Come Away With Me: The hilarious feel-good romantic comedy you need to read in 2018. Maddie Please
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couples who, without exception, thought they wanted country kitchens, wood burners and gardens big enough to keep chickens. They didn’t. I mean, have you smelled a chicken house?
I hadn’t had a holiday for ages. You honestly couldn’t count that trip to Paris last year, when it rained every day and Ryan and I spent the whole time arguing about where to go. Recently I’d been spending most of my time at the office, so this could be the perfect chance for a break, sunshine and perhaps a few cocktails.
This idea was then replaced by the mental image of a boat filled with elderly people, shuffling around a wave-lashed deck on their Zimmer frames.
And finally I registered the utter horror that would be going on holiday with my sister.
Since the engagement we hadn’t been particularly good friends, despite what India thought – she seemed pretty oblivious to everything these days. I suppose somewhere deep down I still had affection for her, but nothing I could dredge up on a day-to-day basis.
India looked at Jerry and then at me. From her expression she seemed to be thinking much the same.
‘You’ll love it. And who knows, Alexa might find herself a nice chap to bring to the wedding. You can treat it as your hen weekend, although it’s longer than a weekend, obviously. A hen holiday,’ Mum announced proudly, seeming to think it was all settled. She’d been doing this a lot recently – every time she heard us squabbling she would produce a plan to reconcile us and consider it a job well done. Not this time … I wasn’t five any more.
‘How long?’
‘Twelve days.’
‘What! We can’t both take twelve days off!’ I said.
India’s gaze flicked hopefully between Dad and me. ‘Can’t we?’
Considering it was only August and India had already taken two days out of next year’s holiday allowance, I thought it was pretty unlikely.
But Dad had it all worked out. ‘I’ll get Charlie Smith-Rivers from the Exeter office to pop in.’
‘But twelve days?’ I said, thinking how much I hated Charlie Smith-Rivers, who always swanned around pretending he knew more than everyone else in the room. And nothing was ever in the right place when he left.
Twelve consecutive days with India. I hadn’t spent much time with her outside of work for ages and I was barely managing to get through this lunch as it was.
‘Well, that’s how long the cruise is.’
‘Where are we going?’ India said.
‘You fly in to New York. Then board the Reine de France, sail up the East Coast to Halifax and then back to Southampton across the Atlantic.’ Mum read out the itinerary from her phone.
‘Wow,’ India breathed, her blue eyes wide.
The mental image of the elderly Zimmer walkers faded and was replaced by one of glamorous, fur-swathed Hollywood stars, politicians and Princess Margaret complete with cigarette holder. It was quite possible, too, that Noël Coward would be playing the piano in one of the cocktail lounges. I didn’t know why but I seemed to have slipped back several decades.
‘That’s really generous,’ I said, trying to concentrate on something other than absolute panic at being on board a ship, in the middle of the ocean, with my sister. Think of the shoes, I told myself, the evening dresses (I’d have to buy some new ones), gala dinners and sparkly things. Really, given the chance, I could be pathetically shallow.
India leapt up and wrapped her arms around Mum’s shoulders.
‘Mum, can I borrow your turquoise evening bag, the one with the beads?’ she wheedled.
You see? She was no better. I was about to ask the same thing. Perhaps we still had something in common after all?
The Wet Spot
Dry Gin, Apricot Brandy, Elderflower Liqueur, Apple Juice, Lemon Juice
Dad took us to Heathrow very early on September 23rd.
By then I had parked all my reservations and prejudices about joining a boat full of old crocks with my wedding-obsessed sister, especially after Mum gave me a pretty stern talking-to about being the bigger person, making allowances, blah blah blah. Yes, Mum, okay. So I did my best to think positively. I was firing on all cylinders and ready to go. I mean, if nothing else, we were going to spend a few hours in an airport lounge, complete with free champagne and magazines, before flying to New York. As far as holidays went, this was a result.
After a tearful farewell dinner with Jerry the previous night, India, burdened with a hangover, had spent most of the car journey convincing herself our flight would crash into the Queen Mother Reservoir shortly after take-off, or – failing that – into the Atlantic, where our remains would never be discovered. She’d always been a bit dramatic when it came to air travel. No idea where she got it from, what with our parents spending more time in the air than on the ground these days.
Dad eventually reassured her by promising that if anything happened he and Mum would throw a wreath over the probable crash site and give Jerry the insurance money. There had then been a mild argument about whether Jerry should get my insurance payout too. Once we had agreed Mum and Dad would get my bit and put it towards a world cruise, India calmed down and got into the spirit of things, which was good as we were just coming up to departures and I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. Surprisingly, the subject of the wedding hadn’t come up once so far. I was just hoping it would stay that way …
Dad hated lengthy farewells at airports because they tended to make him sentimental, or maybe just jealous? I couldn’t think why because, in two days’ time, he was due to get on board a massive Emirates plane to fly first class to Australia. Anyway, we pulled up at the doors of Terminal 5 in good time and he practically chucked us out of the car, slinging our luggage on to a trolley before driving off with a jolly wave through the sunroof.
India and I stared at each other for a moment, unused to being left alone together and, to be honest, rather uncomfortable.
‘Let’s drop our bags and check in first and then head to the lounge?’ I said, not sure I sounded as excited as I should have, but determined to make an effort.
India nodded and we went to get rid of our bags. Heathrow was always busy at this time of year, everyone jetting off for last-minute sunshine, so we had to weave around a lot of luggage racks and pushchairs parked in awkward spots, not to mention massive suitcases wrapped in clingfilm. Then India spotted two very elegant representatives from the Voyage Premiere cruise line waiting behind a help desk and we dragged our cases gratefully over.
They were glamour personified with those slight French accents that always make people sound sexy and interesting, even if they are discussing the Guatemalan economy or washing-up liquid. In short, tight red suits and dinky little hats like saucers, all set off with silk scarves with nautical flags sprinkled all over them and tied in that careless, impossibly chic, way French women probably learn at primary school.
‘Welcome, Miss Fisher and Miss Fisher. Hmm, India and Alexandria; beautiful names. We are delighted to welcome you on the first stage of your exciting journey.’
I watched her fabulously manicured nails typing our details into her computer and waited, as I always did, for her to frown and say I couldn’t go because my passport photograph wasn’t attractive enough or something. However, all that happened was that she produced some glorious red stickers for our cases marked Voyage Premiere. And then she directed us to our private lounge where, as we had hoped, there was free champagne and comfortable chairs where India could nurse her hangover, flick through Vogue and text Jerry, and I could watch planes taking off and not crashing at all.
India had already been on a strenuous diet and exercise