‘Yes, but hang on… Thank you,’ I address the person who has taken our tickets and is waving us through as Belle nods her thanks. ‘What have you got me into here?’
‘Nothing to fret about. Let’s get these phobias out of the way first.’
I do not trust that smile. If I end up having to take part in some kind of historical Christmas pantomime her elfing days are over. I’ll chuck her overboard and let the River Avon deal with her. I give her an arch look, just to make sure she knows she’s on thin ice. She smirks.
‘Okay. There’s also ghabhphobia – people who hate receiving presents because they can’t cope with the social anxiety triggered by people looking at them as they receive it,’ I continue.
‘I can understand that one.’
‘Really?’
‘My social anxiety is off the scale unless I’m super comfortable with the person or, um … when you knew me back in the day, chemically aided. I have to talk myself into and through social situations because I don’t want to let them control me. I think that’s why I’m at my happiest at home lost in the Shakespeare project. I’m always second-guessing whether I’m responding appropriately to social cues rather than just responding. So yeah, even when I’m given a gift I worry that the way I have reacted may not be the way the person wanted me to. Don’t get me wrong though, I like presents, and I’d rather feel uncomfortable than never have another present again.’
‘Wow.’
‘Wow makes me feel like I’ve made a right tit of myself.’
‘You…’ I stopped. I had been about to say you stood there in those lights andnowyou’re worried about making a tit of yourself. But seeing as she has just opened up to me about how deep her social anxiety runs, that would be a tad insensitive. It also makes me realise what a sacrifice of comfort the lights had been, and how badly I had misjudged the Belle I thought I knew. ‘You have nothing to worry about. I’m sorry. Do you want to hear more phobias, Christmas elf?’
She nods and smiles. I’m forgiven.
‘I have, with good reason “Christougenniatikophobia”…’ I pause again, but we’re being honest. It’s just that I’m not used to being this honest with myself let alone someone else. ‘It’s a mouthful and is a fear of Christmas in general.’ There, I had said it out loud. And it was actually okay. I am scared of Christmas, the season at least, with my discomfort ramping up the closer we get to the day itself and then spiralling into oblivion in that ridiculous time people now call ‘twixmas’. I flick a quick look across at her but she doesn’t seem at all phased by what I said. Just accepting. As if it is both perfectly possible and perfectly normal for me to have some kind of overwhelming fear. I take a deep breath, nod and continue. ‘Then there’s “meleagrisphobia”, the fear of turkeys. I don’t know if people who have that phobia would be scared or relieved by a dead turkey but that is a thing.’
She laughs.
‘I reckon you may understandably suffer from “syngenesphobia”, particularly triggered by Christmas and for you specifically twice in December. This one I don’t have. I have the others though.’
‘I do not believe you are scared of turkeys, Mr Walters. But okay, syngenesphobia, um … let me work this one out, syn. Syn is not same, that’s homo … syn is with?’ She quirks her brow at me, not quite sure, and I nod. It sounds about right; she’s way more likely to know than me. ‘Um, genus, that’s family. So I’m going to go with fear of family and hope my half-arsed attempt is actually one … hundred … per cent right.’ She spaces out those last words, victory in her tone.
‘Boom, you’ve got it.’
‘This is fun. Another?’
‘Probably only fun for us, you know. Others would think we’re pretty weird.’
‘Youareweird,’ she says, deadpan.
‘I’m opening up, discussing medically rationalised fears about Christmas, and that’s fun to you? Are you always this sadistic?’
‘Yes.’
We’re on the boat now and I’m excited, as if I were still a child. It has been years since I was here and I remember how much I loved those spooky wax Victorians that I was both scared and captivated by.
‘Do we get to look around before you take me to whatever hell you’re planning?’
‘For sure. Hell doesn’t start for another half hour or so in the first-class dining room so we can grab a bite to eat on the promenade deck, have a wander. I’ve actually never been here before. You can be my tour guide.’
‘I am so up for that.’ And I am.
We grab a mince pie, I say no to more mulled cider – Luisa’s batch had to be a stroke of luck – and we wander back through the narrow wood-lined corridors, the narrowness of them pressing us together. I’m aware of Belle’s every breath as she peeks her head into cabin after cabin.
‘They are so tiny! How did they get four people to fit in there? I can barely fit me in! I’ll never bitch about the size of my flat again. Oh, but look at the ironwork on the corner, isn’t that pretty?’
We go down into the cargo hold. ‘Oh my goodness… This is how they’d get their horses across. I suppose I knew they would but never really thought about it. Although I should have.The Tempestbegins with a shipwreck. Think of all the people crammed in, all the animals, all that life bouncing over the waves. ‘But look there…’ she points, ‘…look at how shiny they keep the hulls of the lifeboat. That wood is a thing of beauty, that must take so much work. Why have I never been here before?’ Her delight at everything is making something I love even better, and her talk is some kind of stream-of-consciousness babble but I like it.
‘Ooh, I don’t want to leave. But the performance starts in ten minutes. You’ve got time to show me one more thing and then we’ll have to grab our seats.’
‘What exactly are we going to see in ten minutes?’ I query.
