The Woman in Cabin 10 (5 page)

There’s no point in pretending I wasn’t impressed. I was. Mainly by the bed, which was practically shrieking an invitation to throw myself down and sleep for maybe thirty to forty hours.

I looked at the pristine white duvet and the gold and white scatter cushions, and longing washed through me like a physical substance in my veins, sending prickles from the nape of my neck to the tips of my fingers and toes. I
needed
sleep. I was beginning to crave it, like a drug addict, counting the hours until my next fix. The thirty uncomfortable minutes in the taxi had only made it worse. But I couldn’t sleep now. If I did, I might not wake up, and I could not afford to miss dinner.

I might be able to skip some of the functions later in the week, but I absolutely
had
to go to tonight’s dinner and presentation. It was the first night on board—everyone would be making contacts and networking furiously. If I missed that, it would be a huge black mark against me, and I would never catch up.

Forcing down a yawn, I went out to the balcony, hoping the fresh air would help me wake from the creeping fog of exhaustion that seemed to encroach every time I stopped moving or talking.

The veranda was as delightful as one would imagine a private balcony on a luxury cruise ship to be. The barrier was made of glass so that sitting inside the suite you could almost imagine there was nothing between you and the ocean at all, and there were two deck chairs and a tiny table so that one could sit there on an evening and enjoy the midnight sun or northern lights, depending on which cruise one had booked.

I spent a long, long time watching the little ships toiling in and out of Hull harbor and feeling the salty wind in my hair, and then suddenly something about the feel of the ship changed. For a minute I couldn’t think what it was—and then I realized. The engine, which had been purring discreetly for the last half hour or so, had gone up a notch, and something about the boat had shifted. With a grinding roar, we began to inch round, away from the quayside, to point out towards the sea.

As I stood and watched, the boat edged out of the harbor, past the green and red lights showing the mouth of the safe passage, and I felt the change in its movement as we left the shelter of the harbor wall and entered the North Sea, the smooth lapping waves giving way to the great, rolling swells of the deep ocean.

Slowly, the shoreline slipped away, and the buildings of Hull dwindled into ridges on the horizon, and then into a dark line that could have been anywhere. As I watched it disappear, I thought of Judah, and everything I’d left undone. My phone was heavy in my pocket, and I took it out, hoping for something from him before we left the range of the UK transmitters.
Good-bye. Good luck. Bon voyage.

But there was nothing. The signal dipped by one bar, and then another, and the phone in my hand was silent. As the coast of England disappeared from view, the only noise was the crashing of the waves.

From: Judah Lewis

To: Laura Blacklock

Sent: Tuesday, 22 September

Subject: Are you ok?

Hey honey, I haven’t heard from you since your e-mail on Sunday. Not sure if our messages are crossing. Did you get my reply, or the text I sent you yesterday?

Getting kind of worried, and hoping you don’t think I’m off somewhere being an asshole and nursing my wounds. I’m not. I love you, I miss you, and I’m thinking about you.

Don’t worry about what happened back home—and the tooth is okay. I think it’ll re-root like the doc said. I’m self-medicating with vodka anyway.

Let me know how the cruise is going—or if you’re busy, just drop me a line to say you’re okay.

Love you, J

From: Rowan Lonsdale

To: Laura Blacklock

CC: Jennifer West

Sent: Wednesday, 23 September

Subject: Update?

Lo, could you please reply to my e-mail sent two days ago requesting an update on the cruise? Jenn tells me you’ve filed nothing, and we were hoping for some kind of copy by tomorrow—a sidebar piece at the least.

Please let Jenn know ASAP where you’re at with this, and cc me to your reply.

Rowan

- CHAPTER 6 -

E
ven rich people’s showers were better.

The jets buffeted and massaged from every angle, numbing in their ferocity, so after a while it was hard to tell where the water started and my body ended.

I soaped my hair, then shaved my legs, and finally I just stood underneath the stream, watching the sea and the sky and the circling gulls. I’d left the bathroom door open and I could see across the bed and out to the veranda and the sea beyond. And the effect was just . . . well, I’m not going to lie, it was pretty nice. I guess you had to get something for the eight grand or whatever it was they were charging for this place.

The amount was slightly obscene, in comparison to my salary—or even Rowan’s salary. I had spent years
drooling over the reports she sent back from a villa in the Bahamas or a yacht in the Maldives and waiting for the day when I, too, would be senior enough to get those kinds of perks, but now I was actually getting a taste of it, I wondered—how did she stand it, these regular glimpses into a life no regular person would ever be able to afford?

I was idly trying to work out how many months I’d have to work to pay for a week on the
Aurora
as a passenger, when I heard something—an indistinct little noise—beneath the roar of the water, that I couldn’t place, but it definitely sounded like it came from my room. My heart quickened a little, but I kept my breathing firm and steady as I opened my eyes to turn off the shower.

Instead, I saw the bathroom door swinging towards me, as though someone had shoved it with a swift, sure hand.

It banged shut, the solid, firm clunk of a heavy door that was made of the very best-quality material, and I was left in the hot, wet dark with the water pounding on the top of my skull and my heart beating hard enough to register on the boat’s sonar.

I couldn’t hear anything above the hiss of blood in my ears and the roar of the shower. And I couldn’t see anything, apart from the red gleam of the digital controls to the shower. Fuck.
Fuck
. Why hadn’t I double-locked the cabin door?

I felt the walls of the bathroom closing in on me, the blackness seeming to swallow me whole.

Stop. Panicking,
I told myself. No one’s hurt you. No one’s broken in. Chances are it’s just a maid come to turn down the bed, or the door shutting by itself.
Stop. Panicking.

I forced myself to feel for the controls. The water went freezing, then agonizingly hot so that I yelped and staggered back, cracking my ankle against the wall, but then finally I found the right button, the stream stopped, and I groped my way to the lights.

They came on, flooding the little room with an unforgiving glare, and I stared at myself in the mirror—bone white, with wet hair plastered to my skull like the girl from
The Ring
.

Shit.

Was this going to be what it was like? Was I turning into someone who had panic attacks about walking home from the tube or staying the night alone in the house without their boyfriend?

No, fuck that. I would
not
be that person.

There was a bathrobe on the back of the bathroom door, and I swathed it hastily around myself and then took a deep, shaking breath.

I would not be that person.

I opened the bathroom door, my heart beating so hard and fast that I was seeing stars in my vision.

Do not panic,
I thought fiercely.

The room was empty. Completely empty. And the door
was
double-locked, even the chain was across. There was no way anyone had got in. Maybe I’d just heard someone in the corridor. Either way, it was obviously just the tilting movement of the ship that had caused the door to swing shut, impelled by its own weight.

I checked the chain again, feeling the thick weight of it heavy in the palm of my hand, reassuringly solid, and then, on weak legs, I made my way to the bed and lay down, my heart still pounding with suppressed adrenaline, and waited for my pulse to return to something approaching normal.

I imagined burying my face in Judah’s shoulder and for a second I nearly burst into tears, but I clenched my teeth and swallowed them back down. Judah was not the answer to all this. The problem was me and my weak-ass panic attacks.

Nothing happened. Nothing happened.

I repeated it in time with my rapid breaths, until I felt myself begin to calm down.

Nothing happened. Not now. Not then. Nobody hurt you.

Nothing happened.

Okay.

God, I needed a drink.

Inside the minibar was tonic, ice, and half a dozen miniatures of gin, whiskey, and vodka. I shook ice into a tumbler and then emptied in a couple of the miniature bottles, pouring with a hand that still shook slightly. I topped up with a splash of tonic water and gulped it down.

The gin was so strong it made me choke, but I felt the warmth of the alcohol spreading through my cells and blood vessels and felt instantly better.

When the glass was empty, I stood up, feeling the lightness in my head and limbs, and pulled my phone out of my bag. No reception, so clearly we were out of range of the UK transmitters, but there was Wi-Fi.

I clicked on mail and downloaded my e-mails, chewing my nails as they popped one by one into the in-box. It wasn’t quite as bad as I’d been fearing—it was a Sunday after all—but as I scanned down the list, I realized I was tense as an elastic band about to snap, and at the same time, I understood what I was looking for, and why. There was nothing from Judah. I felt my shoulders slump.

I answered the few that were urgent, marked the others unread, and then pressed compose to start a new e-mail.

Dear Judah
, I wrote, but the rest of the words wouldn’t come. I wondered what he was doing right now. Was he packing his bag? Crammed onto some economy flight? Or was he lying on his bed in his room, tweeting, texting, thinking of me . . .

I relived again the moment I’d smashed the heavy metal lamp into his face. What had I been
thinking
?

You weren’t thinking, I told myself. You were half-asleep. It’s not your fault. It was an accident.

Freud says there are no accidents
, said the voice in the back of my head.
Maybe it’s you. . . .

I shook my head, refusing to listen.

Dear Judah, I love you.

I miss you.

I’m sorry.

I deleted the one to Judah and started a new one.

To: Pamela Crew

From: Laura Blacklock

Sent: Sunday, 20 September

Subject: Safe and sound

Hi, Mum, safe on board the boat, which is seriously swanky. You’d love it! Just a quick reminder to pick up Delilah tonight. I’ve left her cat basket on the table, and the food is under the sink. I had to change the locks—Mrs. Johnson upstairs has the new key.

Lots of love and THANKS!

Lo xx

I pressed send, then pulled up Facebook and messaged my best friend, Lissie.

This place is insanely nice. There are UNLIMITED free drinks in the minibar in my cabin—sorry, I mean fucking enormous SUITE—which doesn’t bode well for my professionalism, or my liver. See you on the other side, if I’m still standing. Lo xx

I poured myself another gin and then I went back to the Judah e-mail.

I had to write something. I couldn’t leave things the way they were when I walked out.

Dear J. I’m sorry I was such a bitch before I left. What I said—it was incredibly unfair. I love you so much.

I had to stop at that, because tears were blurring the screen. I paused and took a couple of shaking breaths. Then I scrubbed crossly at my eyes and finished.

Text me when you get to Moscow. Safe journey.

Lo xxx

I refreshed my in-box, less hopefully this time, but nothing new downloaded. Instead, I sighed and drained my second gin. The clock by the bed read 6:30, which meant it was time for ball gown number one.

Rowan, after she’d informed me that the dress code for dining on board was “formal” (translation: insane), had recommended that I rent at least seven evening dresses, so that I wouldn’t have to wear the same dress twice; but since she wasn’t proposing to shell out the cost, I had rented three, which was three more than I’d have done if left to my own devices.

My favorite in the shop had been the most over-the-top one—a long silvery-white sheath studded with crystals that, the shop assistant had claimed without a glimmer of sarcasm, made me look like Liv Tyler in
The Lord of the Rings
. I’m not sure I kept my face sufficiently straight when she said that, because she kept shooting me suspicious looks as I tried on the others.

But I wasn’t feeling quite brave enough to kick off with crystal studs, given there might well be people there wearing jeans, for all I knew, so I picked out the most modest choice—a long, narrow slip in dark gray satin. There was a little spritz of sequined leaves across the right shoulder because you didn’t seem to be able to get away with none. Apparently the majority of ball gowns were designed by five-year-old girls armed with glitter guns, but at least this one didn’t look entirely like an explosion in a Barbie factory.

I wriggled into it and zipped it up the side, then I shook out the full array of ammo from my makeup bag. It was going to take more than a swipe of lip gloss to get me looking even halfway human tonight. I was just smudging concealer across the cut on my cheekbone when I realized my mascara wasn’t among the clutter.

I hunted through my handbag in the vain hope that it might be there, trying to remember where I’d last seen it. Then I realized. It had been in my handbag—pinched along with everything else. I don’t always wear it, but without dark lashes, my smoky-eye makeup looked strange and out of proportion—like I’d given up halfway through. I thought briefly and ridiculously about improvising with liquid eyeliner, but instead I tried one last, vain hunt in my bag—tipping everything out onto the bed, just in case I’d misremembered, or had a spare one stuck in the lining. In my heart, though, I knew it wasn’t there, and I was replacing everything back into the bag when I heard a noise from the cabin next door—the roar of the pressurized toilet flushing, recognizable even above the muted hum of the engine.

Taking my room key in my hand, I went out barefoot into the corridor.

The ash wood door to my right had a little plaque that read
10. PALMGREN,
which made me think that the supply of eminent Scandinavian scientists must have worn a little thin by the time they finished fitting out this boat. I knocked, slightly hesitantly.

There was no answer. I waited. Maybe the occupant was in the shower.

I knocked again, three sharp knocks, and then, as an afterthought, a final loud whack in case they were hard of hearing.

The door flew open, as if the occupant had been standing on the other side.

“What?” she demanded, almost before the door had opened. “Is everything okay?” And then her face changed. “Shit. Who are you?”

“I’m your neighbor,” I said. She was young and pretty with long dark hair, and she was wearing a ratty Pink Floyd T-shirt with holes, which somehow made me like her quite a lot. “Laura Blacklock. Lo. Sorry, I know this sounds really weird, but I wondered if I could borrow some mascara?”

There was a scatter of tubes and creams visible on the dressing table behind her, and she was wearing quite a bit of it herself, which made me fairly sure I was on safe ground.

“Oh.” She looked flustered. “Right. Hang on.”

She disappeared, closing the door behind her, and then came back with a tube of Maybelline and stuck it into my hand.

“Hey, thanks,” I said. “I’ll bring it right back.”

“Keep it,” she said. I protested, automatically, but she waved my words away. “Seriously, I don’t want it back.”

“I’ll wash the brush,” I offered, but she shook her head impatiently.

“I told you, I don’t want it.”

“Okay,” I said, slightly puzzled. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She shut the door in my face.

I
went back to my cabin wondering about the odd little encounter. I felt out of place enough on this trip, but she looked even more of a fish out of water. Someone’s daughter, maybe? I wondered if I’d see her at dinner.

I’d just finished applying the borrowed mascara when there was a knock at the door. Maybe she’d changed her mind.

“Hey,” I said, opening the door, holding it out. But it was a different girl outside, one wearing a stewardess’s uniform. Her eyebrows had been rather savagely overplucked, giving her an expression of permanent surprise.

“Hello,” she said, with a singsong Scandinavian inflection. “My name is Karla and I’m your suite attendant along with Josef. This is just a courtesy call to remind you of the presentation at—”

“I remember,” I said, rather more brusquely than I’d intended. “Seven p.m. in the Pippi Longstocking Room or whatever it’s called.”

“Ah, I see you know your Scandinavian writers!” She beamed.

“I’m not so hot on the scientists,” I admitted. “I’ll be right up.”

“Wonderful. Lord Bullmer is looking forward to welcoming you all on board.”

After she’d gone I rummaged in my case for the wrap that had come with the dress—a sort of gray silk shawl that made me feel like a long-lost Brontë sister—and draped it round my shoulders.

I locked the door behind me and dropped the key inside my bra, and then I made my way along the corridor, up to the Lindgren Lounge.