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
