The water pressure isn’t particularly powerful but it’s hot enough and manages to rinse away a somewhat sweaty day of travel. There’s no glass separating the shower from the bathroom, just a white curtain which annoyingly sticks to my body like clingfilm. The hairdryer provided isn’t brilliant either. I need more than a light breeze to dry my thick mane. Thank God I brought my straighteners, hair oil and several hair ties. Bird’s nest chic isn’t the look I’m going for.
I feel the ship shudder and step onto the balcony to the sounds of passengers cheering that we’re now underway. I give a whoop, then realise I’m whooping alone like a frizzy-haired maniac. Thankfully it’s noisy enough that hopefully no one has heard me. A tingle of excitement shoots through me. I’m actually doing this. In the past six weeks, I’ve impressively thrown caution to the wind and embraced this challenge. I’m sure Alex Steward would be proud if he wasn’t busy making pottery ashtrays or whatever. He hasn’t replied to my email, though. He’s probably blocked me and my love for Samsung. I would too.
Chapter 23
Monday morning, I wake up at 9 a.m. Maybe it was the gentle movement of the ship or the fact that I’d had a long day, but I slept like the dead. Despite people still partying below me last night, I was too exhausted to care about the noise. Besides, a first night party is to be expected and from the noise it’s very possible that I might have been the only person on board not joining in with ‘Gangnam Style’ and ‘Single Ladies’.
I pull back the sliding door and step out onto the balcony, the salty sea breeze immediately filling my nostrils. It’s glorious. The July sun is shining, the warm breeze is welcome and it’s my first full day at sea. How exciting. I have the whole day to explore the ship and maybe have a couple of cocktails by the pool in my new blue swimsuit with its surprisingly effective tummy control panel and sewn-in nipple covers. I don’t need to be pointing in anyone’s direction when a cool wind blows my way.
After smelling the shower gel last night, my jasmine bodywash comes with me into the bathroom. I tie my hair into a bun, stick on the cap and step into the shower. Since I’m going to the pool later, I skip the hair washing. By the time it takes me to dry it, it’ll be time to fly home.
Ten more minutes on the balcony admiring the view before I throw on a skirt, T-shirt and cardigan. I have no desire to be fancy while I eat lukewarm eggs and toast. I head down to the breakfast buffet, hoping that at 9.30 a.m. the restaurant won’t be as busy as it was last night. Maybe it’s the sea air but despite my huge meal last night, I’m already hungry again. The lift comes quickly, and I move inside.
There are four other people, all smelling like that bloody bodywash. An energetic couple wearing matching Union Jack hoodies, who keep giggling like children, and an older lady with a younger woman. They look like mother and daughter, which gives me a fleeting moment of sadness. My mum and I are both going on cruises, but we would never dream of going together. We’re just too different. As I’ve aged, I’ve become far more reserved than I used to be, whereas Mum is the opposite. I’m the one who would have to keep an eye on her and we’d both resent that.
‘Buenos días!’ we’re greeted by a rather handsome member of staff as we all enter the dining room. The couple behind me giggle again (nothing is that funny) as they clumsily reply, ‘Grazie.’ At least they made the effort, even if it’s in Italian. The mother and daughter ignore him, eyes fixed on the extensive bread display. Everything smells amazing. After only one sitting last night, I consider myself to be a brown belt at buffets. Prepare, attack, retreat.
After finding a seat, I saunter over to the plates. I look around, deciding what I’m in the mood for. Fruit? Maybe yoghurt and granola. A croissant with my coffee? I pause at the hot counter. Or maybe a big dirty, unsophisticated fry-up, like the one I see a gentleman devouring at the next table.
One plate of sausages, bacon, mushrooms, a poached egg (not lukewarm) and toast later, I realise that I probably should have gone with the croissant and coffee. I’m so full, I might throw up. Or burst. Maybe both, because there are no restrictions to how many ways you can humiliate yourself in public at once. Naomi once got so drunk, she tripped over a traffic cone, threw up and farted all in the space of thirty seconds. Thankfully by the time I’ve finished my tea, my gluttony is starting to wear off, though I might need a crane to transport me from the table to my cabin.
I return to my room and immediately loosen my skirt. Day two and I’m already expanding to Violet Beauregarde levels. I call the restaurants, hoping to make bookings for the rest of the week. There are eight restaurants in total, including the buffet. Main dining room (assigned seating time is 7 p.m.), Italian, steakhouse, Japanese, Mexican, seafood and global, where a combination of cuisines is available for larger groups where no one can agree on where to eat. Global, Mexican, Italian and the steakhouse are fully booked for the week, which leaves me with Japanese, seafood and the main dining room, booked for tonight, Friday and Saturday. Given my current state, I’m finding it hard to get excited about anything food related but I’m sure I will do nearer the time. Right now I feel like some Gaviscon might be required.
My eyes glance down and notice a splatter of egg on the front of my T-shirt. Jesus, why can’t I eat or drink like a normal adult? There are two-year-olds with better hand-eye coordination.
As I scrub the eggy mess, my phone vibrates in my bag.
I need photos and an update. Are you married yet? Being prised from the jaws of a great white shark? Romanced by a Polish oil baron with a weak heart?
Noami, it’s only my second day! I’ve barely had time to get used to my surroundings.
I realise that I haven’t even bothered to assess the man situation. I’ve barely even looked. She doesn’t need to know that. I see her typing on WhatsApp.
You haven’t even bothered to look, have you?
Dammit. She knows me too well.
You’re not just here for a jolly, Sophie. You have a mission, a quest for—
I’ll send you some photos. Got to run, going to the pool. Byeee!
I swiftly send her the few photos I have and close WhatsApp. Hopefully that will satisfy her for a while. She’s right, though, I didn’t come here just to relax and eat myself into oblivion. I’m here to increase my chances of meeting someone.
Fuelled by sausages and determination, I jump off the bed, rebutton my skirt, powder my shiny face and make my way back downstairs, credit card in my cardigan pocket. Exploring the ship is my next plan of action. I can also buy overpriced nonsense at the gift shops while I scout for men in a completely non-threatening manner. One eye on the duty free, another on potential targets. No, nottargets, Sophie. Companions.
The lift is empty for one floor before everyone else piles in. With the exception of a gentleman in a straw trilby, all the other people in the lift are dressed in beachwear. I’ve never seen so many shades of pink in one place. They chatter in German, which reminds me of the speed dating Bier Halle catastrophe. I recognise some of the words from my lessons at secondary school.Ja,neinandich habe Hunger(the trilby gentleman) and others I would recognise if I’d actually paid attention to Frau Tweedy and her front-seamed trousers. As the rest of the conversation goes completely over my head, I decide to make it my next life goal to revisit the German I haven’t spoken since 1996. I’m grateful to the blonde lady who carries her sun hat in a crowded space but glares at the back of another who has kept hers on. As much as I want to knock it off her head, I decide that I’d rather not have an assault charge on day two.
The door opens on floor two and I squeeze my way out. The shopping areas look exactly like a mall and are just as busy. The white floors shine below the spotlit ceilings with neon trim. Tall mirrors have been placed in between glass shopfronts, showcasing bags, watches, jewellery, clothing, wine and every kind of souvenir from soft toys to keyrings. In the middle sits a kid’s merry-go-round, a genius idea to keep the rugrats entertained in between being dragged around stores by their selfish parents. Looking around, the only solo shoppers I see are women. There are plenty of menfolk shuffling around but unsurprisingly they’re attached to wives, girlfriends and children begging for stuff they’ll play with once and then forget about. If I could have kids, I’m certain that I’d only like my own spawn. Other people’s children are just so annoying. Well, apart from Naomi’s twins. I’d like to think that my role as fun Aunt Sophie was pivotal to their upbringing and resulting awesomeness.
I figure that my first stop should be the watch store. My reasoning is that men buy watches, especially expensive ones, unless they are like my last fling Will, a forty-year-old man who wore a digital, silver Casio watch. It cost him twenty pounds from a charity shop and played the most irritating alarm jingle I’ve ever heard.
The watches on display start from nine hundred pounds and run into the thousands. I guess that if I had that kind of money to spend on a watch, I think I’d rather buy it here, tax free, than be fleeced on land by a charmer with a bag full of knock-off Rolexes.
But as watches go, the ones here are nice. A simple, silver Cartier watch grabs my attention but for three and a half grand I’d expect something that wasn’t so simple. Plain even. I’d at least expect a leather handbag and private jet to carry it home in. Maybe some Wedgwood bowls to hold the ramen I’d be forced to live on after blowing my remaining savings on a timepiece. However, there are two men in the store. One tall middle-aged guy in linen trousers and another shorter blond-haired man in red cargo shorts. They continue perusing the glass cabinets closely, despite the fact they’re both already wearing watches.
I don’t get the fascination with watches. I haven’t worn a watch since 2010, preferring to check my phone or Alexa when she understands what the hell I’m saying. Still, red shorts man is quite fit, so I begin to peruse too.
‘Can I help you with anything, madam?’
