Here Come the Girls (43 page)

‘It’s our anniversary,’ explained Eric bashfully. ‘We didn’t want a fuss. I bet this is my son’s doing – I told him not to.’

‘Why didn’t you say, you silly bugger?’ said Royston. ‘Angel? Angel, come here, love!’

Sensing that he was going to go mad again and buy champagne, Eric shushed him gently. ‘You’re not buying drinks. We’re going to get some prosecco for everyone, if that’s all right. We prefer that.’

‘Your anniversary,’ conceded Royston for once. ‘You’re the bosses. So which anniversary is it then?’

‘It’s our first,’ replied Irene, and from the looks around the table no one was expecting that.

‘First?’ repeated Stella.

‘Yes, our first,’ stated Eric.

That was confusing because they didn’t look the type to have been living in sin for donkeys’ years. And didn’t they say they had met on one of the Grandes Dames, forty-odd years ago?

‘Yes, it’s our first, but we met on the
Duchess Alexandra
,’ Eric began to explain after they had ordered starters. ‘I was married to my first wife Mary then and Irene was married to Johnny and we had our kids with us. As couples we got seated together and we all hit it off so well, didn’t we, Irene?’

‘We did,’ confirmed Irene.

‘Johnny had his own building firm, like I did. Mary and Irene were in the WI. We had so much in common, so much to talk about,’ said Eric.

‘We went on holiday every year together after that,’ Irene continued. ‘We were all such great friends. For forty-six lovely years. The children were all of an age and relished each other’s company. In fact, Eric’s son married my daughter in the end.’

‘Then, alas, my Mary took ill and died three years ago. And we’d just buried her when Johnny suddenly passed over. Awful time for both families, wasn’t it, Irene? Awful, it was.’

‘We were both a bit lost,’ whispered Irene. ‘Our partners and best friends had gone in such a short time. We had so many lovely memories from our holidays.’

‘We kept in touch, didn’t we, Irene?’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘We thought we’d go on holiday as friends at first – you know, separate cabins, all above board.’

‘It was a nice way to remember our partners, you see,’ added Irene.

‘We can still feel them with us,’ smiled Eric. ‘We knew they’d approve when we got married. Even the children said we should.’

‘It was daft, the pair of us being lonely,’ said Irene in her soft voice. ‘We don’t have to explain to each other that we’re still a four really.’

Ven burst into tears. ‘God, I’m sorry, that’s so sad but lovely.’

‘Aye,’ said Eric. It was all he said in response to that, and all he needed to say.

Ven was panicking now because she didn’t have a tissue and imagined her mascara sliding down her cheeks. Her friends were busy hunting in their evening bags for one. Ven was such a softy, she should never have been outside a range of five metres of a hankie.

‘Here you are,’ said Nigel, pulling a soft square of material out of his pocket. ‘I think you’re building up a collection of my handkerchiefs as souvenirs, Venice,’ he smiled.

Ven was too choked up to answer. She just nodded. Soon that’s all she would have left of this cruise – a bucketful of memories and two of Nigel’s hankies.

The prosecco arrived and Royston had sneakily ordered pink champagne. ‘For the girls,’ he winked. The man was incorrigible, in the sweetest possible way.

‘Don’t you meet some lovely people on ships?’ Ven gushed to Nigel. She was still feeling quite emotional when her sea bass main course arrived. She decided not to drink much that evening. She didn’t trust herself not to burst into tears again. ‘How do you let them go, knowing you won’t see them again?’

‘It’s my job,’ replied Nigel. ‘Alas, I can’t possibly keep in contact with everyone I meet. I enjoy their company, then we part.’

Ven wished she hadn’t asked.

‘Dom Donaldson didn’t look very happy at Gibraltar,’ Roz said mischievously, spearing a tiny buttery potato and popping it into her mouth.

‘I have to think of the safety of my passengers,’ said Nigel, answering her but still giving away no detail. ‘And I’m afraid that Mr Donaldson was already on a yellow card. Luckily, it is a very rare occurrence but he isn’t the first public figure I’ve had to ask to leave the ship, nor will he be the last.’

‘Ooh, who else have you chucked off?’ Roz leaned over with a salacious grin.

‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ Nigel said with courteous diplomacy. ‘But some were much bigger names than Mr Donaldson.’

‘Spoilsport!’ said Roz.

Chapter 63

Manus had just had a shave and had splashed some aftershave on his hands ready to slap onto his face. He studied himself in the mirror and wondered if he was dressed appropriately. T-shirt and Diesel jeans – was that okay? This was new ground to him – going out for a meal without Roz. And it
was
just a meal with old friends, so why did he feel as if he were doing something slightly illegal?

He had bought wine, and that had been a nightmare too. He didn’t want to take the three-bottles-for-a-tenner stuff they sold in the supermarket, nor be too flash with top-shelf stuff. The thought zipped through his head that if he and Roz did split up and he ended up back in the dating game, he wasn’t sure he’d survive the tightrope of decisions which would have to be made for going out on a date. He couldn’t remember things being that difficult when he’d asked Roz out. At least that side of things had been easy with her.

But, of course, this wasn’t a date, he reminded himself. It was a four at dinner, two men and two women. And one of the women just happened to be the girl he had fancied like mad once upon a time.

Manus grabbed his car keys. He decided he would drive to Jonie’s house and not drink anything. Alcohol was a key to a door that he couldn’t risk opening.

*

Manus saw a shadow of disappointment pass over Jonie’s face when she noticed his car parked outside her house. Then it was quickly gone and she kissed him on the cheek and pulled him over the threshold. He followed her down the hallway, noticing how even her long caramel-blonde hair seemed to sashay as she walked. She was wearing a simply cut leaf-green dress, a matching belt around her tiny waist. Manus couldn’t believe that anyone as good-looking as Jonie Spencer could possibly be happily single. He could hear laughter coming from down the hallway and he recognised that chuckle immediately, even after twenty-five years.

‘Manus Howard, as I live and breathe! How are you, mate?’ Tim leaped up from the dining table to shake Manus’s hand. Tim looked exactly the same as he did at school, give or take a four-stone weight gain and a big reduction in hair. Layla stood up to give him a hug. She still wore the hippy clothes she was renowned for and, though she had been quite plump at college, now she was super-slim.

‘I run a lot these days,’ she explained as they all parried stories about their physical changes. ‘Tim doesn’t, as you can tell.’

‘It’s so great to see you,’ said Tim again, smile wide and genuine. ‘Here, have a glass of wine and tell me everything you’ve been doing in the past quarter of a century.’

Manus was about to refuse the drink and say he was driving, but decided not to be a party-pooper. He could have one – and make it last.

Jonie had gone to considerable effort, Manus noticed, as his eyes roved over the table: cloth serviettes tied with ribbon, table confetti, place-cards. Although he rather thought she might be the sort of person who held a lot of dinner parties and had an appropriate stash of impressive decorations. He nibbled on some olives stuffed with almonds whilst he filled in a few details for Tim and Layla about the missing years, and they returned the favour with children’s names, pet names and job positions. Once rebellious, Tim was now a barrister. Layla taught adults how to read.

‘So how did you two meet up again?’ asked Tim as Jonie put a plate of asparagus in front of him, wrapped in wafer-thin crispy rolls of prosciutto with a curl of hollandaise sauce on the side. The presentation was restaurant-standard; the taste matched it.

‘He rescued me when my car broke down,’ cut in Jonie. ‘My knight in shining armour. All these years I’ve lived in this town and never knew he had that garage. Crazy.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Layla. ‘I mean, I have never once seen you since we left college. And odds are we must have been in the town centre at the same time at some point.’

‘We move in deeply grooved orbits,’ decided Tim, eating a warm crusty bread roll. ‘It’s the only answer.’

Jonie topped up Manus’s glass quickly; his protest came too late.

‘Don’t tell me you’re driving!’ Tim guffawed. ‘Get a bloody taxi, man. I haven’t seen you since we were kids. We can’t catch up properly over a pot of tea!’

‘Hand over the keys, come on,’ said Layla. ‘For once I agree with my husband. It’s a rare occurrence and therefore must be documented for posterity.’

Manus half-sighed, half-grinned. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket first to get to his keys. Layla scooped up both and deposited them in the kitchen.

‘There,’ she said. ‘No driving and no interrupting phones. Now where were we?’

Manus lifted the glass to his lips. The one thing he could be sure of was he wouldn’t be missing any calls from Roz.

Chapter 64

‘Oh God, the King’s Singers are back!’ said Royston as the waiters began to gravitate towards the table. Then Supremo arrived to count them in.

‘Congratulaaations and celebraaations . . .’

Eric was clearly uncomfortable with the attention but the whole restaurant seemed to be joining in singing and clapping with abandon.

‘Poor Eric,’ said Ven, using Nigel’s handkerchief now to wipe tears of laughter out of her eyes. ‘He hated that, didn’t he?’

‘I think he did, but then again I suspect he wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ Nigel returned in a conspiratorial whisper. Roz took a picture of Eric and Irene with a cluster of waiters around them and the square bulk of Supremo smiling in the middle. Eric, despite his humiliation, was grinning to the limits of his lips.

‘I’ll wash your hankies and get them back to you,’ said Ven.

‘Please don’t worry about it,’ said Nigel. ‘I have quite a few for such occasions.’

Ven didn’t want to hear that he had a stash of them ready to hand over to weeping women, as if it were a regular occurrence.

‘Someone mention washing?’ butted in Royston. ‘You’d better get in early if you’re washing tomorrow. The laundries will be full.’

‘And woe betide you if the machine stops spinning and you aren’t there to take your smalls straight out,’ added Stella. ‘The laundries on ships turn some people into Hannibal Lecter. That’s why I can’t abide washing on holiday. I always bring enough clothes with me so I don’t have to. Once I brought twenty-three white shirts when we did a leg of the World Cruise.’

‘I’m just the opposite. I do a few washes when I’m on board,’ said Irene. ‘Then I don’t have much to do when we get home.’

‘Neither do I ,’ laughed Stella. ‘My housekeeper unpacks and does it.’ She leaned into Roz and gave her a hearty nudge. ‘She was part of the not-divorcing-Royston deal.’ Roz did a quick calculation. Stella had made Royston stump up for a housekeeper, Botox, jewellery, cruises, new boobs, liposuction and a nose job at least. And that was cheaper than a divorce? Boy, he must be minted!

‘Must be nice,’ sighed Roz to Olive. ‘Stella’s got a housekeeper.’

Olive nodded. She wished
she
had a cleaner instead of being one. How lovely it must be, to walk into a house that was polished and shining. She didn’t know how one old lady and a layabout husband could make such a mess between them in Land Lane. It must be wonderful to come in from a day cleaning someone else’s house without having to start on your own. Olive loved cleaning – she took such a pride in seeing things sparkle, but occasionally it would be nice to sit down and rest in the rooms she had made so tidy. She coughed down the lift full of tears that had zoomed at warp speed up to her eyes. Last night she had had a nightmare about the state of the house she would be going back to. It was full of open cans and poo neatly parcelled up and bottles full of urine, like she had once seen on a grime documentary. And as she cleared it up and took it to the bin, by the time she got back, more had appeared. And she could only use one hand to clean because the other was holding a Willy-Wonka-type golden ticket that allowed her to fly to Cephalonia, but every time she looked down, the writing on it had faded a little more.

This was the downside of a holiday – it had to end and normal life had to resume once again, and the better the holiday, the harder the fall. Olive lifted her glass and swallowed a throatful of the pink champagne as she forced thoughts of Land Lane to the back of her mind. She would be there soon enough, so she was determined to squeeze the last delicious drops of juice from her holiday until it was wrung dry.

‘When is this Andrew bloke going to meet us lot then, Ven?’ asked Roz.

‘I don’t know if he needs to. I’ll ask him tomorrow – I’m supposed to be seeing him first thing,’ came the quick reply. ‘Did you look at the desserts? What choices are there tonight?’

Funny that, thought Roz. She had asked that question as a test. Every time anyone mentioned the competition, she had noticed how Ven changed the subject. And she had just done it again. Hmmm . . .

‘Can’t believe we’ve only got two nights left after this,’ said Irene, after giving an order for butterscotch ice cream to Buzz. ‘It’s just been so lovely.’

‘Lemon cheesecake for me,’ said Ven. ‘A
small
one, Buzz, please.’ Buzz seemed to be trying to thank Ven for sticking up for him, with food. He had just given her a portion of
patatas bravas
that could have sustained a small emergent nation during a three-week siege.

Nigel made his excuses before dessert, and as he got up from the table, briefly touched Ven on the shoulder in a parting shot. As St John Hite would describe him in wine form:
this is the one I’d want to be marooned on a desert island with
. She knew it was pathetic, how she puffed up from the slightest attention he gave her. She didn’t even want to think about three nights’ time when she would be sitting in her old kitchen eating a bacon sarnie for tea with only Ethel the cat for company.