Five
Each deck of the yacht is decorated as if we’ve stepped into a vintage Hollywood film. The lower deck is made up to resemble a 1950s kitchen, filled with brightly-colored appliances and a cherry-red table.
The upper deck has been converted into a living room. There’s a sofa, coffee table, piano, and an oversized vintage boxy television. It takes me a moment to realize that the telly is hollow, and people can climb inside and pose for photos with different props, like large colorful novelty glasses, feather boas, and signs with different thought-bubble emojis.
Finally, the dining area on the main deck has been transformed into a nightclub. Each table has a black-and-white polka-dot tablecloth, red place settings, and a candelabra. There’s a twelve-piece Latin band dressed in white suits playing a mixture of contemporary music and tunes that were popular in the 1950s and ’60s.
“This is brilliant.” I can’t stop myself from grinning ear to ear. If there were ever a trueI Love Lucyexperience, this is it.
“Happy to hear you approve.” Amanda winks.
We enjoy dinner and some musical entertainment with a Ricky Ricardo impersonator before the dance floor officially opens up.
“Is it just me, or does everyone seem like they know what they’re doing?” I whisper to Clara.
She lifts her head and studies the couples for several moments. “You’re right. They’re all dancing the same mambo. It wouldn’t surprise me if Amanda organized dance lessons for ticketholders beforehand.”
Suddenly, I feel the light touch of a hand on my shoulder. I twist in my seat. A lad in a white tuxedo with blond hair and brown eyes holds out his hand. “Miss, would you care to dance?”
“Um . . .”
“Go on and enjoy yourself,” Clara urges. “If I can’t dance, you might as well.”
There goes my excuse for hanging out at the table. Now I don’t have a reason to say no to him. “Are you sure? Ireallydon’t mind keeping you company,” I emphasize.
“I have Amanda and my phone. I’m fine. Now go.” She gently pushes my arm.
Amanda wanted to make tonight special. I owe it to her and Clara to participate in at least one dance. I can’t be a wallflower forever. Digging deep into my reserves of courage, I force a smile onto my face. “I’d love to,” I answer, putting my hand into the man’s.
“Brilliant.” He sweeps me out of my chair and out onto the middle of the dance floor. “I’m Geoff.”
“I’m Ali—son.” I stop myself from giving my full name to him to buy a little time before I’m recognized. I’m curious to see how he’ll treat me if he thinks I’m just another girl.
The band picks up their instruments and begins playing. Although Mum ensured that Eddie and I knew the basics of ballroom dancing, it’s been a good long while since I’ve had to put any of that knowledge to use. I’m heavy on my feet. Thank goodness my boots don’t have heels. I’d be stumbling around like a baby fawn just learning how to walk. Forcing myself to relax, I let Geoff take the lead.
Our conversation stalls for a few moments. I hear the band and the buzz of conversation around us. Pulling from one of my go-to icebreaker questions, I ask, “So, Geoff, are you a Londoner?”
“I am now, but I grew up in Shropshire.”
My eyes widen. “That’s a dramatic change.” Shropshire is one of themost rural counties in England. Situated on the Welsh border, it’s packed full of endless wide-open fields and rolling hills.
“Yeah, it was. I couldn’t wait to move far away from it. My parents might be keen on farming and running a B and B, but not me. Unlike London, there’s nothing to do in Shropshire.”
He places a hand on my waist and pulls me in a little closer to his body. He’s tall, about six feet. I’m forced to look up at him.
“I wouldn’t say that. There’s quite a few national parks. And some lovely hiking trails.”
“True, but they get old quickly. Once you’ve seen one field, all the others look the same.”
“Uh-huh.”
Geoff dominates our conversation, choosing to give me his life’s story. I can’t get much of a word in edgewise. When the music finally ends, I thank him, and before he can ask me for an encore dance, flee to the safety of my table. Except I never make it that far. Another guy named Nick blocks my pathway and claims me for a swing dance.
“How’s your evening going so far? Are you enjoying theI Love Lucytheme? It’s rather clever if you ask me,” I say.
“You’re enjoying this rubbish? It’s so tacky. So American.” He wrinkles his nose. “The band isn’t playing anything decent. It’s all old-timey stuff. And the food—for what a ticket costs, it should be a top-of-the-line menu, not items you could pick up at a takeaway counter. Then there’s the...”
I suppress a groan and seriously consider making up an excuse to flee back to the safety of the dinner table. Out of all the guys I could’ve attracted, it happens to be a person who has the top characteristic on my deal-breaker list—a complainer. The next few minutes are going to be painfully long.
