The Blue Book (4 page)

There are fireworks.

Naturally.

There would have to be fireworks.

Elizabeth stands on her cabin's balcony.

She has a
balcony
.

For that matter, she's
in a cabin
– and she watches mildly impressive fizzes of rising colour, detonations, splayed fire. Without a crowd to appreciate it, the effort seems slightly peculiar, if not sad. Derek is paying no attention – he's inside unpacking,
stowing
their belongings – or actually, now that she looks, he's sitting on the end of their bed and holding a life jacket, peering at it, as if it is failing to reassure.

Elizabeth knows how he feels.

Passenger Emergency Drill
– scare the bloody life out of you, that would. Maundering herds of visibly breakable pensioners and couples with ideological reasons for never consenting to walk – being self-propelled letting their side down in some way – and yet they're out and tottering about in what amounts to a communal suicide pact – every stairwell just an accident in progress, just a slow-motion invitation to crushing injuries and fractured hips – and nobody getting anywhere, it's simply this huge release of the bewildered.

And myself amongst them – no use pretending – myself more than confused and liking it that my head's run to a blur, because then I don't have to deal with it, don't have to cope with any part of my fucking brain. I need only be trapped and watch strangers coagulate while the words plunge by.

Distracted.

Exactly what I'm after.

Exactly what I am. Pretty much.

Except for this bit – which is too close to being aware and will need to be stopped.

So.

There I was with Derek and there Derek was with me and both of us having mistaken the unspoken rules of the occasion and not dressed up for a cocktail party with optional death later. Derek, in fact, might have ambled in from weeding, or light
DIY
, perhaps something electrical and I'm there in my current moderately smart slacks but slovenly jumper, weak blouse peering apologetically out at the collar and garish shoes – plus, the sea air had made my hair frizz. Red shoes and amateur clown hair, accompanied by a passing handyman – we were getting looks – cornered in this area of wall-to-wall piss-elegance and tweed while no doubt other scruffy souls were easing along unremarked.

And these guys in their Elegant Casual Dress Code get-ups, they wanted to barge – clearly they wanted to ram their wives softly ahead of them like delightfully scented and tolerant little snowploughs, but they couldn't – or rather they weren't sure if they should – they were genuinely conflicted about shoving a way through, because they're the type who are meant to win at everything and be survivors, but the ship
wasn't
actually going down – was still at anchor, in fact – and nothing was at stake and everyone's status was as yet ill-defined and there was always the risk of causing significant – and later disastrous – offence and meanwhile they'd hoped to appear as sporting, likeable, gallant, which tends to preclude punching out old ladies – life's so difficult . . .

And all of us, bumbling along together and hugging our orange buoyancy aids as if they were wallets, or kittens, or children and locked in this big, thick, dreamy inability to save ourselves
.

Even when we finally dribbled into our Assembly Station – the stylishly appointed theatre: wartime good cheer from the stage and advice from ex-Navy passengers about donning jerseys before immersion and two pairs of socks: you would want to drown comfortably, not be cold – even then, it took half an hour for everyone involved to actually place their life jackets over their heads.

We would die.

We would horribly die and be lost because of our sheer inadequacy.

We would deserve it and good riddance to us. We are clearly of no use.

And there was me trying to remember if it was the forearms or the buttocks of fellow unfortunates that open-boat-drifting and starving mariners are meant to eat.

Although we'd never get as far as that; bobbing and bloating, we'd be, and no one left to fish us out and snack.

Oh, Christ.

It doesn't bear thinking about.

So I won't.

Would rather not.

Forearms and buttocks of women – I think that's what's recommended.

And sadly I have both – all four.

Imagine.

No idea what I'd do to live, to be alive and stay that way.

Below her, over the handrail, are the layered edges of other balconies and fat rows of plastic pods which she supposes would expand in some startling way and turn into what would be, given the passengers' manifold incapacities, relatively pointless lifeboats, should the need arise. Here and there she can also see the calm metal side of the ship. Out of her sight it must drop into the water, clean down and vanish, angle in through the cold and the dark until it meets the rest of itself, folds and seals monumentally into the hard depth of a keel. Around them the yellowish spill of their lights spreads across gently progressing water: a careless halo pouring out into the night, showing the white gleam where they cut the water's skin.

For a while, she'd had the wavering impression that somewhere a band was playing brass instruments with a degree of vehemence – this was when the quayside was still safely tied beside them and a stirring march and
uniforms could have been thought an appropriate farewell
gesture. She couldn't be that sure of what she'd heard, because of the explosions ongoing overheard. And there was a breeze rising – enough to tousle sounds and make them unreliable. The music's stopped now, anyway – they've left it behind. Although she supposes that the pianist who played as they strolled aboard may be playing still, or could perhaps have been replaced by some combination of other musicians and instruments, maybe a harp. She feels sure that a harp will appear at some point. And on broad, soft-carpeted decks fruit machines are winking beside the type of green baize tables that promise exciting loss and there are bars and lounges, the theatre, the programme of stimulating lectures and lessons and entertainments and then there are the restaurants and the tiny, pricey shops and the spa and there is, of course, the library – currently closed, but on two storeys with a communicating spiral staircase, which must count for something – and, in short, there is an overwhelming sense that she has entered an environment prepared for people who are quite terribly afraid of being left to their own devices.

But Elizabeth likes her own devices.

Sometimes.

‘She's got money then, Margery.' Derek emerges and leans beside her at the rail, slips his arm around her waist and nestles – she can feel the hard shape of his hip. Probably because she is slightly chilled – she's not wearing her coat – his temperature is surprising, warmth caught in his pullover. He kisses the top of her head and it makes her shiver. ‘Hello.'

‘Margery? No . . . Not particularly . . .'

‘She pays for a pair of these . . . That's a four-figure cabin in there. That's two grand. Twice two grand.' Derek likes to say that kind of thing – to mention money obliquely, disrespectfully, as if he understands it and can't be impressed.

Not that he doesn't have money himself. A man of substance, Derek. And all his own work, doesn't take it for granted.

‘It wasn't a special effort, was it? She hasn't got cancer or something – wants to leave everything to you.'

‘She's my friend, Derek. I was worried enough about her when she had to cancel. I don't need you . . . adding that jolly idea.'

‘Sorry. Only kidding. Sorry. Really.' He peers at her until she can let him see he is forgiven. ‘I am.'

‘Her husband – second husband – he had money
.
And then he died. He was older . . . And . . . she doesn't have that many friends. And she, ah . . . likes me.'

‘Oh, I see . . . Me, too.' Derek squeezes her waist in a way that suggests they'll have sex later under their mustard coverlet, in their fawn with additional mustard and really quite – it has to be said –
1970
s accommodation which is not moving, not absolutely – not pitching or rolling, they're still only creeping along the Solent, after all – but, nevertheless, the walls, the floor, their surroundings, are unashamedly
lively
with engine throb, and beyond that is the faintest, faintest give, a sway, like an anxiety – or rather, a tease, a promise to be surprising in days to come.

January in the Atlantic – we have to be out of our minds.

Derek kisses her again, moist heat against her neck. ‘Bet I like you more than she does . . .'

She wonders how cold she feels to him, how strange. ‘You both like me in different ways . . .' Her hair flutters, unhappily disturbed – it stings slightly when it hits her cheek. ‘Since the husband, she does have money, I suppose. Not
her
money, though. Well, it is hers, since he . . . So . . . yes. She's well-off.'

‘Shame she couldn't come in the end – I'd like to have met her. Someone you went to school with – bet she's got stories . . .'

‘Not that kind of stories, no.'

‘Stories about lovers . . .' He puts the words in close to her ear and they flicker, nudge.

‘I didn't have a lover at school. I didn't even have boyfriends.'

‘Yeah, I've never believed that
late starter
stuff. I think you're just being modest.'

‘I have lots to be modest about.' This odd desire he has occasionally to rework her as a sexually rapacious teenager – all pouting and gymslips. Sometimes it's sweet and sometimes it's just annoying and borderline weird. ‘My dad wanted me to be academic. So I was.'

‘Always did what your dad said . . .'

‘Always.'

Not absolutely always, but that's nothing to discuss at this juncture.

Derek begins to steer her indoors and she allows it to be comforting that she gives him control, steps inside and is waylaid by the awful decor, the seafaring neatness, smallness, the practical lack of clutter to pre-empt rough seas and breakages. The effect is claustrophobic, but also endearing.

Derek sits on the tiny sofa, his legs aimed mostly at the bed and thus avoiding the minute table, his whole frame slightly compressed, designed according to a different scale. ‘Not fair, though . . .'

‘What isn't?'

‘That she pays for you to come along – for us both – and then she ends up being stuck at home herself. Do you think she got a refund?'

‘I didn't ask . . . Couldn't be helped, though – when it's your heart, you have to . . . well – take it to heart. Sorry.'

Hate doubled meanings – once you start them, they don't bloody stop – inferences, references, cross-references – then everyone turns into the sad bloke at the party who thinks it's his job to chuck in puns, focus the room's loathing.

‘And is she
OK
now, Beth?'

And, right enough, a punster does draw out the hate. Eventually even the nicest people would succumb to their darker longings and just fillet him, cut him up – still punning – and throw him into the tajine, on to the barbecue, into freezer bags for later – depending on the brand of party.

I don't hate them because they're not funny, I hate them because they mean nothing you say can stay innocent.

‘Beth?'

‘Yes. Yes, she called and said the tests were, you know . . . reassuring. It's just the long sea voyage thing and the insurance thing – in case they have to winch you off by helicopter, improvise on you with jump leads, that kind of stuff. They like you to be healthy.'

Elizabeth removes her shoes, lies on the bed. She looks over at Derek as he reaches for the paper and starts to read. He is folded neatly in the available space – the limbs and joints and angles of a long and wiry man, that particular shape. And in her mind she lets herself think

Love.

Such a terrible word – always demands you should be its accomplice, should comply – can't even say it without that sense of licking, tasting, parting your lips to be open, to welcome whatever it is that slips in beneath your breath, and then you find yourself closing to keep it, mouth it, learn its needs – this invisible medicine, this invisible disease.

It takes a hold.

Not like sex. Sex is a slip of a word, a slither – and it can be so simple, uncomplicated as it sounds.

Not that it wasn't a cause for concern at the start – because
I
did
reach it later,
I
was
a slow learner and usually, initially unsure – but then hasn't everyone been unsure? I don't think it's remotely unique to suffer those young, young endless doubts – If he's kissing me, actually kissing me – which is nice – absolutely nice – even so, am I quite sure of why?

Does he like me? Find me attractive? Because I'd be hoping that both of those things is what we'll be about.

Or is he kissing me the way he kisses everyone, is he just the friendly type? Or curious? Or bored? Or has he stumbled and coincidentally fallen against my mouth?

Which is preposterous, naturally, but need not be mistaken. My insecurity may only signal that I am both ugly and right.