“The FBI called Interpol and now they’re coming to arrest you, so you need to be prepared. Just give the dresses back and I’m sure they won’t take you to jail.”
“I can’t,” I said. “They were lost in transit.”
“What?” Nigel exclaimed. “How is that possible? Didn’t you watch them load and unload the trunk?”
“I watched the loading but not the unloading.”
“You know you’re supposed to take custody of the goods at the gate.”
“And you know you’re supposed to tell the truth,” I said, “so I guess we’re even. But the dresses are insured, right? At least they’re covered.”
“Yes, for about eight million dollars,” Nigel said. “But if you didn’t follow security procedures transporting them—and you didn’t—the insurance company will never pay the claim. If you don’t find them, the museum will have to cover the loss.”
“Oh, fuck,” I said, crumpling into the bed. “When are the police coming?”
“Maybe at the next port or the one after that. Is there a lawyer on board?”
“There’s a ship’s doctor, but no lawyer. Well, maybe there’s a passenger who’s a lawyer. Oh, hell, I don’t know.” My breaths came in shallow, quick gasps. “How could you do this to me? You fed me to the sharks.”
Nigel chuckled. “Oh, that’s funny, the sharks. And you’re on a ship.”
“Nigel, I’m not laughing, not one bit. You go back to Tanya and tell her what really happened, how this was your idea. How I thought I was carrying costumes worth eighty thousand dollars, not eight million, how I was planning to deliver them in Rome. I mean it. You have to tell her.”
“Well, sure,” Nigel said rather unconvincingly. “But you have to find the trunk. Those costumes are irreplaceable.”
“I know they are and I’m working on it,” I said, slamming down the phone.
Some best friend Nigel turned out to be, I thought. I finally get a wonderful, luxurious escape from my problems at home and look what happened. This trip was a disaster. How was I ever going to fix this mess? I closed my eyes and prayed that tomorrow would be a better day.
Let’s Kiss and Make Up
MY TALK COULD NOT have gone worse, unless, perhaps, I had worn my clown underpants onstage.
I couldn’t get those lost dresses out of my mind. What killed me was that I’d opened the trunk at the last minute to throw in my bras and panties. Why hadn’t I checked the clothes inside just to be sure? How could I have assumed I was carrying the right costumes? All night, I tossed and turned, frustrated with myself, also worried that the baggage manager in Athens had been wrong, that Jorge didn’t take the trunk to the Golden Goddess. If he didn’t have it, who did? I needed a plan B. But what?
At sunrise, I gave up and did eight laps around the seventh-floor deck in the crisp morning air. The gray mist of the sea melted into the dawn sky. The only other person exercising at that ungodly hour was Sydney Bass, who was pumping her five-pound sparkly dumbbells as she did her roadwork. We said hello the first time we passed, but ignored each other after that.
Two miles later, I showered and put on a simple, navy-blue Armani shift I’d borrowed from Lucille’s amazing Technicolor dream closet. The entire suite was filled with dress racks bursting with designer and hand-sewn couture outfits. Plus, there were drawers full of belts, scarves, hats, and jewels. Her shoe collection was as complete as Bergdorf’s. Her bras and panties were exclusively La Perla, but I refrained from helping myself to those in the interest of sanitation.
I was grateful to have met such a generous, well-clothed passenger. Now her exquisite wardrobe filled my previously bare cabin closet. Lucille’s taste reminded me of Corny’s—impeccable. I wondered if Tanya would forgive me for taking the real Audrey dresses if I could convince Lucille to leave her collection to the museum. I’ll start planting seeds for that at dinner, I thought.
Eventually, I made my way to the Galaxy Lounge and prepared for my speech. Exactly three-and-a-half passengers came—Denis, Lucille, Carleen, and Famous. When I read my Tiffany Tattler I could see why. Besides the celebrity-chef cooking demonstration, the French Impressionist painting auction, and the scavenger hunt, there was an archeologist talking about the treasures of Ephesus, a yoga class, an ice sculpture demonstration, a bridge tournament, a golf lesson, submarine rides (limit ten), and the ever-popular World War II veterans reunion. There were only three hundred passengers on board. You do the math.
I stepped off the stage and joined my meager audience. “Seriously, you don’t have to stay,” I said, not really meaning it. I’d have been delighted to give my speech to three people with such enormous donor potential.
“Oh, goody,” Carleen said. “We’ll just mosey over to the veteran’s reunion and pick up some boys. C’mon, Lucille.”
Lucille grabbed her gold walker and hustled behind Carleen to the World War II gathering. Those girls wasted no time hightailing it from my ill-fated talk.
That left Denis and me, which would have been thrilling if I weren’t so nervous about being alone with him. How do I get him to forgive me? Do I come right out and ask or butter him up first?
“May I?” I said, pointing to the seat next to his.
“It’s a free country,” he said, turning on his BlackBerry and scrolling through his e-mails.
“Lots of messages, eh?” I said.
“Yes, lots.”
My brain froze. Why does it always do that in emergencies? Why? Think, think. Dazzle him with an anecdote. Impress him with your intellect. I cleared my throat. “You know, on the flight over, I was reading this book on the history of the British royals. As a fashion historian, I…I’m intrigued by history, as you might imagine. Anyway, I cannot get over those English monarchs. They…why, they never cease
