Second Sitting Read online

  It was acting really. I acted the part of being the MC. Hopefully I remembered all the right names, which changed with every cruise, and said the right things. The audience clapped and I raised my arms in welcome as the dancers raced on in swirls of perfume and deodorant, skimpy black shorts, top hats and brief silver crop tops. They went effortlessly into their dance routine. They had been rehearsing all afternoon on a floor that might move.

  The show had started. It could take care of itself now, unless there was a calamity. I took the service lift down to deck F and hurried through the myriad of passages, some storing stacks of unwanted passenger suitcases, crates of supplies, cables snaking the floor, admin offices on either side. I passed the canteen where the crew ate. As usual it was busy and noisy. The crew took no notice of my glamorous appearance. They saw me every day. It was nothing new to them.

  The officers’ mess was down another narrow passageway. It was fairly empty at this time of the evening. Everyone was working. The dancers and stage show artistes had the first hour in which to eat their lettuce and rocket. I’he second hour slot was for lecturers, the ballroom dancing teachers and the art team. The third hour was for officers. I rushed in and out whenever I could. No one noticed or cared.

  It had two long tables, correctly set with white clothes, silver cutlery and glasses. The food was set out buffet style, each dish in a keep-warm container. Some had been keeping warm for hours, since it first left the kitchens. The baked salmon fillets looked like shrunken shrimps.

  I went to the cold buffet. Salad again. But at least it was fresh and I could make up the mixture as I wished. Cold salmon gave me plenty of Omega 3.

  An officer was sitting alone at the far end of the table. He looked as if he did not want to be disturbed, a journal propped up on the cruet in front of him. Even without registering the red tabs on his shoulders, I knew who he was. It was that attractive man. We had met on the rail, steaming out of Southampton.

  ‘I will only disturb your meal for one moment, Dr Mallory,’ I said, not putting down my plate of salad. ‘But I’d like to know how Mr Foster is. You remember, the passenger who was taken ill at table two.’

  ‘Mr Foster is having a nice, long rest,’ said Dr Mallory, hardly pausing. ‘He is at present in a freezer, awaiting shipment home. Didn’t you know? I thought the crew knew everything. He was dead on arrival, as they say.’

  ‘Have you done a post-mortem?’ I asked. I was shocked. I didn’t know he had died.

  ‘Not my job.’

  ‘What did he die of?’

  ‘Heart attack. Didn’t feel a thing. Out in a flash. The way to go.’

  I didn’t like the way he was talking, without any feeling for Mr Foster or his family. Besides I remembered that puddle of red froth on the table. I didn’t know that a heart attack was preceded by a haemorrhage. There might be a book in the ship’s library, though they usually kept anything vaguely scary off the passengers’ reading list.

  ‘Don’t you have to log a death? If you’re sure of the cause of death?’

  ‘Of course. I log everything. I am sure, Miss Whoever-you-are. It was a heart attack. His heart had stopped beating. We gave him heart compression and artificial respiration, but it was too late. We’ll keep him cold until we get back to the UK. It’s normal procedure.’

  ‘But Mr Foster could be flown home?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s very expensive and a lot of paperwork. I never recommend it. Mrs Foster was agreeable to the current arrangement. She said her husband had been looking forward to this cruise so he might as well stay on board.’

  It was not funny. I suppressed a shiver. Death at sea was not an unusual occurrence. Quite a lot of passengers were elderly and a death or two was natural. But the passengers didn’t like it. Nor did the crew. The ship was like a village with everyone getting to know everyone else. And everyone gossiped. Every little item of news was passed round the dining tables and bars.

  ‘So, who are you?’ he asked, looking up from the page. ‘When you are at home and not wearing yards of turquoise and killer heels.’

  His eyes were a clear, granite grey. They glinted with the sharpness of steel behind his spectacles. He had lashes, long and dark, sweeping a tanned skin. His nose was strong-boned but the right shape for a man, and his mouth was curved, soft and generous. Dr Samuel Mallory was, without doubt, the best looking man on the ship. And I knew he was lithe and tall. He had stood beside me at the rail, watching the last of England’s coastline disappear.

  No wonder the queue outside the medical centre was so long every morning. Every matron on board would pay for five minutes of Dr Mallory’s time. They’d pay extra for a smile. And I knew he flirted. Word had got around. I’d been warned. I’d seen him chatting up the ladies, several times.

  ‘I’m Casey Jones,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘I joined the Countess as Cruise Director at Southampton. I’m in charge of entertainment. I introduce all the shows in the evening, make sure there’s enough going on to keep the passengers occupied during the day. Hence the fancy dress. I have to look the part.’

  ‘You look very nice. Casey Jones? That’s an unusual name. Isn’t it a boy’s name?’

  Dr Mallory didn’t sound all that interested. Perhaps he didn’t flirt with crew, only with female paying passengers. Fair enough. I was only talking to him in a professional capacity.

  ‘It actually stands for KC. My initials,’ I said. ‘I was christened Katherine Cordelia by my parents to make up for having a plain surname. But no one could manage such a mouthful and have always used my initials instead.’

  ‘KC,’ he murmured. ‘Fair enough.’

  Dr Mallory had gone back to his pamphlet. I could see it was a medical journal. I hoped he was keeping current with new knowledge. It wasn’t all sea sickness pills and twisted ankles on board ship. There were some serious injuries but then he would know that. Passengers were often flown home for treatment.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he added, with a brief nod. He went back to his journal and his home-made apple pie and cream. I was dismissed, me and my salad.

  Later that night I went up on deck, to take a last look at the star-studded night sky and the night sea. We were travelling at a rate of knots. I didn’t know how many, but fast. You could tell by the flurry of white on the wake that the ship was moving fast. The captain often made up time at night. Soon we would be passing Cape St Vincent at the south western tip of Portugal, then making for the Gibraltar Strait. In the earliest shipping days, sailors stopped and turned back at the Gibraltar Strait. They believed the earth was flat and this was where they would fall off.

  A lot of passengers were tucking into sandwiches, savouries and cakes at the midnight buffet. Maybe they thought the same. They were stocking up in case we fell off.

  Three - At Sea

  All the passengers were looking forward to the captain’s cocktail party that evening. That is, all the female passengers were keen, maybe not the men. Though they made an effort. Some even wore kilts or medals pinned to tuxedo lapels.

  It was the first big party of the cruise. The women’s clothes were fabulous, gold and silver, brocades and silk, sequins galore. I’d seen it all before. And of course, yards and yards of black. Any colour stood out. A flame of crimson, a shocking yellow, a pure white, Alexander McQueen, Versace, Celine, Calvin Klein. The hairdressing salon had been busy all afternoon.

  I wore my special Versace dress. It was vintage, bought for a song and a half from a little shop tucked away behind Harrods. It always made me feel good, the shades of lilac and pink, fading to white, three layers of chiffon, floating from a tightly folded bodice and tiny straps. The sandals were see-through straps on impossible heels. I could barely walk in them.

  I was checking invitation cards as the line of passengers were introduced to Captain Nicolas. As always, there was a first-sitting party and a second-sitting party. Some passengers aimed to come to both. Usual excuses, left invitation in cabin, lost it overboard, my wife’s got
it. My memory was good. I let them know they’d been spotted, in the nicest way, of course.

  Stewards circulated with drinks trays and stewardesses brought round the canapés, little smoked salmon rolls, black caviar on toast, shrimp vol-au-vents. They tasted cold. Most of the officers attended one or other of the parties. Some had to work, keep the ship going, make sure she was heading in the right direction. Palma tomorrow. We would soon be crossing the Greenwich Meridian.

  I caught a glimpse of those red shoulder tabs. The handsome doctor was talking and laughing with a group of admiring women. He was being his most charming, looked devastating in his full dress uniform. I wondered if he had had his teeth veneered. They were very white, film starry, especially when the lights in the Princess Lounge were seductively dimmed. It wasn’t even dark outside yet.

  Captain Nicolas had his photograph taken with every passenger. He was good at it. His smile was genuine. The line took a long time to disperse through the lounge. Half the drinking time had gone already.

  ‘Miss Jones,’ said Captain Nicolas in a break. ‘Don’t you want your photograph taken with me? Your first cruise on the Countess. Something to show the grandchildren in the future.’

  ‘My grandchildren will love it,’ I said, same joking tone.

  ‘How about I join you?’ said Dr Mallory, suddenly appearing at my side. ‘We can’t waste that fabulous dress and those eyes. Let’s make it a threesome. Beauty and two beasts.’

  ‘I can only count one beast,’ I said.

  The camera girl snapped us before I could say anything more. I thanked the captain, ignored the doctor, and moved on. The doctor was so smooth, it was a wonder he didn’t slide and glide across the floor. The chiffon swirled round my legs like a sea of mist. Mrs Foster was at the party, swathed in gold and black velvet. She’d had her hair and nails done at the beauty salon. She was certainly making an effort to join in some of the cruise activities. But her face was taut.

  ‘Does it help to come and talk to people?’ I said to her.

  She nodded. ‘It’s what George would have wanted me to do, after paying all that money. His hard-earned money. He wouldn’t have wanted me to mope in our stateroom, all by myself. I’ll try to do my grieving when I get home.’

  ‘That sounds very sensible. What did your husband do?’

  ‘He was an art dealer. He knew a lot about the art trade.’

  ‘That sounds very interesting. Did he have a look at our collection of art that is for sale on board in the art gallery?’

  She nodded, with a suppressed noise. ‘Yes, he did but it’s not quite his scene. Mostly reproductions and prints. But I guess it sells well. We call them wall furnishings. You know, just filling up a space, like wallpaper.’

  I knew exactly what Mrs Foster meant. But the art auctions were very popular and so was the free champagne served at them.

  ‘Palma tomorrow. Lots of sightseeing and shopping, but you may not feel like going ashore. Have you been there before?’

  ‘A long time ago,’ she said. ‘It was on our first cruise. We had a very modest cabin then. It was inside on some lower deck with bunk beds. George took the upper berth and kept falling out of his bed.’

  I laughed and her face lightened. That’s what Mrs Foster needed. Lots of good memories to hang on to. Laughter.

  ‘They need a lot of practice. There’s an excellent film on tonight, if you don’t feel like watching the stage show.’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you, but not really. I may just sit and listen to the pianist in the lounge. He plays such lovely music.’

  ‘Yes, he does. We’ll talk again, Mrs Foster,’ I said, knowing I must circulate. It was my job.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to come and have a drink in my stateroom one evening? I know you’re very busy, Miss Jones. You always seem to be rushing somewhere.’

  ‘I’d like that very much. We’ll make it a sea day. You’ll be tired after a day in port if you go ashore. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs Foster …’

  I hoped she had booked some excursions. Sometimes I was roped in to be a tour escort if they were short of volunteers. Crew enjoyed doing this because they got a free trip. There was always a registered local guide so being an escort was mostly counting heads and keeping the stragglers together.

  It was easy to talk to people at parties. And there were lots of parties on board. The POSH club always had a party, and any other groups travelling together. Mostly Rotarians and Masonic clubs.

  I usually made a beeline for someone standing on their own, or a couple who seemed a little out of it. Some passengers, especially those on their first ever cruise, found this kind of socializing difficult. By the end of the first week, they would be chatting to everyone.

  ‘So our lovely Entertainments Director is hard at work, shepherding her nervous lambs, and patting their little woollen trotters.’ The deep voice was easy to recognize. I didn’t know why he was wasting valuable networking time talking to me. Perhaps I amused him or made him feel more secure.

  ‘No need to be sarcastic,’ I said, keeping my voice down. ‘There are many shy and nervous people on board who need encouragement to mix. Maybe you’ll never find them queueing outside your surgery. But I assure you, I can spot them. And by the way, trotters are part of pigs.’

  ‘Have you seen them at the midnight buffet? Still eating.’

  ‘Food is addictive. It’s the famine syndrome.’

  ‘Famine, is that what you call it? Let me know when we are down to the last roll and butter.’

  ‘Have you decided anything more about Mr Foster’s death? I told you about the cherry-red blood on the tablecloth, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ said Samuel Mallory sharply. ‘And I’d be obliged if you would keep your nose out of medical matters. Mr Foster died of a heart attack and that’s the end of the matter.’

  ‘The tablecloth was whipped away,’ I went on. ‘But there might have been traces of blood on his shirt or skin.’

  ‘Don’t tell me my job and I won’t tell you how to do yours. Though I am surprised you are not in dress uniform. Isn’t it de rigueur at these formal things?’

  He was right. I felt my cheeks redden. Careless, Casey. He was right. I should have worn the long black skirt, white blouse with bow tie and cropped gold-braided dress jacket. There was just time to change before the next cocktail party. I’d forgotten.

  Only I didn’t have time to change then. I noticed a young woman holding on to the edge of the bar. She looked very pale and shaky and I don’t think it was the drink. The stewards are not over generous with glasses of champagne or going round with refills. You’d be lucky if you got a second one. A third was an unheard of indulgence.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said, going over to her. ‘Do you need some air? It’s a bit stuffy in here.’

  She clutched my arm. Her long red nails went into my flesh. She was about twenty-eight or -nine, beautifully dressed in slim ivory satin, long flowing blonde hair, diamonds sparkling in her ears. She was lovely.

  ‘Help me, help me,’ she whispered.

  She was starting to hyperventilate, breathing fast. And she was sweating, her forehead beaded with moisture. It was a panic attack. Time to get her out of here before she fainted.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Amanda.’

  ‘Come along, Amanda. You need some fresh air.’

  I took her outside the Princess Lounge. My elementary first-aid knowledge immediately key-holed a brown paper bag. But the Countess rarely carried available supplies of brown paper bags. I dashed into the ladies’ cloakroom and grabbed a small sanitary bag. It would have to do.

  We took the lift to the Lido deck. Meanwhile I helped Amanda breathe into the bag, so that she was eventually breathing carbon dioxide and not gulping extra oxygen. We leaned over the rail, watching the distant lights of other ships moving in the growing darkness. Her breathing calmed. She was still clutching me.

  ‘Do you feel well enough to talk?’ I asked.
‘There’s no one about up here. No one will hear.’

  Amanda was taking deep breaths now but steadily. She patted her face with a tissue and then looked at me. She had wonderfully startling blue eyes. Very photogenic. Perhaps she was a model.

  ‘Two years ago my fiancé was killed in a motorway rage incident. You may have read about it in the newspapers. It was all over the front pages, especially the tabloids,’ she said. ‘“Driver Stabbed by Maniac” — those were the headlines.’

  ‘I may have done,’ I murmured.

  ‘He was knifed by this mad man, right in front of me. It was quite awful. Giles died in my arms, on the hard shoulder. And no need for it at all. We’d done nothing wrong. We were simply driving the wrong sort of car. Giles had an Aston Martin but he’d worked hard for it. He was entitled to drive a good car. He’d paid for it.’

  ‘Wasn’t he caught? This road rage maniac?’

  ‘No, never. He just disappeared. Straight down to the nearest ferry, I expect, and then holed up somewhere in France for months.’

  She was starting to cry now, reliving those past moments. ‘Do you think you are in any danger?’

  ‘I don’t think so because I was in the car when it happened. My face was plastered over the newspapers the next day but I was younger and dark then, and I’m blonde now.’

  ‘Could you manage to come back to the party?’ I knew it was asking a lot. ‘It would help.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that.’

  But it was too late. They were clearing up the party. Passengers had gone to dinner, suitably fuelled for a lovely meal. Amanda and I walked to the dining room.

  ‘Where’s your table?’

  ‘I’m on a table with my mother. We’re travelling together.’

  ‘Amanda, I’m going to leave you now. Relax and have a nice meal with your mother. Go see the show or the film.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you so much for helping me.’ It was the first time she’d let go of my arm. ‘I really appreciate it.’