S.O.S. (41 page)

Right. Anyway – this is the last bloody deck she can possibly be on. Unless, of course, she's been busy going downstairs as I've been going up. Or she's with Nicole. Or sick. Or dead. Oh Christ let's
face
it – she needn't at
all
be on this deck, need she? Bloody woman. How are you supposed to actually find anyone on this fucking ship, hey? I mean – how
are
you? Case in point: every single face I have stared at briefly and instantly discarded as being the wrong bloody
one
 – every single one of them was entirely new to me. Amazing. I mean – even in
London
, Christ's sake, you time to time bump into
someone
you've met before. So where
is
she? Tried her cabin, of course – buzzed her four times now, so I'm sure she's not
there
, anyway (yeh yeh – unless she's sick or dead, I know, I know). She certainly can't be outside – that'd kill her for sure (maybe worth bearing in mind). So quite possibly at this very moment, Nicole is hunting for
me
 – mad, and wholly set on cutting me up and out of her life. Do I want that? do I? I do, maybe – I think I very possibly do, yes, think so. But not
this
way, no. No no –
my
way (that's the way I want it).

I wish I could go and lie down. But it wouldn't be any good. It's not as if I'd get my
rest
, or anything. Just got to sort this out, you see. But hang on, hang on – how do I actually think that confronting Trish is in fact going to sort out
anything
? Hey? I mean no matter what I say or do the bottom line is she's going to spill her, oh God –
guts
out to Nicole, isn't she? Always assuming – no, I haven't forgotten – she hasn't already done so. So why do I chase the wild goose? Maybe I should instead find Suki: lie down beside her and feel her young fingers roaming and then stirring me up and have a very quick bout of mutual
cherishing
, why not? Think that's maybe what I might … wait … wait: look. Over there. Half behind that sort of pillar-type thing with the motley mirror: in that shop. Her, isn't it? Pretty
sure, yes … hang on – get a bit closer (kick this old woman out of my way) and let's just see … yes. Yes. That's Trish. She's there. Shopping. Would be.

‘
Look
, you – !'

‘David. Morning. I'm feeling much better, thank you. Sorry about your – you know:
clothes
, and everything. I find that the higher I am in the ship, the less sort of wobbly I feel. Which is why my cabin's such a perfect
pain
, quite frankly – the lowest of the low. Which was actually quite
kind
of me, David – you should thank me. Because I charged it to your credit card and I could easily have got a much, much nicer cabin. Closer to you and your bloody wife. What do you think of this sweatshirt?'

David gazed at the blue thing she was holding out to him. There was red and gold at its centre and it said Transylvania in white.

‘Too obvious, do you think, David? Maybe one of these pastel ones …?'

‘You
charged
the – you
charged
the –?! Oh my God
Almighty
, Trish – you
know
I'm absolutely … how in hell did you charge it to my –?!'

‘Oh don't be so
silly
, David. You just read out the numbers over the telephone, it's terribly easy … pink one's quite nice – wonder if they've got it in medium … oh don't look like
that
 – honestly, David: I've done it
loads
of times. Things like food and wine and candles do cost
money
, you know. I think I'll maybe just get the set of shot glasses. You like? Sweet, aren't they?'

And do you know – even as I'm yammering away at Trish (I'm going: We've got to
talk
we've got to
talk
we've got to
talk
) all I'm now actually thinking about is
money
. I just haven't, oh Christ –
got
any. Why can't people see that? It's got so that the very
word
money just scares all sorts of hell out of me. And
finance
 – oh my God, that's even worse. Every morning when I go into work and I see those words Corporate Financial Consultant on my desk, oh Jesus – I
practically pass out. And it's not as if I know even the first thing
about
it – Christ, I've been winging it for years (and how long can it go on? Hey? How long?). I tried to mug up on all those supplements – you know, at the weekend, all those newspaper bits with names like You And Your Money (aargh!). Not the proper grown-up
business
sections, no – not them: too scary. Also – couldn't make head or tail of them. And even the
colour
of the
FT
brings me out in a rash. But it got to the stage where I'd just be feebly fumbling and groping my way through all these pictures of smug married couples (and how the budget affected them) and Dinky Toy collectors (Mint and Boxed: Cash In Now On That Fortune In Your Attic) and then some damn bitch who'd started up a, oh Christ
I
don't know –
start
-up company, or something (can that really be
possible
?) and then all those ads with Richard Branson's fucking face plastered right across them and I'd just freeze up and glaze over, quite frankly. And once – and yes yes, I freely admit this, even for me, this was one of my more frenzied moments, seriously inclining towards the deranged – I actually thought of
writing
to him: Branson. Dropping him a line. I was going to say, Dear Mister Branson … or is he a Sir? Or a Lord now, maybe? Possibly just jammed at demigod level. Anyway – Dear Whatever Branson: I read a piece lately in something or other that said you are worth two billion. Good show. Jolly well done. Now look – even if you gave away just one little million of your pounds, you'd still have, um … (and
buggered
if I could do the bloody sum) … oh –
lots
left, heaps and heaps – but the beauty of this, you see, is that I'm not asking for that much, no. No no – not by a long chalk. Not even
half
that. Just say – what? Ten grand? Not much, is it? To ask. Man such as yourself? Five? Settle for five? What say? How about it? Oh go on –
pleeeeease
…!

Awful thing is – those days, five grand would just about have seen me square. Now … well: haven't a
clue
, to be honest. Can't look at the bits of paper, you see. Just can't do it. I simply owe
everybody
 – that's all I know. And now I owe a bloody shipping line as well, apparently. Oh God oh
God
… I think I'll lose my
mind
…

‘Talk about
what
, David. I'll just pay for these.'

‘Hm? Oh yeh – talk, talk. We've got to talk. And yes –
you
pay for those, yes good. Because I can't. Understand?
Jesus
, Trish – you
know
I'm absolutely – ! What on earth did you think you were –?!'

‘Actually
, David – I seem to have left my purse …'

And from out of nowhere there echoed around them the high-pitched screaming of a hysterical child – and David thought Jesus
Christ:
I've never before sounded quite like
that
…

‘What on earth's
wrong
with you, David? Are you all right?'

‘No. Not. I'm not.'

‘David. I think we ought to talk.'

‘M'yes, Trish. I think you could be right.'

*

Stacy was keeping a low and steady eye on her mother, watching quite closely as she neatly sliced the teacake into four – this alone a very clear sign of Jennifer's preoccupation: normally she'd just cram the whole bloody thing into her mouth, while reaching out for another.

‘Don't let it
get
to you, Mum. It's only a
bloke
…'

‘Too
late. Already got to me. Aren't you eating even
one
of these, Stacy? I do wish you would,' said Jennifer. ‘Otherwise I think I might scoff the lot.'

‘Not hungry. I'll wait for dinner.'

‘You
see
, Stacy – it's perfectly all right for you. You're young – you're young and fresh and beautiful. It won't happen to you for, oh – just
decades
. And the point is – this is, you know, really the most awfully good
jam
. I wonder where they get it… no no, you see the point
is
, it'd never
happened to me before. I'm so terribly used to everyone saying how fantastically
fab
I look … I was very – unprepared. I mean admittedly I was egging him on –
goading
him, almost, into seeing quite clearly what was in front of his eyes.
And
, of course, telling him the absolute truth … don't think
that's
ever happened to me before either …'

‘Oh
Mum
…'

‘But
seriously
, Stacy – you just can't conceive. When you actually see …
repugnance
in the eyes of another. When they practically
shiver
in disgust – '

‘Oh God's
sake
, Mum – you're making yourself sound like some shrivelled-up old crone …'

‘Well maybe that's exactly what I
am
. Maybe it's time to wear chintzy frocks and take up
bridge
, or something – and buy a paperback that'll tell me how to go about growing old
gracefully
…'

‘Not really you, though, is it Mum?'

Jennifer eyed her – and consciously jollying both of them along, she drew herself up and said really very archly:

‘I very much hope
not
, no.'

No, dear Stacy, grace has no part. What I shall not tell you – you maybe sense the nature of it, though: I think you might – are the words he actually said to me: ‘Look, Jennifer – see this. I ain't saying you ain't one special lady … but well – no hard feelings or nothing, but I just ain't into screwing people's
moms
 – know what I'm saying? See – puts me in minda
my
Mom, Jennifer – and jeez, all this stuff you told me … just makes me wanna
hurl
.'

It was time, now, for Jennifer to rally again: ‘But what about
you
, Stacy – hm? Why aren't you … ooh look, there's a man there, waiter – are we having more tea? Because the pot's gone just a tiny bit
cold
…'

‘I'm OK. Really.'

‘Sure? Really sure? Well all right, then – we shan't bother. I'll just stick a bit of water into what's left of it … but no
listen
to me, Stacy – why aren't you spending any more time
with your
own
little friend? Hm? I mean – you know I don't ever
pry
, but …?'

Stacy glanced up at her, not really surprised that Jennifer should know of the existence of what she very maddeningly chose to term her ‘
own
little friend'. It was always like this with Mum, somehow or other: it was true that she never pried (partly because she couldn't be bothered – largely, in fact; and also because up until very recently indeed, I don't think that she could have imagined that the ins and outs of anyone else's life could possibly rival in colour nor mayhem the often alarming vicissitudes of her own thing). Nonetheless, she always seemed to
know
. Parental intuition, do we think? Some faintly spooky hypersensitivity – or maybe just a hunch? Well
Jennifer
, of course, would have laughingly blown asunder all of those: how on
earth
, Stacy, could I have had a ‘hunch' that at the very moment I was careering back to our cabin in the very small hours of the morning (having stolen my way to the prow of the ship and made like a
figurehead
and then been warmed and fucked by my so-young American boy – in the days before he came to really see me) that you, dear Stacy, would be snogging some sweet and pretty little girl in the softly booming shadows?

‘Oh …' threw away Stacy, idly: ‘that was just nothing.'

‘Nothing. Yes. I see.'

‘What I mean is … oh – look, I don't know what you
think
you know …'

‘Me? I know nothing. Always best.'

‘Yes but you clearly know
something
or otherwise you wouldn't have
said
, would you Mum? Anyway – quite new for me, I assure you. And quite nice. But it does turn out to be nothing, in fact. Yes.'

Yes. Apparently it does. Because look – I don't know exactly what I was expecting, but it was quite a –
step
, for me, all of that … and well – I just wasn't
prepared
(and that's what Mum said too, wasn't it? Just a little while back there.
That she just simply hadn't been
prepared
) … so nor was I, for what Suki had said to me next:

‘C'mon – hell's
sake
, Stace. Don't lay this big number on me, kay?'

‘Why do you always
say
things like that? I'm just here – asking you a perfectly simple question and you make like it's some fantastic
scene
.'

‘Cool it, Stace. Just cool it – kay? Look – I never went with a girl before, right? And it was neat. You're a real hot chick, Stace – way to go. But, like – now I
been
there, and I'm kinda like: that's all she wrote, you know what I'm saying? Now I'm into this older
guy
? And next – who knows? Whatever. Look, Stace – for you it's kinda
different
?'

‘Why? Why is it different for me? It isn't any – '

‘It's
different
, Stace, on account of you are living with
Jennifer
?'