretty impressive.
‘We’d better go to the theatre,’ I said, checking our disembarkation paperwork again.
India waved a hand dismissively. ‘What’s the worst they can do if we don’t go to the theatre at ten-thirty? Not let us get off? Make us sail back to New York? Clap us in irons and put us in the bilges? Chill out.’
I shrugged. She was right. We had another cup of coffee and watched an elderly man ramming bottles of water and several sausages wrapped in paper napkins into his little wheeled suitcase. We have plenty of food in England, I wanted to say. Just because of Brexit, doesn’t mean there’s nothing to eat.
Another white-haired traveller I took to be his wife appeared, balancing several bread rolls and slices of cheese on a plate.
India went off and returned with two bottles of water and two vast slices of carrot cake.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ I said.
‘I don’t know, it’s just what everyone else is doing. Herd mentality.’
‘So if everyone stays here for the next couple of hours and then starts eating lasagne and garlic bread, you’d do that too?’
‘Well, I might. Do you think Jerry is waiting for us?’ India looked a little misty-eyed at the prospect.
‘Knowing Jerry he will possibly have been on the quayside since dawn, or he might be at Bristol Airport, or he might have forgotten to come at all.’
‘He’s hopeless, isn’t he? I do love him,’ India said, taking a bite of cake.
The quayside was gently sliding into view with several workers in boilersuits and hard hats looking up at the vast bulk of the Reine, waiting for her to stop. Next to them were various articulated lorries parked up in a line waiting, presumably, to unload stuff. They’d need to get rid of our rubbish first, probably another huge amount of cardboard and bottles. I wondered if they would roll their eyes at the sheer amount or whether it was always like this. Other people would be congregating somewhere, waiting to board the ship before sailing off this evening. Back to New York perhaps, or south to Spain or Africa?
I watched the lorries for a few minutes while I picked chunks off my carrot cake and wondered if it was too early for a drink. I mean I’d quite enjoyed the Fish House Punch last night. And it had fruit in it too, so it couldn’t have been that bad. On the other hand there had been something called a Hemingway Breakfast that involved absinthe, rum and marmalade, among other things.
I wondered if Ernest Hemingway really did have that for his breakfast. I imagined him sitting in his house in Key West, surrounded by his six-toed cats and empty Martini glasses. The day I’d had that one, India had enjoyed a Dutch Breakfast, which had advocaat, gin and Galliano. It came garnished with a slice of orange too, and they’re full of vitamin C.
For God’s sake, what was I thinking?
I stood up.
‘Come on, let’s go. It’s nearly eleven o’clock.’
India sighed. ‘Oh, all right then, Mrs Nag. I bet you any money we’ll just have to sit around for hours waiting for something to happen.’
We picked up our bags and went out into the atrium. Suddenly there was an announcement over the public address system.
‘Would Miss India Fisher and Miss Alexandria Fisher please make their way to the theatre immediately where staff are waiting to assist them in their ten-thirty disembarkation process. That’s a ten-thirty disembarkation.’
We exchanged panic-stricken looks and set off at a brisk jog.
*
After dealing with some uncharacteristically frosty Reine de France employees (how were we to know they only had five hours to clean the entire ship and remake all the beds?) we went through customs and back down the footbridge where we were reunited with our luggage in a cavernous, wind-blasted hangar. And there was Jerry in the same washed-out red cord trousers and Black Sabbath T-shirt he had been wearing the last time I saw him. He had been waiting for us since half past seven and had brought a welcome-home balloon, a bottle of champagne and – his preferred present for all occasions – a bag of jam doughnuts. At the sight of them, India burst into tears and Jerry had to spend a few minutes hugging her and rubbing her back and calming her down. Meanwhile I sat on my suitcase watching our fellow travellers reunite with their friends, climbing on to luxury coaches or cramming their cases into the inadequate boots of taxis.
My eye was suddenly caught by a very shiny black stretch limo parked illegally in the No Waiting area. And then Marnie Miller and her assistant appeared from the terminal building, followed by a porter with their luggage piled up on a trolley like something out of a 1950s travel guide. Marnie whipped off her sunglasses (it wasn’t even sunny) and got into the limo, swiftly followed by her assistant who was relegated to the front seat with the driver.
And oh, looky look. My mouth dropped open. Gabriel Frost in a sleek, dark, lawyer-y suit. Getting in beside Marnie, disappearing from view behind the dark windows with her.
Bastard.
Eventually India calmed down and stopped snivelling. Honestly you would have thought she’d been Two Years Before the Mast not just away for twelve days on a luxury ship.
‘So are you all right? Did you have fun?’ Jerry kept asking, his face creased with worry. It was as though he wanted us to say no, it was awful.
Behind him I saw Marnie’s limo escape through the dock gates with a dramatic sweep, as though it had been embarrassed to be in such close proximity to anything as chavvy as a coach.
‘It was fantastic,’ I said, ‘great cabin, loads of food and drinks. Entertainment, lectures …’
Jerry hugged my sister again and they rocked from side to side, enjoying being back together again.
‘I’se missed ooo so much, my yittle Bun-bun,’ he said in the sort of silly voice hotshot barristers use when talking to their fiancées in public places.
‘I’ve missed you too, Jerry,’ I sighed.
Jerry turned, confusion all over his face. ‘Awfully sorry, Alexa, I meant India. Although I did miss you too of course. Oh, you’re being funny.’
*
Let’s be honest, driving home after any holiday is always pretty rubbish. Okay, you have all those lovely memories and loads of pictures on your phone, some of which in my case were a teeny bit obscured at the top because I’d bought a new phone case and the hole for the camera lens was in the wrong place. But anyway the only other things you have are a bag full of dirty washing, a load of sugar sachets in the side pockets of your handbag and, on this occasion, some Reine de France biros, because every time I was asked to sign a bar slip, I made a point of keeping the pen. I had loads too. How did that happen?
India sat in the front passenger seat next to Jerry and they held hands on the gear stick all the way home, except when Jerry was distracted by India squeezing his thigh and nearly ran into the car in front of us. My bet was that, while I was going to spend my evening unpacking and doing laundry, Jerry and India were going to be in their groovy loft-style apartment, at it like rabbits. Perhaps that’s why he called her Bun-bun?
Funny isn’t it, looking at Jerry – who when he’s not wearing his work clothes looks like a shambling wreck – you really wouldn’t think he had a high-octane sex life. And that business with the handcuffs and the judge’s wig and the salad cream – well, it will take me a long time to forget that. Oh well.
I had a snooze, my head pillowed on one of the bags that didn’t fit into the boot. We did seem to have bought a lot of things. I only remembered buying my mother a stuffed toy owl. What was all this other stuff?
I woke up when we were nearly home to find Jerry and India were now talking full-time as though they had been inhaling helium out of balloons.
‘I missed my Bunny,’ Jerry said, ‘lots.’
‘Just lots?’
‘And lots and lots and lots,’ Jerry squeaked.
‘I missed ooo just as much.’
‘Really?’
‘Really really.’
‘And cuddles. I missed cuddles,’ Jerry said. ‘I fort I would go crazy without ooo.’
‘And that, m’lud, is the case for the prosecution,’ I said, sitting up.
‘Oh, so you’re awake,’ India said.
‘You’re round the bend the pair of you,’ I said.
‘She’s just jealous,’ India said. ‘She hasn’t got a boyfriend.’
‘Erm, I don’t think so,’ I said, ‘and if I did I wouldn’t talk like a demented baby on speed.’
‘Gabriel Gorgeousness?’ India prompted.
‘Who he?’ Jerry said, his ears pricking up.
‘Alexa had a shipboard romance,’ India said confidingly, ‘but shipboard romances stay on the ship. And now she’s all miz.’
‘I am not all miz, I am perfectly okay about it. There’s no need to make up stories.’
‘I forgot to tell you! Marnie Miller was on the ship giving talks on writing,’ India said. ‘I’ve decided I’m going to write a bestseller. I’ve already written nearly two thousand words. It’s all about a girl who falls in love with a duke . And she makes cakes and has a mad friend who runs a teashop and there’s going to be a village fete and some hidden treasure. I’m going to plot the whole thing out and make a fortune.’
‘Sounds wonderful, Bunny,’ Jerry said, slowing down as he negotiated my parents’ driveway. The potholes were no better I noticed.
I found my house keys and let myself in. It was unnaturally quiet and tidy with them away in Australia. There was a pile of post to be picked up from behind the front door; quite a few travel brochures, I noticed, and several glossy catalogues for cruise lines including a huge new one for the Reine de France.
I flicked through it with India leaning over my shoulder, stabbing at the pictures and saying things like, oooh, I’ve been in that room. We had dinner there. See that table? That was where we sat.
The pictures were stylish and exciting with more glamorous alpha couples laughing all over everything. They were giggling by the pool as they sipped brightly coloured cocktails (looked like two Piña Coladas to me), chuckling as the wine waiter showed them a bottle of Bollinger, beaming happily as the tall-hatted chef offered them a plate of elaborate desserts. Then there was a picture of two of them in the spa having a couples massage, eyes closed and blissfully smiling as they presumably anticipated some rampant sexual activity later on in their massive, flower-strewn suite. There were even two towel swans in the middle of the vast bed and chocolates on the pillows. I found myself hoping Amil had hung a towel monkey inside their wardrobe so it would frighten the crap out of them later. Bastards.
India went off to check if there was anything interesting in the freezer she could nick for their evening meal and then had a quick scan through the drinks cabinet.
‘D’you want this vodka?’ she said, waggling a new bottle at me.
‘No, but I expect Mum will when she gets home,’ I said rather stiffly. I was tired, that was all. I had a headache; I needed a wee and a shower. And I really wanted five minutes’ peace and quiet away from Jerry and Bunny who were evidently in the mood for a bottle of champagne and some bedroom gymnastics. Perhaps he would get the handcuffs out or they could play barristers and defendants and talk about taking each other’s briefs down?
I stopped India from taking the Angostura bitters, again, and shooed them out. They didn’t take much shooing, and then I locked up and went down the garden to the granny annexe. It was exactly as I had left it, even down to the screwed-up crisp packet in the bin and the book left open on the sofa. The laundry basket was still overflowing and I’d forgotten to buy milk and bread on the way home. Instead there was the inflated yogurt and liquid cucumber plus an opened packet of sliced chicken I’d forgotten about that was almost a new life form. I went back up the path to my parents’ house where there was civilisation, ice in the freezer and three different sorts of gin.
I ran myself a hot bath and poured in a good dollop of my mother’s Chanel bath oil for good measure. Then I soaked in the bath for an hour with a gin and tonic made in a half-pint beer mug. I couldn’t stand it any longer; I would have to let myself do it. I lay in the scented water and thought about Gabriel.
Bloody sodding everything.
He’d been everything I liked in a man. Or I thought he had been for a few days, which was longer than some of my previous relationships, which, let’s be honest, were three-legged donkeys from day one even though I clung on to some of them like grim death.
Gabriel had been handsome, well-mannered, charming, solvent (if the limo was anything to judge by), intelligent (he did say he was lawyer) and fantastic in bed. Not necessarily in that order of course. And despite the champagne slinging at our first meeting, he’d seemed to like me too. I think. Or at least he’d found me attractive enough to take to bed. And then of course, just as I was starting to go a bit silly over him, I’d found out what he was like. Divorced (not that it mattered) and, if Marnie was to be believed, not as straightforward as he seemed.
He had been sensational in bed. But did that matter? Was that really significant? Was he always sensational in bed with every woman he managed to persuade to join him?
Probably.
But was anything about it meaningful?
No, probably not.
Oh well, what did matter? That I had found him sexy and irresistible or that we had enjoyed each other’s company? And he’d saved my sister from a scary situation. That had been quite something. I wished I’d known so I could have thanked him.
I finished my gin and tonic and got out of the bath. Then I went and poured another drink and sat and sulked in front of the television for a couple of hours watching some crap programme about life in the country and a charity’s battle to save some frigging beetle.
I suppose I should have gone back to my own bed at the end of the garden but it was dark outside now and raining. So when I had exhausted the rather restricted choice of TV channels my parents were happy to live with, I went up to my old room and switched on the electric blanket while I cleaned my teeth.
The Reine de France would have left Southampton by now, taking another fifteen hundred passengers off on an adventure. Someone else would be sitting at ‘our’ table. Amil would be fashioning towel swans for another couple. The boys and girls of the dance troupe would be flashing their eyes and teeth at a new audience. I wondered if they were doing the tribute to Cabaret again and firing up a different group of elderly gentlemen?
I got into bed and lay looking at the painted bookcase under the window that still held my battered collection of childhood paperbacks. Pony stories, boarding school adventures, and a whole shelf of unrealistic romances where the girl (bright, kind and lovely but misunderstood) takes her glasses off and the handsome boy dumps the class flirt, falls in love and proposes.
I wondered what Gabriel was doing. Had he gone to a hotel? Was he unpacking his cases and sending his clothes to the laundry?
I thought for a moment I was going to cry. Perhaps it was the gin; it has that effect on me sometimes.