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Chapter Two
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 regime since setting the wedding date and I had fully intended to do the same thing, but it hadn’t quite worked out. But I had been on a diet and exercise regime for the last three days, which I thought was better than nothing. Although there hadn’t actually been much exercise, if I was honest, other than lugging my cases on and off the bed and repacking them. And not much diet either, other than not having some toast and marmalade yesterday morning because I was too excited. Oh well, we couldn’t all be a size ten like India, could we?

I had looked at the Voyage Premiere website on several occasions, of course, so I knew what to expect. The photographs of our ship, the Reine de France, showed a selection of exceptionally elegant couples with marvellous teeth who were always laughing and happy, whether they were tasting wine, eating exquisitely fine-tuned canapés in front of a perfect sunset or relaxing in the Jacuzzi while drinking cocktails. Was that even allowed? Alcohol in a Jacuzzi? Perhaps the clientele of the Reine de France were so classy and sophisticated that they didn’t get drunk and force each other’s heads underwater as most of the people I knew would have done.

In the private lounge we looked around, wondering which of the other people were going to be on the ship with us. None seemed quite glossy or elegant enough to fit in on board, but then, as India pointed out, in our jeans and T-shirts, neither did we.

‘That man over there,’ she hissed. ‘He looks the sort.’

The man in question was tall, quite good-looking and had a swoop of grey hair that made him look rather distinguished. He was with a two-dimensional woman in black who looked far too bad-tempered for the Reine de France. I couldn’t imagine her frolicking in a Jacuzzi with a Gin Sling.

Then there were a couple of exotic-looking women who were rocking the big eyebrows, white trousers and perma-tan look. They seemed to have cornered the market in gold jewellery and had six unruly children with them who had taken full advantage of the free refreshments and were busy building a tower with their empty cola bottles. Would they be taking six children on a cruise? Wouldn’t they prefer a fortnight on a beach? Or was I being mean?

Anyway, shortly after that one of the women noticed that the flight to Miami was boarding and they began rounding up the children and their numerous backpacks with a great deal of arguing and a couple of well-placed slaps. I guessed they were off to Disneyland and I was glad for them. Twelve days on a cruise ship with a load of old couples on Prozac and intravenous alcohol was no place for a kid in my opinion.

I commandeered their empty table, which overlooked the departure runway. India went to get us some champagne while I logged into my laptop and surreptitiously looked around to see if I could spot any more potential travellers heading for a cruise. An exceptionally nice-looking man was sitting on his own at the table next to us, typing rapidly into a laptop and occasionally staring vacantly into space. He was wearing a black polo shirt and chinos. Could he be coming on the ship with us? Did he have a thin, pretty wife with him who was perhaps having a manicure somewhere in one of the side rooms? Or maybe his girlfriend was running wild in duty free, buying some last-minute handbags and gold-tipped cruise wear?

Unexpectedly he looked up and caught my eye and I gave one of those eyebrow-raised, tight-lipped smiles you do when you have nothing sensible to say but don’t want to appear unfriendly. Instead I think I probably seemed a bit of a prat and he frowned and looked away. Oh well.

Luckily, at that moment India came back with some bubbly and a bowl of pretzels.

‘Well, here’s to it!’ she said and we clinked glasses.

Fabulous. There’s nothing quite like chilled champagne at ten-thirty in the morning.

‘I hope Jerry’s all right,’ she said after a few minutes, the corners of her mouth turning down. ‘We’ve never been apart this long before.’

Any minute now we would be on to the wedding and things had been going so well. For the first time in ages it seemed we’d been getting along – perhaps it was the holiday spirit? Or maybe it was the champagne?

‘Of course he is,’ I said, trying to damp down my exasperation and empathise with how India felt. That’s what Mum said – try and see it from your sister’s perspective. ‘He’ll either be in work, being clever and demolishing someone’s alibi, or he’ll be smashing up concrete bunkers and shooting aliens on his Xbox. It will make him realise how much he depends on you. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know.’

‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ India said gloomily, ‘and there’s loads of stuff to do for the wedding. D’you know …’

I interrupted her before we could get on to the table settings, Dad’s speech or the flower girls’ shoes.

‘Too late now, we’re here. Buck up, we have pretzels …’ I picked up the bowl in one hand. ‘We have champagne!’ I waved my glass in the air with the other.

Unfortunately, at that moment, one of the rowdy children came back and crashed into the back of my chair before scrabbling about under the table for some random plastic animal she had left there. My champagne flew out in a graceful parabola and dowsed the man sitting at the next table.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I gasped.

Grabbing a handful of paper napkins I began dabbing at him, but of course they aren’t much use for anything except wrapping cutlery, and trying to rub the back of someone’s shirt is definitely invading their personal space with knobs on. He did smell rather gorgeous though, some woody-green sort of aftershave. Not that it mattered. I wasn’t looking for another man in my life – I’d only just got over the last one.

‘It’s fine, perfectly fine,’ he said in a tone of voice that said the exact opposite. He had unusual grey eyes and at that moment they were fixed on me; very cold and unfriendly. Like ice chips. His voice was deep and attractive with a very slight American twang. I felt quite fluttery and flustered for a moment and stood on one leg looking stupid while he shook some of my pretzels off his laptop, which mercifully appeared undamaged.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I said. ‘I was just …’

I waved my glass in an explanatory way and he flinched.

‘It’s okay, it’s empty.’

‘I know,’ he said coldly, ‘but don’t do it again, will you? Should I move perhaps?’

‘No, of course not. I will. Sorry.’

I crept back to my seat and ducked my head into my shoulders.

‘You idiot! What did he say?’ India hissed, pulling me down into my chair.

‘Nothing much.’

‘He must have said something.’

‘He said you are so much prettier than your sister and then he asked for my mobile number.’

‘I bet he didn’t. Did he?’ India could be very gullible sometimes.

‘No, India. He told me to go away and stop being a nuisance.’

‘Hmmm. Well, do you want to go and get some more champagne? Seeing as you chucked your last one over him.’

‘I didn’t chuck it over him; it was an accident,’ I whispered urgently, feeling my face flushing with embarrassment.

‘Well, you could have chatted him up. He’s quite nice-looking.’ India twirled her hair round her fingers and looked at him from under her lashes.

I nudged her, stifling a giggle. ‘For heaven’s sake, India, stop it. You’re on your hen holiday and you’re flirting with strangers? Really?’

‘I wasn’t flirting, I was just looking. Watch and learn.’

This was so typical of my sister; she couldn’t pass up any opportunity. She’d even been known to flirt with Tim in work and I was pretty sure she scared him to death. He had to have the day off after the last works Christmas party.

‘Look, let’s swap seats? I’d feel better and I’m sure he would too.’

I went to get some refills and some more pretzels and moved into her chair. I was aware Mr Grumpy was still typing at high speed into his laptop but also watching me out of the corner of his eye. That’s quite a skill too, isn’t it? Perhaps he was a spy?

After a few minutes Mr Grumpy stood up and packed his laptop away, pulling his damp shirt away from his back and sending me another look.

He called a waitress over.

‘Is there somewhere I can get a shower?’ he said. ‘I need to change my shirt.’

The waitress fluttered a bit and took him away and I tried to put the image of him doing the aforementioned activities out of my mind. I was thinking he’d look rather marvellous though. Sort of big and rather chunky and … Oh, shut up, Alexa.

Still, I watched him go with a tinge of sadness. He walked with long strides but an unhurried grace and was the best-looking man to notice me in a very long time. Actually he was the first man to notice me for a very long time. It was just a shame it was for the wrong reasons. Though there was still no sign of the wife/girlfriend/significant other, so things could be looking up.

I wondered where he was going. He had missed the flight to Miami by now and also flights to Dubai, Rome, Sydney and loads of other places. I knew this because I had a special app on my laptop. I liked to fantasise about where I would go on holiday … if I ever had time to go on holiday, which I hadn’t for the last four years. As I’ve said, a weekend in Paris in November in the rain does not count as a proper holiday.

Perhaps he was a businessman travelling alone to some vital financial conference where he would address the World Bank about foreign aid? Or perhaps he was going to present a proposal to a board of shifty-looking venture capitalists for some huge office tower block in downtown Manhattan? Either way he was gone.

India wandered about looking out of the windows and fidgeting while I sat eating pretzels and sipping champagne. I tried to relax and look cool and not like someone who was in the habit of slinging drinks around.

‘Can we go to duty free now?’ she said at last. ‘It’s still over an hour till our flight. I want to find a lipstick to wear at the wedding.’

I resisted the temptation to groan and we gathered up our bags and made our way into consumer paradise, avoiding the huge bears, remote-control helicopters and iPad covers, and heading straight for the make-up. I didn’t really mind although I wouldn’t have admitted it to my sister. To be honest I’m especially keen on those dinky little palettes of eyeshadows and blushers with the tag ‘Airport Exclusive’. There’s just something about ‘travel-size’ products I can’t get enough of. Within seconds India found a male assistant to help her. I was just having an enjoyable few minutes playing with a battery-operated pig when she found me.

‘Don’t wander off like that,’ she said furiously. ‘You’re supposed to be looking after me. Mum said.’

I gritted my teeth. The phrase ‘Mum said’ had haunted me down the years for as long as I could remember. It didn’t hold the same power now though; after all, India was twenty-six and more than capable of looking after herself.

Luckily we heard our flight being called and scurried off to the right gate, oohing and aahing as we saw the bulk of our plane just outside the window. We were on our way.

*

We found our seats, had a slight argument about who would sit next to the window (India won; as she kept reminding me, this was ‘her’ holiday after all); we pressed all the buttons on the entertainment system; we read the menu card. The plane took off without crashing into the Queen Mother Reservoir so we drank gin to celebrate. Then we had dinner and some wine. Then India started moaning about how much she was missing Jerry so I stuck my earphones in and watched a film about a detective who would have got the case solved far quicker if he had stopped smoking quite so much. When it was obvious I wasn’t going to agree how marvellous Jerry was or discuss the colour of the sugared almonds, India curled up on her seat like a cat and had a nap.

I had another little gin and flicked over to the screen showing us where we were. That was a bit unnerving as we were south of Greenland, about as far from land as we could be. I took my mind off it by watching a film about a man rescuing his wife from some unnamed organisation. It involved a lot of explosions and dangling off collapsing bridges; I love that sort of thing. He must have had the upper body strength of Superman and the wife did the whole thing in stilettos and never once smudged her lipstick. Then India woke up and we had some odd cakes and an even odder cup of tea, and then we were descending through the cloudbank to JFK Airport.

I leaned across my sister to look out of the window, hoping for some of those interesting little glimpses into people’s backyards you get when you’re coming in to land. There were crowded twelve-lane highways and massive houses and the occasional swimming pool and then car parks and industrial yards full of trucks. I tightened my seatbelt and clung on to the seat arms as if trying to keep the plane in the air for a few more seconds, but suddenly there was a runway and we were down with that terrible back thrust of the engines that makes you think the wings are going to fall off. When we landed I realised I hadn’t thought once about work or what Charlie was doing with my in-tray or whether the Masons would complete on Stafford House. This had to be a record. I should have timed it.

The woman in front of us was disobeying the keep seatbelts fastened sign and was already scrabbling in the overhead locker for her hand luggage. Not that it would get her off the plane any quicker, just earn her a dirty look from the flight attendant on the way out.