Chapter 20
Ore
Day 3
Ore woke up with a start. She had the sense that she had been running, and as the cogs of her conscious brain began to whir she surmised that she must have been dreaming. There was, quite literally, nowhere to run on theLady Thalassa. She stretched, rolled out of bed and pondered her reflection in the mirror.
She inspected her chin for stray hairs, her nose for open pores, her forehead for fine lines. Everything seemed to be in order, so she decided to move on to arguably more pressing matters. She earthed out her pages of notes – the sparse timeline, the investor list, the web page prints – and began writing down questions for each of Chuck’s merry band of rich men.
When she was done, she bundled them up in her notebook, tucked it under her arm and bounded up the stairs. She was about halfway up when she realised she had no idea where she was meant to go. Presumably her solo breakfast with Chuck was not a regular thing.
She was dithering on the stairs when a man in chef’s whites appeared at the top of them. She amused herself with thethought that she had magicked him into existence to cook her breakfast and then worried she was really losing it.
‘Hello? Excuse me?’ The man had an almost comically French accent. He came slowly down the stairs, until he was standing over her, a couple of steps up.
‘Sorry, I … I don’t really know where I’m going.’ She shrugged.
He shook his head thoughtfully. ‘In a way, that is a trapping of the human condition.’ His tone was so sincere that Ore was at a loss for how to proceed.
They stared at each other for a moment. The man was probably in his late thirties, Ore thought, Middle Eastern maybe? Well French obviously, if the accent was anything to go by, but also brown. Eventually she landed on: ‘I was just looking for breakfast actually.’
‘Above or below deck?’ He pointed first up the stairs, and then downwards as he spoke. Ore wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic. When he turned to look at her quizzically, she figured he was merely being very literal.
‘That’s the issue, I’m not sure.’
He thrust his hand towards her, palm outstretched in greeting, but the movement was so sudden that it made Ore jump.
‘I’m terribly sorry, how rude of me. My name is Carlos, Carlos Aminé. I am the head chef.’
Ore took his hand, and he shook it animatedly.
‘Ore, nice to meet you.’ He was a good-looking man, with a beard so dark and sharply groomed that it could have been drawn onto his chin. His smile was wide and easy.
‘I would personally recommend that below the deck is a better option for you. The men with Mr Regas, they are notalways … easy company.’ Carlos gave her a knowing look; Ore felt frustrated that she was not in on said knowing.
‘In what way?’ She cocked her head to the side and tried out her best curiously clueless expression. But it had the opposite to the desired effect. Carlos’ smile stiffened and he just laughed nervously without answering the question.
‘Come with me. I will take you to breakfast,’ he said instead, and ushered Ore back down the stairs, down another nondescript grey-carpeted corridor and then, somehow, they were at the mess again, coming through a different door to the previous time. She was never going to get the hang of this place.
Inside, Vicky and the first officer were talking in hushed tones, stopping immediately upon seeing Ore and Carlos. On the table were remnants of breakfast, a couple of croissants, a large pan of solidifying porridge, a bowl of fruit salad, almost untouched, and a few rashers of bacon on a greasy plate.
Carlos turned to Ore. ‘Sorry, my dear, I thought there would be more left.’ He gestured towards the table, most of it covered in empty plates and bowls. ‘And what are you two gossiping about?’ This was directed at the pair in front of him.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ The first officer – Ore couldn’t remember if she’d been formally introduced to him yet – was the sort of conventionally attractive man that she’d seen her white classmates swoon over. Sandy wavy hair, a light stubble, a square jaw and, most importantly, an abundance of height. Ore got surfer vibes from him, but maybe that was just the Australian accent playing tricks. That’s not to say that she was immune to his good looks, but she’d had her fair fill of white boys at Columbia and the novelty had worn off.
‘Heard what?’ Carlos asked.
The first officer shot Ore a suspicious look. ‘I’m not sure I can say with … others in the room.’
‘Oh I’m sorry I didn’t mean to intrude.’ It was clear that the majority of the people in the room did not want her there, but Carlos was having none of it.
‘Nonsense! You must eat.’ He ushered Ore into a seat and she took it awkwardly, picking up a pastry and trying to chew in a way that seemed appreciative.
Carlos nodded his approval and then turned his attention back to his crewmates. ‘What is it that you’re trying to say, Dudley? Spit it out.’
In response Dudley crossed his arms. Ore could feel the rage radiating off him. She had no idea who it was directed at, but it was palpably uncomfortable.
‘It’s the guy – he’s back on board.’ Vicky spoke up. Ore understood that the cryptic act was for her benefit.
