Page 73 of A Perfect Disaster

The whole world seems to shrink down to this wooden table in Palermo, to the dregs of wine, to the half-eaten desserts, and to the absolute certainty that, if either of us were just a tiny bit braver or a little less conscious of company policy, we would have already kissed each other senseless.

So, as panic gets the better of me, I fall back on my usual routine and raise my glass.

Then Helen’s phone vibrates on the tablecloth. As she looks at the screen, her expression changes completely and she stiffens again.

“It’s Gonzalo,” she announces, huffing.

“That scares me,” I reply. “What nonsense is he coming up with now?”

She reads the text message aloud: “I hope you’re enjoying the wonderful Sicilian scenery, but I forgot one small detail. We need you to bring back fresh lemons from the local markets for tomorrow’s Captain’s Night. Apparently, the chef wants to make a special dessert and we’re out of stock. Enjoy the trip!”

I stare at her. She does exactly the same.

“Lemons?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Lemons,” she confirms.

“For the ship’s chef? Seriously?”

“That’s what he wrote.”

She hands me the phone so I can see the screen. It’s obviously a blatant lie; the Marine IV’s provisions department would never rely on two officers lugging bags around Palermo for the gala menu. It’s yet another one of Gonzalo’s tricks to force us to spend more time together.

I glance at my watch and then at her, who’s trying to stifle a laugh.

“That damn manipulator is playing with fire,” I say, though laughter is already rising in my throat.

“He likes to live on the edge,” she agrees, losing the battle against her own smile.

I burst out laughing. Helen follows suit two seconds later. Then, still smiling, I get up from my chair and leave some bills on the table to pay the check.

“Come on, my officer. We have a high-priority logistics mission to carry out at the Palermo markets.”

Helen puts on her sunglasses and looks me up and down with a huge smile.

“Please, Maika, don’t call it that.”

“Does ‘Operation Citrus’ seem like a more appropriate name for the report?” I joke as we start walking.

“Much worse.”

“Hmmmm, how about ‘Plan Yellow’?” I suggest, nudging her gently with my elbow.

“Maika, please, show a little respect for the uniform,” she warns.

I look at her with a beaming smile and close the gap between our strides. Gonzalo may be completely crazy, but right now I owe him my life.

Because walking through Palermo alongside Helen no longer feels like walking a tightrope toward an inevitable conflict, but rather like the beginning of a truce that, if I have even a little courage, could turn into the best journey of my life.

24

Maika

“This is going to be a disaster.”

I say it as I look at the makeshift kitchen next to the main pool, as if I were watching the scene of a tragedy set to blaring tropical music. In front of us, several stainless-steel work tables are lined up in the center. The teak decks gleam under the sky, the lounge chairs are packed, and in the background, the entertainment sound crew has the microphones ready. The passengers are enjoying their cocktails and watching with interest the charity cooking contest organized by the cruise line for the day at sea.

And there we are, Helen and I, wearing company aprons over our clothes, surrounded by lemons and with absolutely no experience making sorbetto di limone in front of more than three hundred people in flip-flops. This certainly can’t end well.