Come Away With Me: The hilarious feel-good romantic comedy you need to read in 2018. Maddie Please
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and his wife, Marion, from Washington, DC, were celebrating their twentieth cruise and their fortieth wedding anniversary. The other couple were Marty’s brother Ike and his wife, Caron, all the way from Boise – home to hogs and potatoes and not much else, according to Ike.
All of them were cruise veterans and knew exactly what was acceptable and when it was time to complain.
‘This is good enough,’ Marty said as he hoovered up his chicken main course, ‘but I’m not entirely sure about the afternoon choices in the food court. Two cruises ago I was there when they were down to only three ice cream flavours. You have to watch ’em.’
‘I will,’ I said, horrified at this possible deprivation.
‘Your first cruise?’ Caron asked.
‘It’s my hen holiday!’ India announced. ‘I’m getting married in December.’
‘How perfectly lovely,’ Marion said, rather misty-eyed. ‘And is your sister your matron of honour?’
‘Maid of honour,’ India said with a smirk. ‘She’s not married yet.’
‘Oh, plenty of time yet,’ Caron said. ‘I was nearly twenty-seven before I got married.’
I shot India a warning look, daring her not to tell them I was twenty-nine already. Unusually for her, she kept quiet.
There was a short discussion about the wedding and then Marion changed the subject.
‘You have to get to the Ocean Theatre for the evening shows as soon as you finish your coffee. As soon as. Don’t hesitate. The best seats go very quickly. No time for aperitifs or a stroll round the deck. You have to cut straight through –’ she made an arrow shape with her hands ‘– and don’t stop.’
It was eight-thirty and the evening show was due to start at nine-fifteen. I began to think I should set off now.
‘The best seats are on the right-hand side as you look at the stage, about ten rows back. But there’s a pillar you need to watch out for. If you get there late, go to the middle of the back; there are always tables with a reasonable view, and of course there are waitresses who stay there if they can get away with it.’
‘Waitresses?’ India said.
Would the exertion of getting from the restaurant to the theatre mean we needed more food?
‘They’ll bring you drinks from the bar. And snacks. It’s very convenient,’ Caron said, as she took a healthy sip of her red wine. ‘We’ll look out for you, as you’re new to cruising. The gin cocktails on this ship are a specialty.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, wondering, as the waiters brought me a glossy slab of raspberry cheesecake with whipped cream rosettes and chocolate curls, if I would have room for any more drinks before tomorrow night. Or any more anything for that matter.
‘And the bourbon,’ Ike said, scraping his plate clean five seconds after it was put in front of him. ‘The bourbon selection is grand. Back in the day we used to have them out on the deck with a cigar. Nowadays, of course, you’d get thrown off the ship for even thinking about lighting up. It’s a great shame. Progress.’
He watched with a hangdog look as his wife enjoyed her dessert, obvious as a spaniel, until in the end she passed him her plate and let him finish it.
‘I’m as healthy as a bug in a bed,’ he said, hitting his chest with a clenched fist. ‘My physician says I have the cholesterol of a thirty-year-old.’
‘A thirty-year-old warthog,’ his wife growled.
‘Now, Caron, honey, just because you have to watch your weight,’ Ike said.
‘Oh, tell everyone,’ she said. ‘Tell the whole ship! Why not? You won’t be getting my dessert on gala night, I can tell you that for certain.’
Ike winked at me. ‘She’s a firebrand. Thirty-eight years we’ve been together. Married on Christmas Eve. I’d have got less for murder.’
‘And when you go on the ship’s tenders tomorrow to get to Newport, don’t bother sitting on the top deck. It’s cold and pretty rocky,’ Marty said.
‘What are tenders?’ I asked.
‘They’re the lifeboats really. They use them when the ship is too big to actually dock.’
‘Well, I like sitting up top,’ Marion said.
‘Yes, but your hair doesn’t,’ Marty replied.
They bickered on happily through the cheese and coffee and then, just as I was thinking I might fall asleep nose down in the sugar, rose like a startled flock of gulls and chivvied us out past the bowing waiters and proud, Italian profile of the maître d’, who wished us a pleasant evening.
Other people in the know evidently had the same idea because there was a well-mannered but insistent tide of people surging the length of the ship towards the open doors of the Ocean Theatre. Our new companions brushed aside our feeble protests that we were tired and settled us triumphantly at a table for six close to the stage. Within moments Ike had ordered a round of drinks and then sat back with a contented sigh to watch the show.
‘The dancers are very good on this ship, much better than on the Roi,’ Marion said.
‘The Roi?’ I asked.
‘The Roi de France. They’re not nearly as good. And last time we came there was a singer – well, he could have given Sinatra a run for his money. Just wonderful.’
Right on time the lights dimmed and there was an excited smattering of applause. The curtains pulled back and a line of dancing girls in bowler hats and stilettos high-kicked on to the tune of ‘Cabaret’ and whoops and whistles from Marty.
‘I’m going to fall asleep if I close my eyes,’ I hissed to India. ‘I’ve been eating cheesecake at three in the morning. And now I’ve got a highball in front of me.’
She pulled a face at me. ‘Let me guess; you’d rather be in work?’
‘Hardly!’ I scoffed. I thought about it and what Mum had said; what was the point of having a holiday if you weren’t going to enjoy it?
‘Then just roll with it! We can sleep when we get home,’ she said, raising her glass and clinking it against mine.
‘You’re right!’ I said and took a slurp of my drink. I couldn’t remember the last time India and I had had so much fun together. I shouldn’t wish it away. ‘Oooh, this isn’t bad actually.’
On the stage the male dancers, who were sporting an impressive display of eyeliner as they gamely tried to do Joel Grey impersonations to ‘Willkommen’, joined the girls, who were busy straddling chairs and tipping their bowler hats.
‘I saw this on Broadway in 1998,’ Marty said as the routine came to an end and we all applauded. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes and I’ve been in the Army. It was a bit racy.’
‘I don’t remember you asking to leave early though,’ Marion said, tapping the table in front of him.
Marty wagged his head and laughed.
Beside me India had started doing that thing with her head where she was jerking backwards and forwards as she fell asleep. I nudged her with my knee and when that didn’t work finished her drink off. Strange. It was usually me having to leave and have an early night.
In the end it was a fun evening. There was no sign of Marnie Miller or Gabriel Frost that I could see. Perhaps this wasn’t their sort of thing? Maybe they were otherwise occupied? I steered my tired brain away from that scenario and watched as a sharp-looking man in a DJ came on and introduced himself as Francois Du Pont, our compere for the evening. I think by his accent he was more Paris-Texas than Paris-France but Marty and Ike laughed at his jokes while Marion and Caron discussed whether this was the