Here Come the Girls (39 page)

‘I don’t think I’ll be dining with you tomorrow,’ said Nigel. ‘I’m going to Cruz.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Frankie, adding pointedly and rather loudly too, ‘Isn’t it, Ven?’

‘Oh yes, yes,’ said Ven, wishing she were near enough to kick Frankie as well.

‘Lucky you,’ sighed Roz absently. ‘What that man can’t do with a chorizo isn’t worth talking about.’

‘And how would you know?’ Frankie nudged her.

‘I watch his programmes, of course.’ Roz snapped back into herself. ‘I imagine he’s very good at what he does.’
In and out of bed
, she smirked to herself.

‘What’s all this I hear about the three ships, Captain?’ asked Royston, diving into his passion fruit Pavlova like a starving man.

‘The Cruise of the Grandes Dames, you mean?’ said Nigel.

The others leaned in to listen because they didn’t know what Nigel and Royston were talking about. Ven noticed he had missed a line of stubble on his cheek. She wished she could put her lips against it.

‘The
Duchess Alexandra
, the
Lady Beatrice
and the
Dowager Mary
– the three Grandes Dames of the cruise world – are making their final journeys at the same time. They’re sailing in formation for the Suez Canal. It’ll be quite emotional. The
Duchess
was my first captaincy. We should cross paths with them tomorrow morning.’

‘Liners!’ declared Eric with gusto. ‘They’d withstand anything the Atlantic had to chuck at them. Fabulous old girls. We’ve been on all three, haven’t we, Irene?’

Irene nodded meekly in the background.

‘What’ll happen to them?’ asked Eric.

‘The
Lady Beatrice
will sail to the States to be a floating hotel, the
Dowager
will be a museum in Scotland and I think they’ll break up the
Duchess
.’ Nigel sighed, rather sadly.

‘Bloody criminal, that,’ said Eric with feeling. ‘That ship has the most beautiful towering atrium I have ever seen.’

‘Why do they always call ships by women’s names?’ asked Ven.

‘Not all countries do,’ said Eric, keen to jump in and show off his knowledge as always. ‘Most, but not all. I believe the original reasons for that have been lost in history, isn’t that right, Captain O’Shaughnessy?’

‘Perfectly right,’ agreed Nigel.

‘It’s because they’ll give you a hell of a ride if you stump up enough money,’ Royston guffawed until Stella slapped him, but she was laughing along with the others as she administered corporal punishment.

‘I imagine,’ began Nigel, ‘it’s because once upon a time men spent so long at sea they might as well have been married to it. Calling their vessel by a female name made them feel close to some form of female entity. Some sailors called their boats after their mothers in the hope that she would protect them. Whatever the truth, it’s a very intimate relationship between sailor and craft.’

Ven melted a little more. Nigel might as well have been reciting poetry. For a moment there she had a glimpse into how men could form emotional attachments with the things they drove – more so than with their partners, sometimes. She remembered how Ian had nearly cried when he’d bumped his sports car and knackered the door. She only wished he’d been as affected by knackering her heart.

‘I like to think it’s like a marriage,’ Royston went on. ‘The man thinks he’s in charge, but it’s really the woman who’s controlling whether he sinks or swims.’

Stella’s jaw dropped open, and she looked as shocked as anyone with three ton of Botox freezing her face could.

‘That was lovely,’ she gasped. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you.’

Royston winked at her. ‘You see, gel, you still don’t know everything about me.’

It seemed that poets’ souls were all over the ship today. Ven had noticed in the
Mermaidia Today
that a poet she really liked – Rik Jones-Knight – was on board and doing a virtuoso performance that evening. She knew it wouldn’t be the others’ cup of tea, especially as there was a comedian from Liverpool on in the Broadway Theatre who got rave reviews from Royston and Eric, and so she was quite prepared to go there alone.

When Nigel stood to go and wished them goodnight, Ven wondered if she were being paranoid because he seemed to say it to everyone but her. His eyes glazed over her as if he was trying to pretend she wasn’t there. It was just a shadow of a feeling, but slightly upsetting all the same, especially as the older she got, the more she knew she was in touch with her intuition. She ought to get a grip, though – really. She had as much chance of having a romantic interlude with the Captain as . . . well, as Roz had with Raul Cruz!

Chapter 59

If ever a man looked like a tortured genius, it was the poet Rik Jones-Knight. He had that shabby chic-ness about him that smacked of a man who belonged in a tuxedo but couldn’t afford to buy a new one and had to rely on his very rich friends to give him their cast-offs. His hair was romantically unkempt and fell in long seventeenth-century raven-and-white curls to his black-suited shoulders. Frankie had the fancy that if he shook his head, a cloud of wig powder would escape.

‘I never did “get” poetry,’ she confessed. ‘And this looks even more like pretentious bollocks than most.’

‘He’s a literary cult,’ said Venice.

‘That’s very similar to what I was thinking about him,’ scoffed Frankie.

‘Stop it,’ Ven warned her. ‘You should have gone off to Broadway with the others if you felt like that.’

‘Naw,’ smirked Frankie. ‘I volunteered to come with you because I find I’m in the mood for a bit of culture.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Okay then, I was intrigued. Plus I reckon this bloke might be more hilarious than the Scouse comedian.’

‘He’s not funny, he’s a maverick. He writes a complete poem then strips away every single word which isn’t needed. It can take him a couple of years to complete a single one. So actually, yes, you’re right to be intrigued,’ Ven sniffed.

‘I am,’ Frankie admitted. ‘Though probably not for the same reasons you are.’

Ven smiled. She knew Frankie wouldn’t be converted, but she appreciated that her friend had come along with her to give her some company.

As Rik Jones-Knight climbed onto the stage, the applause revved up for him and he milked it with grateful nods and bows.

‘Thank you, everyone,’ he said, with an effeminate flick of his hair. There was a magnificent pause whilst he waited for silence to fall.

‘In a world where poetry, to the masses, means unintelligible, copiousness, superabundance, my work is unique,’ he launched into his speech modestly – not. ‘I believe in using only the most everyday and thus perfect words for my Opera. I begin with “Rain”.’

You could have heard a pin drop as Rik Jones-Knight collected himself and opened up his book of poems from which he read.

‘Rain.’

There was enough time after the title had been announced for a small shower. He was certainly hell-bent on drawing out the anticipation.

‘Rain

Hard

Fast

Wet.’

Then his voice broke into an orgasmic cry: ‘IT COMES!’

The echo of his words faded in the room then rapturous applause exploded into the air.

‘Why am I clapping?’ said Frankie. ‘Because he’s made a shower sound like a shag?’

‘More or less,’ said Ven with high amusement.

‘Here’s some poetry,’ Frankie tutted. ‘Rik Jones-Knight, is totally sh—’

‘Shush!’ said Ven, drowning out her expletive.

Rik Jones-Knight waited patiently for the clapping to subside.

‘My next poem is called “Myra”.’

There were a few shocked, ‘Oohs,’ from the audience. Surely not Myra Hindley, it was thinking as a collective mass. Blimey, that was brave!

‘Myra,’ he repeated. Then his voice dropped to a despairing whisper.

‘Why?’

He dropped his head as if in prayer and waited once again for the clapping to begin, which it eventually did.

‘Genius,’ said the woman next to Frankie, who was staring at Rik Jones–Knight as if he were the Second Coming of Christ. ‘What more does anyone want to know about her?’

Frankie opened her mouth to reply but, quite honestly, the woman had a point.

‘I almost understood that one,’ whispered Frankie to Ven. ‘I’m not sure if that means I should be shot for being a pretentious twat.’

‘I’ll have you writing limericks by the end of this hour,’ winked Ven.

Poetry readings followed on various subjects. The Sun, Love (‘Born. To die’), Footprints, Gin, Coal (Men. Mining. Crushed bodies. Adding. Layers. of Crushed Bodies), to name but a few. The woman next to Frankie almost needed a cigarette after Rik Jones-Knight’s final crescendo; or a dunk in an ice-cold bath to dampen down her ardour. She was first in the queue to buy his book of poetry, priced at £30. There weren’t many words in it, but a hell of a lot of black and white photos of the ‘genius’ in various poses of unsmiling intensity. They were either very old portraits or heavily Photoshopped.

‘Not minimalistic on his pricing, is he?’ said Frankie as she waited in the queue with Ven.

‘Admit it, you enjoyed it just a bit, didn’t you?’

‘Absolutely. I’m going to my cabin now to write a book.’

‘You would have thought so differently if you’d had Miss Tanner as your English teacher,’ laughed Ven. ‘She was the one who opened my eyes to how lovely poetry was.’

‘Yes, well, we couldn’t all be in the top set,’ sniffed Frankie. ‘Some of us had to put up with Mrs Euston, who was as bored teaching us as we were bored of being taught by that old cow. Wonder if she’s dead yet. Or if she’s still living part-time in Loch Ness.’

‘Frankie, don’t be rotten.’

‘Mind you, I thought she was dead back then. I’ve seen more life in a cooked crab.’

‘She was pretty awful,’ Ven consented, as Frankie shivered at the thought of Mrs Euston. As Ven knew only too well, a good teacher could turn around lives. Frankie had been far too clever to be pushed into the bottom set for English Literature. But once trapped there, any interest that remained for the subject dug a grave and jumped in it. Ven, though, had flourished in her class under the tutelage of Miss Tanner. The rich language of Keats had first got her hooked, but she absorbed everything she read.

She was always going to become a writer, and Miss Tanner said she certainly had the ability. Ven hadn’t written anything for a long time, though. Ian didn’t like her working on her manuscript in the evenings – said it was rude of her to be so self-absorbed. And though Ven preferred the sumptuousness of word-rich poetry, Rik Jones-Knight had stirred something inside her tonight, however much Frankie might have scoffed. He had reignited her love of putting words together so expertly that a finished piece of poetry or prose was like a perfect jigsaw picture. She really must pick up a pen and a pad and see if she still had it in her.

They were now at the front of the queue. Close up, Rik Jones-Knight was wearing a lot of make-up which still didn’t make him look anything like as young as his publicity picture. To Frankie, he looked a bit embalmed. Maybe he was related to Mrs Euston.

‘Shall I personalise this book for you?’ he asked Ven, who had gone a bit fluttery and girly.

‘Yes, please,’ she replied. ‘“To Venice”.’

‘Venice. Venice.’ He mused over the name as if searching each letter of it for a hidden meaning. ‘That is going to be the title of my next poem.’

Ven’s excitement fluttered all the way down the queue. He wrote on the title page of the book with an exaggerated flourish and then turned to Frankie as one of the crew took Ven’s cruise-card details so the book could be charged to her account.

‘Shall I personalise this book to you, also?’

Frankie opened her mouth to say no, she didn’t want to buy one – but put on the spot, she ended up saying,

‘That would be lovely. Thank you – I really enjoyed you. Frankie – my name is Frankie.’

‘Books are worth a lot more when they are signed by the author but not personalised to the reader, did you know?’ said Rik Jones-Knight, with all the confidence of one who knew his autographed tomes would be battled for in Sotheby’s auctions in years to come. Then again, he also appreciated that his public wanted his books made special for them, so he asked Frankie to spell out her name.

‘You two-faced sod,’ laughed Ven when they stepped into the lift.

‘Aw, what the heck, I made him feel good,’ Frankie smiled, then positioned herself into a grand Rik Jones-Knight pose. ‘“Venice. Captain-Shagger. The End”.’

‘Bugger off.’

‘No really, I wanted to buy this book,’ winked Frankie. ‘It’s the perfect size to prop up my wobbly coffee table at home.’

Ven went up to the top deck before she retired for the night. She passed by a crocodile of sleepy but smiley children coming from a late magic show and holding home-made wands and saw, en route, the deliciously gorgeous Dom Donaldson holding court with the young dancers and singers from the Mermaidia Theatre Group. Tangerina was seated next to him in a very short ra ra skirt showing off her impossibly long legs, which probably took up a whole tube of fake tan in one sitting. Each.

Ven wondered if Florence and Dennis would be up on deck again. She had never seen them around the ship during the day. She imagined they would frequent one of the more sedate bars or maybe preferred to plod around their cabin instead. Some of the plusher cabins had a grand piano in them, and an upstairs. And a magazine rack. Alas, she was out of luck as there was no sighting of them. There were quite a few people up there that evening, enjoying the stars and the lovely smiling moon. Ven joined them, sipping at her Tia Maria nightcap and enjoying the salving breeze. Just as she was about to call it a night, she thought she had seen Florence out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned with a smile, ready to say, ‘There you are again!’ there was no one there, after all. It was just a trick of the moonlight.

D
AY
13: A
T
S
EA

Dress Code: Formal

Chapter 60