Page 12 of A Perfect Disaster

“Helen might seem too strict, but she knows when she’s wrong.”

The silence that follows is a good one.

“Are you sure?” Lara presses, raising her eyebrows.

“Well…” I tilt my head slightly. “She might ask you for proof first—three reports, a complete reconstruction of the events, and a signed apology in duplicate—but in the end, she admits it. She’s more flexible than she seems.”

Nico swallows hard.

“You’re not helping much.”

“Of course I’m helping you. I’m preparing you for what’s coming. It’s part of my job.”

They laugh and the atmosphere relaxes a little. I love that. I like seeing their shoulders drop, their hands loosen their grip on their pens, and their initial fear turn into attentiveness. Teams work better when they don’t feel judged from the very first minute.

And I need them to breathe. Because this cruise is going to demand a lot from them. Because Helen will be supervising every detail: every move, every route, every gesture, and every comma in my proposal. And I shouldn’t be feeling this absurd mix of irritation and the urge to prove to her that I’m still good at what I do.

“All right,” I continue, clapping my hands to regain my rhythm. “Let’s go over the schedule. And before anyone asks, yes, there will be changes. There always are. A cruise without changes is like a cocktail without ice.”

Lara smiles knowingly.

I open my folder. My papers aren’t as organized as Helen’s—that much is obvious. Mine are covered in arrows, margin notes, little stars, hastily scribbled reminders, and a terrible drawing of a seagull I doodled during an endless call with Markus. But I know where everything is. Well, more or less.

“The welcome for the passengers will be on the main deck—live music, an introduction of the crew, and a light icebreaker activity. Nothing intrusive. No one wants to be forced to dance with a suitcase in hand and sweat running down their forehead.”

“Thank God,” Iván sighs.

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, because that same night, there’s the welcome party, and we all know how parties go.”

He groans theatrically.

“I didn’t come to sea to suffer.”

“You came to work in entertainment. Suffering comes with the uniform, I’m afraid.”

Laughter fills the room again. I go through the entire program. And as I speak, I watch my team. I like the challenge of having a new team. Some take notes with the seriousness of someone who believes that a mistake in their notebook could sink the ship. Others listen with shining eyes, full of that electricity I remember perfectly well feeling on my first voyage.

“The important thing,” I continue, “is to understand that entertainment isn’t about shouting louder than the music or chasing passengers with a smile until they give in. It’s about reading the room, knowing who wants to participate and who prefers to watch from afar with a look that says, ‘If you drag me out to dance, I’m reporting you.’”

Nico jots something down quickly.

“Should we put that verbatim in the script?”

“Only if you want Helen to take away my right to speak.”

The laughter returns, but Helen’s name lingers in my mouth like a pebble in my shoe: annoying and impossible to ignore.

“Security is going to demand that we be very professional,” I add, my tone now more serious. “And we’ll deliver. Not because we’re constantly being watched, but because on a ship there’s no room for half-measures. If an event gets out of hand, it’s not enough to just smile and change the song. We have to know where to direct people, when to tone things down, when to cut off an activity, and when to call for immediate backup.”

I look at each of them, one by one, with purpose.

“Fun is also managed with rigor.”

Lara nods slowly, processing my words.

“What if we make a mistake?”

The question sinks in and touches my heart. Perhaps because I know all too well what happens when you make a mistake. And, above all, what happens when you don’t have the courage to admit it.