Come Away With Me: The hilarious feel-good romantic comedy you need to read in 2018. Maddie Please
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?