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!’
Absolutely Fabulous
Vodka, Cranberry Juice, Champagne
The following morning we woke late and had a leisurely breakfast of fresh fruit and plain yogurt in the food court. While we congratulated ourselves on our discipline and what India had heard was now called ‘considered eating’, it was a bit forgettable even if the strawberries were cut into cunning fans. We added a spoonful of some grain thing. It looked like something I might have fed to a budgie and tasted of burnt biscuits. It also killed any chances of conversation as we munched through it, jaws aching. We had decaffeinated coffee with skimmed milk and without sugar. It was thoroughly unsatisfying, I thought, but I didn’t say anything in case India was feeling happy with getting back on that healthy track.
We then had a brisk walk on the promenade deck that went around the ship, with encouraging notices telling us how far we had walked. Apparently three laps of the deck equalled one kilometre. Did that make me feel better? No, not really.
There were loads of people taking it very seriously though, who were striding out, chests like bellows, arms swinging. One man even shouted at his flagging wife as we passed them: ‘Come on, Tessa, keep up. Another two circuits and you can have that doughnut.’ It seemed a little harsh, as she was at least eighty by the look of her. If it had been me I would have waited until he strode ahead round a corner and sneaked off to get one without him, and had a hot chocolate too.
*
At eleven o’clock we made our way to the Ocean Theatre where Marnie Miller was giving her talk. There were already ten full rows of people waiting for it to start and Marnie herself was standing at the back of the room having what looked like a very quiet argument with her miserable assistant. On the stage a man in a high-vis jacket was plugging various cables into different sockets and looking doubtfully at the projection screen behind him.
We went and sat on the eleventh row and others joined us. Marnie – famous, successful and charming – was quite a draw. Most of the attendees were women but there were a few determined-looking men too, flicking biros with their thumbs and ruffling through impressive piles of paper. Some were dragging laptops out of smart bags; others had notebooks and pencil cases. A couple, sitting like the class swots at the front, were clutching what looked like full manuscripts. Were they hoping to give them to Marnie to read?
At exactly one minute to eleven Marnie swept centre stage, closely followed by the miserable-looking assistant who was carrying everything: a laptop bag, bottle of mineral water, glass, box of tissues and a cushion.
After a few minutes the screen flicked into life and the high-vis man blew an audible sigh of relief. Marnie turned to the audience, her megawatt smile flashed on and her miserable assistant took the opportunity to scarper stage left. The theatre dimmed a little and someone turned on the spotlights, placing Marnie in an attractive circle of light, her red hair glossy and glowing. She was wearing artfully ripped jeans and a tiny Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. It looked a bit odd actually, like a child dressing up in its mother’s clothes.
She sat down in the spotlight with a loud sigh, as though she had been doing housework all morning and her back was killing her. By the look of her immaculate hair and make-up I was guessing she had spent a tiring couple of hours in the spa.
‘Ladies! And gentlemen – how nice to see you too! Welcome, all of you writers, to our first little get-together, which as you can see is called Write for Love.’ She waved a hand towards the screen. ‘Well, now, do we have any writers in the house?’
There was a bit of shuffling around at this point and some uneasy laughter as several keen types put their hands up.
Marnie smiled. ‘I can reassure you; you are all writers. Every single one of you is a writer. There’s no doubt about it. Yes, come in, come in. Yes, you are a little late but no matter. You write stories, maybe diaries or memoirs, letters, postcards, birthday cards, your kids’ homework?’
More laughter.
‘A few of you will have written a book: sixty, seventy, eighty thousand words. Others won’t have picked up a pen since high school. But you are all writers.’
There was a noticeable straightening of shoulders at this point as people enjoyed the scent of
