“I heard you’re judging the hat-making contest this afternoon. That’s very cute.” Sydney laughed.
“Well, I am the resident fashion expert. Hope you guys’ll enter.”
“Sorry,” Sydney said, cuddling closer to her fiancé. “We have real work to do. Then I think we’ll settle in for a little…skyrockets in flight…afternoon delight,” she sang.
Denis turned bright red and looked the other way.
“Toodles.” Sydney wiggled her fingers at me.
BACK AT OUR SUITE, Pops was partying with Carleen and two elder floozies I hadn’t met before. One was wearing a Burberry plaid life vest that had been personalized with her initials (another perpetual cruiser, no doubt), and the other, a yellow bikini under a see-through orange muumuu. John was serving cocktails and finger sandwiches.
“Holly,” Pops said, “join us. We’re celebrating.”
“What are you celebrating?”
“Life,” Carleen said. “Ain’t it grand?”
“It’s all too marvelous,” the Burberry lady exclaimed.
“Here, here,” they all said, clinking their glasses together. Famous chased her tail at the ping.
“Here, here,” I offered with limp enthusiasm. “John, can I see you in the bedroom for a minute?”
I took a deep breath, then came clean with him about the missing trunk, explaining how I’d accidentally taken costumes worth millions so he’d understand just how dire the situation had become, and how my very life and freedom were now at stake. He said he had called the Golden Goddess three times already, but was having trouble reaching either Jorge or the man whose name I had taken off the luggage tags in Athens. Apparently everyone was touring Kusadasi. John vowed to do everything humanly possible to find those clothes and keep me from getting arrested in Turkey. If he didn’t reach Jorge today, he wouldn’t stop calling until he connected with him tomorrow when the Golden Goddess was at sea. I promised to give him a generous tip at the end of the cruise, assuming I wasn’t arrested first.
The Way You Look Tonight
DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS formal. I wore one of Lucille’s smashing confections—a floor-length, strapless, nude tulle that glittered with clear iridescent sequins. Carleen lent me a pair of Christian Lacroix sparkly stilettos that were slightly loose until John added some Dr. Scholl’s gels, which tightened them right up. Shoe inserts—just one more reason why I love having a butler. Also courtesy of Carleen was a ten-karat Christian Tse platinum and diamond necklace with matching earrings. Personally, I always thought it would be tacky to wear diamonds before I turned forty, but I made an exception.
On the way to dinner, everyone posed for pictures. The women were swathed in chiffon gowns peppered with beads or crystals, the men in sleek designer tuxedos. Never in my life have I seen so many jaw-dropping gems in one place. Wait, I take that back. Once we held an exhibit of the Russian crown jewels at the Fashion Museum. There were some serious rocks in that show, let me tell you. The ladies of the Tiffany Star sported dazzlers in the same league—no doubt having raided their safe-deposit boxes before coming on board. The men wore cuff links of gold or platinum, set with rainbows of precious stones. You’d never guess these were the same fellows in Bermuda shorts with black dress socks and sandals, or lizard-skinned women in teeny bikinis all buttered up and frying by the pool this afternoon.
Even though I preferred not to have my picture taken, the ship’s photographer insisted. “But I never take a good one.”
“That’s because you’ve never been photographed by me,” he said. “Allow me to be the first to capture your dangerous beauty.”
How could I refuse? No one had ever called my beauty dangerous before. I had my portrait taken alone, then with Pops, then with Pops, Carleen, and Famous. The Yorkie now sported pink highlights, after having spent the afternoon at the beauty salon.
Our meal that night was divine. For appetizers, there were escargots, beluga caviar, and wild mushroom torte. For dinner, we could choose between tenderloin beef, crab-stuffed artichoke, duck with cherry sauce, or lobster prepared any way you wanted. Personally, I went with the duck and ordered chocolate puss for dessert.
“That’s chocolate puss,” the waiter said.
“Yes, that’s what I want,” I repeated. “The chocolate puss.”
“No, puss,” he insisted, pointing to my evening bag.
“Oh, purse.” I giggled. “Sorry, the accent threw me off.”
Denis and his crew sat across the table. Tonight he was more involved with his BlackBerry than his fiancée, although he did stop to teach Annie the proper way to eat her artichoke.
“Pull off the leaf like this and pull it between your teeth like so.” He demonstrated.
“Like this?” Annie tried it, but put the pointed end in her mouth.
“No, the other way,” Denis said. “Then put the leaves on this little plate.”
Annie dipped her leaf in dressing, tried it again, and got it right. “Yummy, it’s good. I’m eating my whole dinner with my hands tonight.”
“No, that would be bad manners,” Denis explained. “Only certain foods can be eaten—”
“Hello, I’m Captain Paul Roffe.” A tall man with thick strawberry-blond hair, a matching beard, and twinkling green eyes introduced himself. “But you can call me Captain.”
I shook his hand as he took the seat next to mine. He wore his formal dinner uniform, which was like a sea-themed tuxedo in white with a short jacket and lots of navy, red, and gold stripes. Captain called the sommelier over and ordered wine for the table, which is apparently the custom when you sit with Captain—free booze, whoo-hoo!
“So I understand you’re a speaker on the ship,” Captain said. “What is your topic?”
“Bread?” I said, offering him the basket.
Steam poured from the loaf
