“He wasn’t just Lucille’s lover?”
“Oh, no, darlin’. You get to be a certain age and there aren’t enough eligible gentlemen to go around. So we shared. If you don’t use the equipment, it rusts.”
“Nobody minded?”
“For goodness’ sake, no. With Viagra, every coot with a cock thinks he’s Hugh Hefner. Who can keep up with that? But back to Lucille. Dance hosts are strictly prohibited from bedding the passengers. So it was a good thing Claude died because he would have been fired anyway.”
“And that’s why Lucille’s family came on board?”
“Yes, to cheer her up,” Carleen continued. “Not that the rest of us weren’t sick over losing Claude, because we were, but since she’s the one he died pokin’, she gets to play the grieving widow. Anyway, her family’s here and her son decided to get hitched in Rome since everyone would be together and it wasn’t his first marriage anyway. They’re having the ceremony at Palazzo Ferrajoli, an old mansion from the 1500s. They’ll honeymoon at the Ritz in Paris. Lucille refuses to invite me to the wedding because she believes I’m against this union.”
“Why does she think that?”
“Oh, I tell her every day.”
Love for Sale
WE ARRIVED AT THE end of a long hallway where passengers sat patiently waiting their turn as if at a doctor’s office. A computer-printed sign on the closed door said MAÎTRE D’.
“Why are we here?” I whispered to Carleen.
“Honey, getting seated at the right table can make or break your trip. And it’s highly competitive. But luckily, you’re with me.”
I took a seat. Soon Carleen shook me awake. “It’s our turn.”
We entered what appeared to be a card room. Seated behind a table was Bradley, the maître d’ (it said so on his name tag). He was thirtysomething, with a pink scalp fringed by wispy brown hair and searing blue eyes that lit up when he saw Carleen. “It’s my favorite girl,” he said, rising to hug her. I could see that with Carleen by my side, I had real juice on this ship.
Carleen asked Bradley to check my table assignment.
“Let’s see, you’re at a table for two in the south end of the dining room.”
“Well, darlin’, Holly can’t sit in Siberia. She’s one of the top fashionistas in New York City.”
“Really?” Bradley said, his eyes wide. “Have I seen you in the papers?”
“Well I was on the front page of the News and the Post a few weeks ago,” I demurred modestly, as though I was practically Catherine Zeta-Jones but didn’t want special treatment.
“Bradley, be a dear and put Holly and her father with some nice people, would you?”
Bradley studied his online map of the dining room. Names of passengers were plugged into each seat. He shook his head. “Every table’s full. Look.” He turned the monitor around so we could see it.
I perked up, scanning the map for Denis King’s name. “Oh, what about here? This looks like a better location,” I said when I found him.
“Impossible,” Bradley said. “That’s the captain’s table.”
“Yes, that’ll be perfect,” Carleen said, “Move me there too.”
“But, Carleen, I have the Kings there, along with Baron and Baroness DuLac. Every seat’s taken.”
“Move the DuLacs somewhere else,” Carleen said, waving her hand. “Baroness DuLac’s sat with the captain a hundred times. Between you and me, she says he’s windier than a bag of assholes with all those goddamn sea stories he’s always telling.”
“But they’re Tiffany Star Society Members,” Bradley said.
“Bradley, darlin’, Mommy will make it worth your while.”
Bradley flinched ever so slightly, punched a few keys on his computer and the dirty deed was done. Nya ah ah, I thought. My dastardly plan had been set in motion. There was no turning back.
Next, Carleen whisked me over to Il Valentino and Au Mandarin, the two private restaurants on the ship, where I reserved a table for four at each place, but not on formal nights, as she instructed. We followed this with a trip to the spa and beauty salon, where massages and hair appointments were booked at Carleen’s insistence, and at her expense.
“Oh, you really shouldn’t,” I said. But wait! How could I not assist my new best friend in her quest to deplete her bank account so it wouldn’t fall into the hands of her evil stepchildren? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. So I didn’t.
I yawned. “Is there anything else, Carleen? Do we need to reserve deck chairs? Meet the social director? I’m exhausted.”
Carleen checked her watch. “You really ought to sign up for some land trips. Come, we’ll do that quickly.”
“Do you have to get off the ship to take those?”
“Never mind, darlin’,” Carleen said. “You’d best catch some sleep. I’ll take care of your tours.”
“Yes, g’night,” I said. “Let’s hope my room has an ocean view.”
Too Marvelous for Words
A WHITE-JACKETED BUTLER NAMED JOHN Savoy showed me to our tenth-floor penthouse suite. John was exceptionally yummy-looking for a butler, at least compared to Mr. French on Family Affair, the only other butler I knew. Of course, there was also Cadbury, Richie Rich’s butler, but he was a cartoon. John was in his early twenties, slim with coal-black hair, dark watery eyes, a deep tan, and lashes so thick they cast a shadow on his cheeks.
I asked if he could get me an outfit from one of the shops on board, plus clean underwear to last me through the cruise. “No problem,” he whispered so as not to wake Pops, who was sacked out on a fold-out bed in the living room. “I’m at your service.” He handed me a brochure that had been clipped outside my door. “Here’s your Tiffany Tattler. It tells
