S.O.S. (32 page)

Charlene was still beaming all over Nicole, and what lingered in her head – lodged not too far behind the megawatt and starstruck dazzle – was yeah, Nicole, you look OK I guess (leastways you ain't making with the honeybee like earlier on, yeah? With all the banana and black schtick) – but hey, get real. Like, what are you – picking up a
Oscar
?

That thought, and the surrounding bubbly hubbub (as well as the electric organ chorus from Surfin' Safari) were now cut into by the tinkling of a bell that came from … where
was
it coming from, actually, thought Nicole distractedly, this rather tinny and irritating noise? Ah yes – over there, I think, up in front of the band on the podium. Still the murmur of conversations rumbled along over and all around her – spiked by the odd whoop and silly drizzling gale of party laughter – but the bell was still clinking away for all it was worth, and gradually the shushing and the hushing began to hold sway, and soon there prevailed the closest to silence you're ever really going to get at this sort of thing – because there must be just hundreds of people here, you know: hundreds and hundreds, I reckon. Oh look – it's that rather embarrassing little Assistant something-or-other person, isn't it? The one that now I come to think of it (oh God I
shouldn't
 – it's just too cruel) rather reminds me of those bright red and shiny Peking
ducks
you see hanging up in all those windows in Chinatown; which is maybe why he chooses to carry through the theme and wear a bird's nest on his head.

‘Good people! Good people!' Stewart was now braying
bravely, his – and yes it
did
look rather cooked – perspiring face only just about managing to rein in the wilder manifestations of some or other recent and tremulous ecstatic conversion. ‘Little bit of hush, please, ladies and gentlemen … little bit of hush … shh … ssh down, please, ladies and gentlemen …'

Oh shut the fuck
up
, you bastards, thought Stewart, with savagery. Christ, it's not as if any of you's got anything to
say
, is it? Bloody hell – it's normally the
actual
Cruise Director who does all this (and where is he? Yeah well – you tell me. Where is he ever?). Raises his bloody finger – instant silence. I've been making like Quasimodo for the best part of ten minutes with all the bloody
bells
and here I am now practically
pleading
with all these sods to cut the
yap
for just two minutes, can't you? I've got to introduce the bloke who pretends to
drive
the thing – and the joke is I can barely talk anyway – my lips are completely fucked up from all those bloody
balloons
.

‘Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for your kind attention. Without more ado, it is with great pride and pleasure that I present to you our Captain. Captain Anthony
Scar
, ladies and gentlemen – please put your hands together for a great big round of applause for the Captain! Yay! Let's hear it!'

And people did what they could, give them their due – but it's never easy, is it? When you've got a glass in one hand (and are they coming
round
, do you suppose? Or is one meant, I don't know – to
go
somewhere for a refill?) and in the other a rather odd sort of little pastry and could-be chicken and something else a bit tricky to eat, quite frankly,
canapé
kind of thing (if I can find an ashtray or a crevice or a plant, I might quite discreetly get rid of it).

‘My
Lords
…' announced the Captain (and did he glare at Stewart? He might have done) ‘ … Ladies and gentlemen. I won't break up this magnificent ball for terribly long, so
please don't worry. Well – I hope all of you managed to get up on deck today …?'

A general and meaningless murmur arose, hung about a bit, and died the death.

‘Those of you who
did
will have enjoyed the most wonderful calm blue sea and, I am reliably informed, plenty of warm sunshine. I wouldn't
know
…' went Captain Scar, now – voice down an octave, merest twinkle in the eyes and one finger pawing the side of his nose as his mouth turned downwards (something by way of a
pleasantry
was surely on its way, then, was Stewart's opinion: and if so, get on with it, you cunt). ‘ … I wouldn't know about
that
, I'm afraid, because as you all know, I am kept toiling night and day on the
bridge
…!'

The usual muted hoo-hah ensued – a clutch of dark and knowing chuckles
here
, a honked-out chorus of deploring and mock-sympathetic animal noises
there
: sort of enough.

‘You don't believe me?' came the Captain's wide-eyed protestation. ‘Well one or two of you must come up and see how the sweat just pours off me! ha ha. But
seriously
for a minute – I hope you
did
all enjoy the weather today … because tomorrow and the
next
day …!'

And a collective groan rose and fell like a Mexican wave in the last of its death throes – still speckled, though, with clumps of laughter from those who assumed or maybe hoped that here was just another joke.

‘No joke, I'm afraid,' maundered on life-of-the-party Captain Scar. ‘The augurs are not good. I'm not suggesting anything …' – and here all the nose and fingers, eyes and mouth stuff was hastily reinstated – ‘ … anything, um –
titanic
…!'

And wafted over to him were further gales of mirth – though several pockets of quite grim silence were detectable too, as people studied their feet, and those of others.

‘ … But nonetheless, I do advise you – and here's a little something for all you Londoners here tonight – I do advise
you to, er, as the old bus conductors used to say while guiding their red double-deckers through a really bad peasouper, ha ha – I do advise you to Hold On
Tight
! Anyway – enough of all that. We're all here to
enjoy
ourselves, yes? So – on behalf of my crew and staff, I wish you all – my
Lords
 – ' (and did he glare at Stewart? He might have done) ‘– Ladies and gentlemen – a wonderful Viva America Ball, and an equally wonderful crossing – weather or no weather. Music please, Maestro!'

Yes, thought Stewart, let's all face the music and dance. The bandleader, Christ help us, has just instructed everyone to take their partners for the foxtrot – which just has to be the blackest joke really, doesn't it? Most of the people here, on account of free booze, extreme age and often a wholly poleaxing combination of the two, can hardly find it within themselves to maintain the perpendicular. Just look at that ancient old mare over there – would've keeled right over if it hadn't been for one of our eagle-eyed and off-white deejayed minders; they're gigolos, really – but they double as pretty useful fielders.

At the first sight of her mother sashaying across the floor with her usual studied elegance, Marianne had thought with a rush Oh God – she's going to start grilling me about where on earth
Dad
is, and
I
don't know, do I? Haven't seen him all day long. But now it became quite clear to Marianne that Nicole was not at all intent upon tackling her daughter on this or any other subject – hadn't even noticed her, it actually looked like: swept right past and on towards the podium. Surely she wasn't going to ask the band to do a request, was she? (Possibly some romantic thing that reminded her of Dad – something maybe on the lines of Where Do You Go To, My Bastard?) That, anyway, certainly appeared to be her destination – but now Marianne was rather irritatingly distracted by someone or other, oh God –
talking
to her (and it isn't Tom, no – it's some little red-faced fellow with plenty of yellowing teeth) so I can't, damn, see
where she's gone to, quite, and now I suppose I've got to turn and face this new and awful thing, then, have I?

‘How do you do it?' came the man's rather jovial if guttural enquiry.

‘I'm
sorry
?'

A tremor of uncertainty rippled quite palpably across the man's brow: he didn't look so happy, now.

‘I am being of so
sorrow
,' he hugely regretted. ‘Is that not correct saying? I am from Vienna, yes?'

‘Ah!' went Marianne, as if a true dawning light had spread its glowing mantle upon not just this, but all other conundra the world had to offer.

‘Do not you say, How do you do it? You isn't?'

‘I think, maybe,' smiled Marianne, ‘you mean How do you
do
. You don't actually need the ‘it'.'

The man's whole forehead was deeply furrowed, now – it was as if he was seriously salting away and maybe filing alphabetically this new and valuable nugget.

‘Ah so. To hell with ‘it'. Excelling. I love the London.'

‘Do you? Oh good. That's, um – ' (I glanced around, just then – God, it's getting so totally
packed
in here: completely lost sight of Mum, now: don't know where on earth she's got to) ‘ –
nice
.'

‘Best place on vorld to wisit for suitings. I do buy there the ter-
vills
 – yes?'

‘Really?' I have to, thought Marianne, go now.

‘Yes yes. And plus I do buy there the ter-
veeds
. Some have bones of herrings. Some have eyes of birds and tooths of dog. One is checked by Prince of Vales!'

‘Really? I have to, I think, go now.
Sorry
…' she smiled, as she began to squirm her way back into the throng and away.

The man was beaming at her – and now as she receded, he raised up two waggling fingers in a gesture of farewell.

‘How do you
do
!' he called after her. ‘How do you
do
? Yes? To hell with ‘it'!'

I think, thought Marianne, that could be Mum – way over there past that extraordinary ice sculpture thing (could be a dolphin, I think – but it's a bit melted, now). Needn't be her – only caught a glimpse – but I might as well make for that particular dot on the horizon: there's nobody else here I know. But ‘
Hi-i-i
…!' was crooning a big brown voice right into her ear; she turned, and there was the big brown face it had surely come from.

‘Derek – hi. My name is Derek. Believe in getting all that sort of thing out of the way at the onset. I'm in property. Well – I
say
property: what I actually do is buy to sell. Yes?
Location
, of course – well, I expect you know that. Tend to go for the smaller period properties – right area, but just a leeedle bit out of the way, you know? A mews is favourite, but it's getting to be like gold dust, quite frankly. Basically, you want a couple of Cretan olive jars – big bastards. You slap one of these each side of the front door, chuck in the bay trees and already you're looking at kudos: money in the bank, you want the God's honest truth. Other thing you got to remember is
neutral
, yeh? You go neutral with your colours, else it's a bugger to shift. Plus, these days you need a kitchen that looks like a bloody operating theatre. Kraut job. Crazy, really – not one of those City boys and their tarts know how to boil a bloody kettle.'

And then the big brown face split into a huge and tongue-laden leer that was so utterly and frankly terrifying that Marianne felt herself positively flinch.

‘So
tell
me,' went on Derek, with a confidence so thoroughly misplaced, it was truly awesome, ‘what do they call
you
, lovely lady?'

‘Excuse me …' whispered Marianne – so softly, he may well not have heard. ‘I really have to go, now …'

She continued to squeeze and dodge and insinuate her continually apologizing self through the knots and swellings of yacking, laughing, drinking people – not really, now, in quest of anyone at all: just struggling to reach the perimeter
of all this, and maybe breathe some air. She became stalled at one point, and had to endure the following – delivered almost without pause for breath by yet another freely perspiring and eager man in a far too tight dinner jacket:

‘See, I was taught to write songs to this very arcane formula involving carefully chosen BPMs synchronized to time-tested melodic strings with predetermined rhythmic sequences – guaranteed, they told me, just never to fail. Yes. Not a fucking dicky-bird so far, though …'

Marianne spotted the narrowest gap between a pearl grey sequined dress (doing sterling work on the containment front) and a creamish tuxedo with a tawny and marbled stain on each of its elbows – and she made for it.

‘
Yes
…' she heard, whether she liked it or not, ‘and
then
, if you will, she turned around and said to me Well the whole
point
, Geoffrey – the reason I don't want to come with you to counselling, is that I actually sexually prefer women to men. Christ Almighty – it's the only thing now we actually agree on …'

Marianne passed on – and yes, a sort of space was clearing before her, yes it seemed to be – but now she found herself so terribly close to the band (who had just recently abandoned their seemingly endless rendition of New York, New York and were now well down the road to plucking up for themselves some Good Vibrations) – that it actually was quite deafening. And oh look it
is
Mum, great – so I'll just go up to her and … who's she talking to? Oh yes – would be: no less than the Skipper.

‘Yes yes I know it's all terribly
fashionable
at the moment,' Nicole was cooing, ‘but to be perfectly frank with you, Captain, I've never wanted to actually try any of the so-called Pacific
Rim
sort of food because I know it sounds silly but it's just the
phrase
, if I'm honest: Pacific
Rim
, yes? It habitually puts me in mind of
lavatories
 – and I can't tell you how that just repels me. Ah –
Marianne
, my sweet. Captain
– my daughter, Marianne. The Captain and I are just about to have a dance – aren't we, Captain?'