What to wear? After I pressed the call button for my butler (ooh, how I like saying those words), John was knocking at the door within minutes.
“Here you go, Miss Ross,” he said, handing me a shopping bag. Inside was a powder-pink velour running suit with the name “Tiffany Star” emblazoned across the back of the jacket. There was also a white T-shirt with the name “Tiffany Star” spelled out across the chest in rhinestones. What can I say about such an outfit? It was clean.
Another tissue-wrapped package revealed five pairs of cream-colored satin underwear. But yoinks! I’d never seen granny panties in size jack-o’-lantern before. I supposed they had to be extra large to accommodate those passengers using colostomy bags, but what about the rest of us? “Nothing smaller?”
“This was it,” John said. “Women on this ship don’t wear sexy mutande.”
“Wow,” I said, holding a pair up, imagining them on. If we were to get stranded on a desert island, I could build a boat and make a sail out of them. “Thank you, John. You’re a dear to help me.” I reached into my purse for a tip.
“Oh, no, Miss Ross. No gratuities along the way,” he said. “If you’re happy with the service you can tip at the end.”
“Okay, but wait,” I squealed. “Let me take your picture. I never had a butler before.” John stood next to me and I held out my digital camera and snapped. I wanted to remember what it was like to live the good life in case it never happened again. Looking at the photo though, I cringed. What a mess—bed hair crushed into an asymmetrical Mohawk, raccoon under-eyes, glasses, and don’t forget the headgear. I wished I knew how to delete it.
After John left, I headed to the bathroom to pull myself together. The room was marble from floor to ceiling and there was a switch to turn on the heated floor. Heated floors! The tub doubled as a Jacuzzi and there was a glass-enclosed steam shower. There was no soap or bubble bath because Pops had stolen it all. That was inconvenient. The hand towels were arranged to make perfect little swans and the end of the toilet paper was folded into the shape of a sunflower. Next door, there was a huge teak-paneled dressing room with double closets that I hoped to fill with the recovered costumes. Why did I take those stupid dresses? I wondered. I should have gone shopping for cheap new clothes at the City Opera Thrift Shop. That would have been easier—and safer.
At eight thirty, I left for dinner, wearing my new pink running suit and the underwear I’d had on for the past forty-eight hours. I couldn’t bring myself to put on the monster briefs—not yet, anyway—so I rinsed my old panties out, dried them with the blow-dryer, and freshened them with lemon-scented Endust I’d stolen off the maid’s trolley.
I wandered down to the fifth-floor dining room, where the ship was most stable. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach at the thought of seeing Denis King. “You can do this,” I chanted. “You have to do this.”
The dining room was gorgeous with its round tables dressed in crisp pink linens graced with fresh red roses, Versace china, Riedel crystal, and Christofle silver (I knew only because it said so in the brochure). Dazzling hand-cut chandeliers hung like sparkling waterfalls from the ceiling. Off to the side, a Stradivarius string quartet played Mozart, and quite beautifully I might add. The convivial buzz of travel-weary passengers chatting away on nothing but adrenaline filled the air.
Enrico Derflingher, the world-famous Italian restaurateur, introduced himself. He was the guest chef on this leg of the cruise. Waiters in tuxedos were lined up at the door to escort guests to their table. A young man gallantly offered his arm and escorted me toward the center of the room. As we approached our destination, Lucille, the depressed dance-host killer, bolted out of her seat and cornered me. I was surprised at the old bird’s energy.
“Holly, dear, you smell fabulous, simply fabulous. What’s that you’re wearing? Eau d’Hadrien?
Eau d’Endust, I thought, but didn’t say. Instead, I just smiled. “How’d you guess?”
“Here, dear, the key to my closet. You can go after dinner and pick out whatever you like.”
I looked at the card, which had a room number written on it with Magic Marker. “Is this your cabin key? I don’t want to bother you.”
“Oh, you won’t,” Lucille said. “It’s for the suite next to mine. That’s where I keep my clothes.”
“You have a penthouse suite just for your clothes,” I said. “Wow.” That’s rich, I thought.
“By the way, I want you to meet my family.” Lucille gestured toward the others at the table. “Everyone, this is Holly, the girl I was telling you about.”
Her son put down his BlackBerry, stood, and offered his hand. It was Denis King.
As we shook, Denis gave me a searching look. “Excuse me. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
Naturally, I froze under the pressure. So I just smiled.
Lucille continued her introduction. “Darlings, Holly’s the one whose fiancé turned out to be a pedophile and who then had the audacity to dump her, can you believe it? Oh, and then she lost all her luggage; I’m going to lend her clothes and she was just passed over for a big promotion at work. Did I leave anything out?”
I could feel the blood rushing to my face. “No, you covered everything quite well.”
Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered
SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT your troubles,” Denis said.
“Thanks,” I said, sorry that he had heard about them too.
Lucille introduced me to her son’s fiancée, the exquisite blond-haired, blue-eyed Sydney Bass. She was stunning—more beautiful than any of her pictures. All her edges were soft,
