As It Is On Telly (18 page)

They couldn’t hear her. ‘Ben? Ben!’

But the crackling resumed and then stopped. The connection was as dead as it had ever been. Bunty felt like crying with frustration, but the young, broad-shouldered, good-looking guy in front of her was saying, ‘Phones away, ladies, we’re casting off in one minute. Life jackets buckled, please.’

Bunty thrust her bag next to Kat’s under the overhang beneath the sail, a little lip of the roof that covered the cabin. ‘Someone answered,’ she said to Kat as they took up their places down one side of the boat.

‘Ben? Was it him? Where is he?’

‘It went dead again.’

‘Oh God. Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.’

Bunty smiled. ‘It’s not that bad. I’ve got his number now.’

It obviously was that bad, though, as Kat’s face had gone white. ‘No. I’ve just realised something. There aren’t any seats.’

Bunty looked around. There were definitely no seats. Crew. Big winch-type wheels. Other passengers. But no seats.

‘I thought they’d take us into that cabin thing, and we could sit and have a gin and tonic and talk to the men,’ said Kat, her eyes round with horror, ‘but they’re not going to do that, are they? We’re up here, in this awful weather, and … omigod we’re taking off … aagh! And it’s just us up here on the bloody open sea. Aaaagh!’ She clutched Bunty’s arm so hard that Bunty felt her muscles separate.

But then all hell let loose, and a potentially broken arm was suddenly the least of her worries. With a pitching motion that Bunty felt sure would catapult them all into the sea, the yacht broke free of the confines of the harbour and plunged into open waters, towards the harbour bridge. ‘Woooo!’ screamed one of the passengers in delight, but Bunty could see that she and Kat were not on their own. Half the tourists were clutching each other or the side of the boat as if their life depended on it. Maybe it did.

Kat screwed up her eyes and refused to look, bleating like a lost sheep whenever they tipped again over a bigger wave, which was about every three seconds. There was a resounding crack, and this time nearly all the passengers screamed.

‘That didn’t sound right,’ said the captain cheerfully. ‘John, get up there and have a look, will ya?’ John, clearly the most junior of the crew, was strapped into a net which looked about strong enough to hold a kilo of oranges, and was hoisted up the mast. Ten, twenty, thirty feet he went, then suddenly the yacht pitched sideways, John swung out beyond the deck over the grey and unforgiving waves, and Bunty’s stomach lurched. ‘This is sailing?’ she screamed to Kat. ‘This is sailing, which Ben loves so much? We’re going to die!’

Kat was muttering a prayer under her breath, just at the moment the captain yelled, ‘Right, we’re bringing the boom over, so you all have to swap sides … now!’

‘Christ! We were talking during this bit,’ moaned Bunty.

‘Duck!’ screamed Kat as a swinging tree trunk headed in their direction, while the captain glared at Bunty and yelled ‘Other side!’

They’d have had an easier job climbing Rangitoto with the girls, backpack full of David or not. The deck of the boat was now at a seventy degree angle, slopping about with water and what Bunty strongly suspected was vomit. ‘Up there?’ They were now expected to run at a crouch, uphill, dodging the boom as it flew towards them.

‘NOW!’ she screamed to Kat, grabbing her friend’s hand and hauling her as best she could up the incline. There was no way that Kat’s wedges could grip the wooden decking and she pitched forward onto her knees. ‘Leave me, I’ll swim,’ she cried pathetically, but she was still wading on her hands and knees up to the other side, Bunty trying to push her along from behind. It was about the most undignified, and certainly the most terrified, that Bunty had ever been.

Kat dragged herself to her feet and let out a long, shuddering breath. ‘I. Hate. You.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Bunty could quite see why. The side of the yacht where they’d been standing just moments ago was now completely underwater; NZL 40 was practically on its side, zipping across the ocean with John-in-a-net swinging madly over their heads as he proffered a Gallic shrug down to the captain, and the whole process was about to start again.

As calmly as possible, Bunty said, ‘Kat, get ready.’

‘I didn’t tell Simon I love him,’ said Kat in a weak voice.

‘He knows.’ Bunty took Kat’s freezing cold hand and forced her into a crouching position. Charlotte would just ‘know’ too, wouldn’t she, if Bunty died out at sea? And her parents. And Graham … and Ben. Ben would never know. ‘Come on!’ she screamed, dragging Kat as best she could back up the slope which had appeared again in front of them.

‘We made it! Better!’ Bunty drew in breath and looked around her. It was almost fun, really. A couple of the tourists had hold of the winches and were winding madly, operating the sail or the boom or … some part of it anyway, and she could almost start to see the appeal, if it weren’t all quite so wet. She was drenched to the knees, her bottom soaked too where she’d leaned against the side which had previously been submerged. Kat – she could hardly dare look at Kat – appeared almost naked from the waist down as her white linen trousers turned into tissue paper.

Kat saw it herself. ‘Thank God for big knickers!’ she hissed, looking as though she intended to beat Bunty to death with them as soon as they were on dry land.

‘We’re off again,’ warned Bunty. She was getting the hang of it now. Given a couple more tries, she might even relax enough to have a go at the winchy thing. Impress Ben. ‘Wonder what the winchy-wheel thing is called?’

They hobbled together under the boom, but this time it was worse. With a lunge, the boat side behind them dipped far below the surface, and the deck in front of them seemed almost vertical. They scrabbled on their knees to the other side as if they were on the scree-covered slopes of a mountain. ‘Whoops!’ called the ever-chirpy captain.

‘I’m going to kill him,’ said Kat. ‘If he doesn’t drown us I’m going to kill him.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ said Bunty. ‘If you just go a bit sooner … What?’

‘What … what the hell’s that?’

Bunty followed Kat’s wrinkled finger. ‘No! Stop the boat. Our bags!’

Their bags – and not just theirs, but the bags of several other passengers and quite a few light jackets and cardigans – had slid to the side of the yacht, gone under as the boat tipped once more, and were now floating out to sea beyond even the reach of John-in-a-net.

‘Whoops,’ said the captain.

‘I’ll fucking whoops him,’ said Kat murderously, but her words were whipped away by the rising wind, and instead of moving she clung helplessly to Bunty’s arm, which was the position in which they endured the next hour and a half.

*

Someone had fished the nearest items out of the ocean, and to their great elation the mound of soggy offerings included Kat and Bunty’s bag. Kat shook out her money and headed for the nearest bar, where the melodic guitar duo were belting out James Taylor numbers. ‘I need a drink, or I need to hit somebody,’ she said.

‘Drink,’ agreed Bunty, fishing out her phone. ‘We’ll laugh about this one day. Do you remember that day in Auckland …’

‘Where we nearly died. Tee hee. What fun. Oh God, I’m only joking, Bunty. What’s the matter?’

Bunty’s eyes filled with tears. She pressed the on-button of her phone again. And Again. ‘We might not have died,’ she said. ‘But my phone has.’

‘Oh Bunty,’ said Kat, throwing a wet, bedraggled arm around Bunty’s shoulders. ‘Rum?’

‘It has to be,’ said Bunty. The phone was dead. Her sailor was gone. Rum was the only fitting drink. ‘A large one.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Fortunately the two guys on guitar, Mel and Chad, were far more helpful than the Americas Cup crew who seemed intent only on murder. After playing a succession of eighties guitar classics and half the repertoire from Crowded House, they came over to introduce themselves to the most enthusiastic clappers in the room. In fact, the only clappers in the room.

Bunty couldn’t understand it. ‘I thought we British were the ones who were meant to be reserved,’ she called to Kat during a Tom Waits number. ‘What’s wrong with these miserable buggers?’

‘Maybe they’re German,’ said Kat, which for some reason they both found incredibly hilarious. ‘Let’s ask them.’

Bunty squinted at her rum. Third, was it? She’d only just remembered that she didn’t actually like rum. Couldn’t think why. It was actually very nice. ‘I’m not asking some complete strangers why Germans don’t clap.’

‘No,’ said Kat, ‘the guitar guys. They’re coming over. Guitar guys,’ she said directly to them. ‘We have a question for you.’

‘Mel and Chad,’ said the guitarist, who also played the keyboard.

‘Bunty wants to know,’ slurred Kat, ‘why we are the only ones clapping.’

‘Goes with the territory,’ said Chad, with the same easy nonchalance as the crew captain on NZL 40. ‘We’re used to it. But we have a good time. And you’re clearly enjoying it.’

Bunty nodded solemnly, and Kat continued, ‘Bunty also wants to know …’

‘I don’t,’ said Bunty, not at all sure what Kat was about to ask.

‘You do. Bunty also wants to know where Ben is. Ben with a yacht.’

Mel stroked his chin. ‘Hm. Do you have any other information?’

‘No. Yes!’ Bunty sat up abruptly. ‘Yes. Sitting Bull.’

‘I only asked …’

‘No. The man on the phone said ‘Sitting Bull.’ Or … sitting something. I didn’t hear the rest.’

Mel and Chad looked at each other. ‘Ben with a yacht. I’m thinking …’

‘Eastport Marina,’ said Chad with a nod.

‘The Sitting Duck,’ finished Mel. ‘It’s a cafe. A lot of the yachties grab a bite in there.’

‘That’s it,’ said Bunty softly. She’d discovered the Holy Grail. The eating place of yachties. ‘The Sitting Duck. Oh, thank you. Thank you!’

‘Yes, thank you, guitar guys! Mil and Chud. Thank you. We will clap even more!’ said Kat, demonstrating large clapping and slipping off her stool.

Chad grinned. ‘We’re here every Sunday. Save some for next week.’

‘So all we have to do now,’ yelled Bunty over a fairly raucous Eagle-Eye Cherry number, ‘is get in a cab to Eastport Marina and shout. Shout ‘Be-en’, and there he’ll be! My Ben!’

‘Sh’perfect,’ said Kat solemnly. ‘And we’ll do better than a cab. Shimon … oops … Shimon will give us a lift. I’ll call him.’

‘Yes, you call him on your little working phone that didn’t drown, while I go and make myself beautiful in the loos.’

‘Bunty.’ Kat leaned over, glassy eyed, and pawed Bunty’s hair. ‘You’re already beautiful. Silly Graham if he can’t see it. Ha. He’ll be sorry.’

‘He will! He will be sorry. Because I am … beautiful. Like you.’

Bunty staggered off upstairs to the strains of Kat wheedling Simon into cab-driving. This was a great place. She would come here lots when she and Ben lived together, maybe six months here and six months in the UK. They’d be like a celebrity couple, ‘dividing their time between’ New Zealand and the UK. Between his kids and her kids. Oops. No. Best not go there. Get the houses sorted first, she told herself as she approached the mirror.

Jesus. She looked like a train wreck. Half her hair was flat to her head while the other half – the side that had been in the wind, presumably, stuck out like a cockatoo’s crest. Her non-waterproof mascara had slid down her face in the squalls, and there was a definite crusty finish to her jaw line. Dabbing at it, Bunty sucked the end of her finger. Salt. She was a salty sea dog. Or just a dog, she thought with a wince.

After attempting to scrub off the mascara with toilet paper, Bunty accepted that the crested crown of her hair was never going to lie down, so she slopped water across her head and hung upside down under the hair dryer. Her short hair dried in a couple of minutes, and she sashayed back down the stairs to the door, where Kat was now leaning gratefully on Simon.

‘Holy crap,’ shrieked Kat. ‘Did you get an electric shock? I am so going to sue those guys, losing our bags and then sending you into a haz ... haz … dodgy area all wet.’

‘No.’ Bunty drew herself up to her full nearly five feet. Might even be five feet with my extra hair height, she thought. ‘I like it. It’s the Kiwi me. Let’s go.’

With as much dignity as two fairly drunk, middle-youth women could muster, Bunty and Kat sauntered out of the bar, blew raspberries at the bobbing NZL 40 before them, and followed Simon to his car. ‘Are you sure you want to go to the marina right now?’ said Simon, looking from Kat to Bunty with concern and more than a touch of amusement.

‘No time like the present,’ said Kat.

‘The present is … the present,’ agreed Bunty.

Kat nodded. ‘It’s a gift. That’s what the present is. It’s a gift.’

‘
Carpe
diem
. Seize the moment. There’s no time like a gift.’

‘All right,’ said Simon. ‘It’s your funeral.’

Kat turned to Bunty. ‘He’s a man. He doesn’t understand. But I do.’

‘Because you’re my friend,’ said Bunty, nodding wisely.

They discussed their friendship in fairly circular terms for quite a few minutes. Bunty knew that she should be focussing, working out a plan of action, but somehow it seemed too hard to do. She’s far rather reminisce with Kat about their various nights out together, and exchange ‘d’ye remembers’. All too soon, however, they pulled up at a dockside.

‘Haven’t we just been here?’ said Bunty, peering into the thickening gloom. ‘Bar. Boats. Water. We’ve gone round in a big circle.’

‘Simon, you idiot, we’ve gone round in a big circle.’ Kat opened the car door and peered up at the bar. ‘Oh. No. That isn’t the bar we were just in. It’s the Sitting Duck.’

‘Trust me now?’ said Simon, killing the engine.

Bunty clambered out, trying to resist the temptation to pull her wet jeans out of her behind in case someone important was watching. He could be here. He could be here, right now. But disappointment swooped down on her. ‘It’s closed.’

Simon studied the opening hours, which Bunty could barely even see. ‘It’s more of a cafe than a bar. It opens during the day. Looks like it closed,’ he checked his watch, ‘an hour ago. Sorry, Bunty.’

Bunty wanted to sink to the floor and wail. It could hardly make any difference to how damp she was. ‘So far. So far and he’s not here.’ A tear trickled down the side of her nose.

She looked out across the marina. It was hopeless. There was jetty after jetty, stretching out for miles across the water’s edge, each with dozens of yachts bobbing on either side like beads on a necklace. The sums were so big she couldn’t even do them, but there had to a thousand boats here. Two thousand maybe. And most of them appeared to be unoccupied. Empty. Ben-less. The loneliness felt tangible.

It was only as Simon was holding the car door open for Bunty to get back in that she became seized with rage. How dare he not be here? She’d travelled all this way to make her bloody grand gesture and win over the man of her dreams, and he didn’t even have the decency to be here waiting for her. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m going to find that man and give him a piece of my mind. Mr Bloody Ten Days, messing me about like that and making me really, really want him.’

Because there was the crux of it. His coming and going, his leaving and indifference – they were so incredibly attractive. He was elusive. Glamorous. Hard to pin down. Well, he wasn’t going to treat Bunty, former queen of the flirts, like she was some nobody he could pick up and drop whenever he felt like it.

Invigorated, Bunty marched up to the nearest gate to a jetty. No entry. There was an intercom security panel next to her, but when random pressing of the buttons failed to open the gate, she grabbed it with both hands and shook it like a crazed prisoner. So be it. She was a crazed prisoner, trapped in this situation until Ben released her. Or loved her back. ‘Hello!’ she hollered, rattling as loudly as she could. ‘Is Ben there? Hello!’

A woman, well-padded in a fleece and tracksuit, jumped off the back of a small yacht thirty yards away and approached the gate. ‘Hi. Forgotten the code?’

‘No, I’m looking for someone,’ said Bunty, trying to sound and look a lot calmer – and less drunk – than she was. ‘Ben.’

‘Ben with a yacht,’ shouted Kat helpfully from the car.

The woman looked non-plussed, but then Bunty had a brainwave. ‘He just got back from England. Ben, with a yacht, and he just went to England.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said the woman. ‘Ben Maikelekelevesi.’

‘Um, probably,’ said Bunty. The name sounded long and complicated enough.

‘He was telling us about it today in there.’ The woman pointed to the Sitting Duck.

‘Then he’s here? He’s here now?’

‘On the daily boat, Pier 21. The code’s 3421,’ added the woman. She waved as she climbed back aboard her boat, and Bunty turned to Kat, hardly able to move.

‘You go, girl,’ said Kat. ‘We’ll wait here.’

Pier 21 was several jetties away. What had the woman said? The daily boat. Must be like a hotel for sailors. Though why wouldn’t Ben be on his yacht? Of course, he’d never said he lived on it the whole time. He hadn’t actually, now she thought about it, said where he did live most of the time. Pier 20. Bunty’s heart rose into her throat. The torture of not knowing whether he might be there was almost unbearable, so unbearable she nearly turned back, but Kat was there in the distance waving her on, so she trod carefully onto Pier 21.

Number 3421. The gate swung open before her. ‘The daily boat, the daily boat,’ she reminded herself, going past
Sunset
Girl
,
Paid
4
and
Tarragone
, and several other yachts and boats of varying sizes. None of the smaller ones fitted the bill, and she was just wondering whether to scare someone witless by knocking on the cabin window when she moved into the area out in deeper waters where the bigger yachts were moored. And suddenly there it was, not the daily boat, as she had thought, but the ‘Daly’ boat, with
Daly
Bread
scribed in careful cursive along the mahogany veneer.

There was a light on in the cabin. She leaned down to tap, but in her ear a familiar voice said, ‘Bunty. What the hell – the
hell
– are you doing here?’