“I did Hollywood Legends as Style Makers earlier, but no one came. I was planning to do The Life and Times of Coco Chanel and Audrey Hepburn as a Fashion Icon, but I don’t know, the other programs on the ship are so exciting I may need to spice up my topic.”
“How would you do that?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about doing my next talk on the history of undergarments, maybe give everyone a pair of edible panties.”
Captain turned bright red and spit out the bread he had just put in his mouth.
“Captain, are you all right?”
“Please, call me Paul,” he said, coughing. “So, are you an expert on the subject?”
“It’s one of many speeches I’ve written for the Fashion Museum. Everyone gets a kick out of it. ’Course, we don’t give away edible panties, but I thought perhaps you could ask the chef to make some.”
“Darlin’, if you’re giving out edible undies,” Carleen said, “I’ll be there and so will a lot more people besides me.”
“If you’re going, I’m going,” Pops said.
“Me too,” Lucille said, grinning and raising her hand from across the table. “That sounds fabulous.”
“So what do you think, Captain—I mean Paul. Should I do it?”
“By all means,” he said. “I may even come.”
Ten waiters magically appeared at our table, all carrying covered plates on silver platters. The waiters positioned themselves behind each chair and then, in precise lockstep, whisked off the domed tops, set the plates on the table, and stepped back in perfect harmony.
One returned to say, “Be careful. Your plate is hot.”
“That’s not all that’s hot at that seat,” Captain said, touching my shoulder and saying, “Tssss.”
“Oh, Captain—I mean Paul,” I purred, “it’s just edible undies.”
AFTER DINNER, WE GATHERED in front of the maître d’ station. Captain—I mean Paul—invited me to the Saloon for a nightcap. Pops asked Carleen and Lucille to twirl the night away with him in the Milky Way Ballroom. Even though Lucille used a walker, Carleen insinuated it was mostly for sympathy. Apparently she did a mean tango. Bunny and Aston were off to see the Irving Berlin Extravaganza with the almost-ready-for-off-Broadway cast.
Captain Paul and I made our way to the Saloon. Everyone stopped to try to shake his hand, but when they did, he handed them a card saying he didn’t shake hands or make skin contact in the interest of not spreading germs. It was very sanitary of him. Being on the captain’s arm made me feel special, like I was a ship celebrity.
We sat down and Captain Paul ordered champagne. When the karaoke hostess asked for volunteers, the woman next to us who had to be one hundred—I was sure I’d seen Willard Scott wishing her happy birthday on the Today show—raised her gnarly wrist, which was weighted down with oversize diamonds. Her husband pushed her wheelchair center stage. He was at least thirty years her junior.
Next thing we knew, they were showing the Celine Dion video from the movie Titanic and the words to “My Heart Will Go On” were skipping along the bottom of the screen. The old lady held the mike in her hand, and sung the most beautiful rendition of the song you can imagine, looking straight into her lover’s eyes:
Every night in my dreams I see you, I feel you…
Everyone in the bar was enraptured by her performance. She was incredible. When it ended, we all stood to applaud her. You couldn’t help but be inspired by the passion she had for her husband and her will to go on, even after she was worm bait and he was spending her fortune. I noticed Denis and Sydney in the corner. They were sending messages on their his-and-hers BlackBerries.
“You are such a talented singer,” I told the old lady when she finished.
“I performed in musicals in the forties. If I hadn’t married my first husband, I would have pursued a professional career,” she said modestly.
“Are you sorry you didn’t?”
“Goddamn right I am,” she said. “That man was a bastard. I’d pee on his grave if I wasn’t stuck in this fucking wheelchair.”
Check please, I thought.
The hostess was trolling for someone else to sing. I turned my attention to the peanut bowl so as not to get called on.
At the table behind ours, a woman in a magnificent peach chiffon Dolce & Gabbana gown tapped Paul on the shoulder. “Captain, I was just wondering, does the help live on board the ship?”
“Oh, no, madam,” he said. “Haven’t you seen the smaller boat that sails behind the Tiffany Star? Those are staff quarters.”
“Really?” she said.
Captain laughed. “No…”
I glanced over at Denis, who had set down his BlackBerry. His arm was around Sydney and he was whispering into her ear. She laughed and then buried her face in his throat. My cheeks went hot.
“You look beautiful tonight, Holly. May I show you the bridge?” Captain said. “It’s very romantic.”
“Sure, Paul,” I said. “I’d love to see it.”
Isn’t It Romantic?
FOR A GERMOPHOBE WHO couldn’t shake anyone’s hand, Paul didn’t hesitate to tickle my tonsils with his flickering tongue. I suppose, as the ship’s captain and number-one Romeo, that was part of the job. He took me to the bridge, which is like the cockpit of the ship. Three junior officers, engrossed in beeping radar monitors and online maps, sat behind a long console. There were jumbo-size windshield wipers on the front windows and an enormous mahogany steering wheel just for show.
For privacy, we snuck out on Paul’s balcony. The salt-tinged air was quite chilly. He gave me his jacket and put his arm around my shoulder to keep me warm. The sky was sprinkled with stars. The ocean was as black as ink, with the silver reflection of the almost-full moon touching the ever-changing ripples of gentle waves. Every once in a while, we could see dolphins jumping out of the sea. I felt like we
