'Well, actually, I wouldn't mind just a teenthy-weenthy glath…'
'We don't drink alcohol,' Boner continued, firmly removing the wine glass from poor Frippery's place. 'It's the ruination of the western world. And an emerging problem in the Third…'
I switched off, as my former lover began to drone on in a familiar and dreary speech I'd heard a thousand times before. I could probably repeat it, word for word, just as I could still recall the lyrics of the musicals he played from dawn to dusk when composing his tomes. I turned my attention to the new Golden Delicious of my husband's eye, a peroxide blonde with suspiciously convex tits. She looked like she had a couple of colanders stuffed down the front of her frock. (Maybe she did.) Harry was obviously having a hard time (as it were) maintaining eye contact as they chatted knowingly of Caribbean cuisine.
'Oh, I agree, the flying fish filet at the Far Flung Farrago, is infinitely superior to the tunny tournedos at Terrapin Terrace!'
They laughed, comfortable in a smug shared world of culinary conceit. I wondered how long it would be until Ms. Swat discovered that Harry thought okra was an Afro-American talk show host. The first course arrived and Blondie examined it with an expert eye. I sighed deeply and briskly draped my napkin across my lap. Things could well get messy and I'd hate to get grease on my fine new frock. Not that H would notice if I'd rented a gorilla suit. I took a dainty bite of the chilled Crab Surprise. It was delicious so I decided not to commence the petulant neglected spouse routine until I'd sampled all six courses, then go for the conversational jugular with a soothing liqueur. The glamorous weather forecaster, cook, and serial fornicator (according to the tabloids she had a weakness for sportsmen – by the team) continued to turn her plate around, cooing and purring at what looked remarkably like a lettuce leaf, some crab meat and a large dollop of pink sauce. TV cooks indeed! Give me Nigella Lawson any day. That woman knows how to live. I laid down my fork and stared at my own plate. To my intense surprise, nothing happened whatsoever. The way the blonde was communing with it, I had expected it to get up and dance.
'Looks like crab to me. What's the surprise, I wonder? Don't tell me, it's lobster dressed as crab. '
Naughtily, I cast a pointed glance at Ms. Flyswat's frontage. She had to be at least forty-five. Even Joan Collins knows when it's wise to keep your baked goods wrapped.
Harry glared at me. Alas, it was one of those rare and unfortunate moments when a thought solidifies and becomes a barb (usually after considerable forethought and precision timing). I smiled sweetly at my dearly beloved. Then, in the brief moment when I had his attention, I mouthed:
I want a divorce!
Unfortunately, my amour had never been good at lip reading.
'Ask the waiter!'
Later. I returned to the crab and Harry reattached himself to the bimbo's cleavage.
'I Married A Leech.'
Sounded like one of Boner's lurid efforts, which were generally ripping yarns set at a frenetic pace that made Indiana Jones look like 'The Sound Of Music.' Something was always either exploding or decomposing, frequently both, as in his magnum opus, 'The Squishing.' They'd make great B-movies, 'though.
I'd like to squish that blonde. Monopolizing my husband!
Suddenly, I realized that something very strange had happened. And it had little, if nothing to do with the crab. I was jealous. Furiously, green monsterishly, hand-me-a-dagger-and-I'll-make-a-kebab type jealous. This was a new emotion and I fought back a large lump in my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had discovered the secret in Crab Surprise.
'Oh, Mr. Boner, what a lovely suit!'
Boner preened as Mrs. G turned her attention to him.
'I buried my third husband in one just like it!'
Boner depreened. A hint of a smile appeared on Frippery's prim mouth.
'He was such a dear! In oil, you know. I do so miss him. And the others.' For a moment Gigi looked sad. The she brightened up.
'Perhaps I'll meet number seven on this cruise! Lucky seven!'
She gazed around the table as if sizing up the candidates.
'Now,' she said archly, 'who have we here for Gigi? Doctor Dunnett?'
Dunnett shrank.
'A confirmed bachelor, Mrs. Goldfinkel, wedded to my profession. Never had the time for courting.'
Or the sobriety, judging by the rate the decanter was emptying.
'Ooh, Doctor, you are such a tease. I bet you have the ladies swooning over you on every trip!'
There was a faint snort from the Captain.
'Mr. Boner, you are of course spoken for.'
Mrs. G moved on without further comment. Boner looked put out.
'Mr. Neptune, I am just a day too late! Poor Gigi should have got her skates on! And you look so good in that tux!'
I took my wife's hand across the pristine linen tablecloth and bowed to Mrs. Goldfinkel.
'The fates would not have it so, my dear Mrs. Goldfinkel – Gigi. I have captured all my heart's desire and could want no more in life. I shall dance at your nuptials to the fortunate seventh Mr. G, whoever he may be.'
For some reason Mrs. Neptune dug her fingernails into my palm. I looked at her and she smiled sweetly. She mouthed, Bar Steward!
'Just empty your glass dear, he'll soon refill it.'
Gigi turned her attention to the Captain. She linked her arm in his and rested her frosted head on his shoulder.
'Ah, Captain, I do love a man in uniform!'
Captain Ahab was no stranger to these scenarios. He disengaged his arm politely and stood.
'Ladies and gentlemen, a toast! To fine weather and a happy cruise!'
We raised our glasses – the Boner's were filled with some carroty colored liquid Boner had brought with him in a thermos flask – and repeated the toast.
'To fine weather and a happy cruise!'
Glasses were drained and replaced with a late model Burgundy for the main course.
'And what is the weather prediction for the duration, Miss Swat? Any frontal systems we will be exposed to?'
'Why, Mr. Neptune! If the weather don't oblige, Ah sho' will do my little bitty best not to disappoint yuh!'
This was a bit rich even for me, but if listening to it was what it took to get Swat in the sack for a honeymoon treat Harry was your man. I could see by the way Jay snuck glances round me at Loretta's magnificent unfettered chest that she was of similar mind.
'Darling, I left my hair brush in the cabin. Would you be a dear and fetch it for me?'
'Of course, sweetheart.' I made my apologies to the table and trotted off. If I trotted rapidly I would get in a swift Old Turkey to wash away the taste of the Burgundy before I came back.
There was no sign of a hairbrush in the cabin, so I pocketed my comb as a reasonable substitute and headed off to accomplish the second, unofficial, part of the mission.
When I got back to the table Miss Swat was picking ratatouille out of her cleavage and Miss Lawrence was addressing Boner.
'Did the discharge stop, or do you still wear the protective underwear?'
Harry's face was quite a picture when he resumed his seat at the Captain's table. Suddenly realizing that he'd been well and truly had, he shot me a masterful look and mouthed a warning. It looked a bit like:
I'm going to shag your button!
I smiled enigmatically and pretended not to notice. Boner had (thankfully) stopped talking ringworm and boils
