The gaunt couple retreated at a brisk, cardio-toning march. They looked like a mismatched pair of pipe cleaners. My newly betrothed and I stared at each other in mutual incomprehension.
'What the heck did you see in her? She's got no tits! And she thpits!'
'Jaylene? What were you doing? Singing country and western?'
It was a long story. I sensed that Harry had a rambling, convoluted epic of his own. I slipped my arm through his.
'It's almost time for dinner, darling. We can't possibly grace the Captain's table dressed like this. We're going to have to rent some nice new rags. There's plenty of time to swap 'ex files.' By the way, the Captain's name is Ahab, and no, I'm not making this up! He's incredibly dishy. Just like Omar Sharif.'
Harry sniggered.
'Omar Sharif must be almost as old as the Pyramids, these days.'
'Don't care. I prefer old things.'
'Thank you, Mrs. Neptune.'
'You're welcome, Methuselah.'
CHAPTER THREE: DEATH IS A CABARET
The Captain was just like Omar Sharif. Tall, dark, flashing eyes and gleaming teeth. You could just imagine him charging across the desert on a wild stallion, a curved knife between his teeth, and the heroine clinging to him from the rear pillion. His slicked-back black hair had a distinguished touch of grey at the temples, just like mine. He wore an old fashioned pea jacket with brass buttons closing almost to the neck. I could have sworn I glimpsed the flash of a Croix de Guerre hiding behind the collar.
I was resplendent in white jacket, black tie and cummerbund. The insignificant person in charge of the rental department had typically uninformed ideas about wing collars and flashy waistcoats. He didn't even know what I meant when I said I didn't want to look like a homosexual snooker player. I brushed him aside and chose my own apparel. Conservative and distinguished. A man of substance who sets fashion, doesn't follow it.
For the first formal dinner of our married life my bride chose a simple pearl-colored dress with plenty of decolletage. She has taste, too.
We were ushered to our seats in the chandelier-lit dining room. The champagne arrived with commendable speed.
The Captain made his entrance and sat at the head of the table as the men bobbed half up then back down again. He didn't have a limp.
'I am Captain Ahab. Welcome to my table on the fine ship Caribbean Conch.'
We all murmured our good evenings.
The Captain was good. He had memorized the place settings on the small piece of paper I saw the purser slip him as he came into the room.
'On my left is the charming Miss Lawrence – nay, Mrs. Neptune! And the most very fortunate Mr. Neptune. May I offer my heartiest congratulations on this happy day!'
Polite applause and a couple of bravos came from our fellow guests, though with more enthusiasm in some quarters than others. Miss Lawrence wriggled a little closer to the Captain on her gilt chair.
'Next to Mr. Neptune is the lovely Miss Loretta Swat, familiar to us all as celebrity weather lady and for Loretta's Book of the Month.'
I knew Loretta's Book of the Month could make or break authors and even publishing houses.
I turned to nod a greeting to my neighbor and barely managed not to turn it into a drool. I don't watch much TV, and I prefer to look out of the window to see what the weather is doing, so while I had heard of Miss Swat I was not prepared for the reality. She was thirty-something, tall, tanned, blonde, full bosomed, and half-naked. Her black cocktail dress could not possibly have hidden even the flimsiest foundation garments. Her eyes met mine.
'My, Mr. Neptune, what a pleasure,' came a husky Southern voice. I wondered if the voice was real. I didn't care if the boobs were or not.
'The pleasure is all mine, dear lady, all mine,' I replied gallantly, dragging my eyes up to hers.
I felt a small but determined foot kick my shin from the other side of the table. Here we go again. Well, it was my honeymoon. I returned my attention to the Captain. Mind you, Miss L likes a threesome as well as the next lusty bisexual vixen, so perhaps…
'And now, to help me entertain such a scintillating company, our ship's Medical Officer, Dr. Dunnett.'
Dr. Dunnett was Scottish – one could tell before he even opened his mouth. In his early fifties, slightly stooped, half-moon glasses, his patently dyed red hair was brushed over a bald pate. Thin grey hair was growing out under the henna'd mess, and dandruff spattered the worn and shiny dinner jacket. He was obviously a man who knew his mind, because instead of the usual collection of wine glasses, he had before him a cut-glass whisky tumbler and a decanter in a silver swinging cradle. As long as the glass was in the right place, not a drop of the water of life would be spilled as the decanter tipped and poured.
'Good evening, Doctor,' I said politely as I leaned forward slightly to get a better view of the decanter and stand.
They were somehow familiar. I cast my mind back to the last Reunion at Edinburgh Castle. I recalled just the same decanter before each of my assembled comrades, though not much else about the evening. At least not until we hit the bars behind Princes Street in the early hours, but that is another story and anyway there is an official record. Yes, there was the Castle crest, discreetly engraved on the side of the stand. It looked like the Old Medical School bash had been held at the Castle as well.
I leaned back and sneaked a peek at the Swat cleavage as I went. For my pains I got another kick in the shin.
'Next to the good Doctor, Mr. and Mrs. Boner-Drippit. Mrs. Boner-Drippit is of course well known to all of us on the Literary Cruise, and I am sure Mr. Boner also has a tale to tell.'
Frippery was dressed in taffeta, as near as I could make out. The years had not been too kind, and her neck was better now described as scraggy than thin. She looked like an ostrich with stomachache. Or maybe that's just the thankful ex-husband speaking.
Boner had been taken in by the fashion idiot in the tuxedo rental department. Wing collar, paisley waistcoat in unnatural shades, trousers with red stripes down the sides, and a strange jacket with pocket cuffs in the same paisley as the waistcoat. He sat upright and nodded round the table. He seemed to think he looked good dressed as a clown.
'Finally, and far from least, the charming lady on my right…'
'Gigi! Gigi! You must all call me Gigi! Oh, what fun we shall have! Miss Swat, I watch your cookery program all the time! The maid does your angels on horseback so well!'
So la Swat was a celebrity chef too? Well, with a shelf like that I dare say she could get away with anything from gardening to political comment.
Mrs. Gloria Goldfinkel (of the Happachappabunket Goldfinkels) was still in pink. Lots of pink. Not to mention gold and sparkling diamonds. I couldn't begin to describe the ensemble. Jay is far better than I at that kind of thing. Suffice it to say that had she fallen overboard, she would be visible as a beacon from outer space, if the weight of wealth didn't drag her to the bottom first to be a hazard to submarine magnetic navigation equipment.
Mrs. Goldfinkel smiled radiantly around the table, the epitome of party fun.
Captain Ahab had finished his introductions and evidently felt like a break from social duties. He sat back and sipped at a glass of mineral water. There was silence for a few moments, then as the most presentable male guest (and as Harry Neptune) I took up the burden of conversation.
'How's your stomach, Boner? Up to the delights to come? A glass with you.'
'I don't drink. Nor does Frippery.'
