“If I was, would I tell you?”
I nod. “Fair point. Room twenty-three.”
I’m trying to find the words to explain myself, or rather, the state I’m in, when he stops abruptly and I realise we’re already at my door.
“Here you are,” he says, gently releasing me. “Do you have your key?”
I tuck my hand into my bra and fish it out. Holding it out for his inspection.
He fights the urge to smile, the corner of his lips twitching. “You ladies always have the best storage solutions.” Then as I let myself in, he says, “Will you be ok? I can ask them to send a female attendant to your room?”
Embarrassment burns my cheeks. I’m tempted to deflect, confront him about his oafness in Venice. But maybe now isn’t the time. This has already been mortifying enough. “Oh. No. Thank you, but no. I’ll be ok. I’m just… tipsy.”
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything else, running his hand through his hair and stepping backwards as if he’s waiting for me to close my door. I test my theory, checking in the peephole once it’s closed. He finally turns, strolling towards the main staircase, tucking his hands in his pockets.
FiveCruise Location – At SeaNext Port – RovinjTime of Arrival – 09:00 (GMT+1)
Waking the next morning, I am greeted by an almighty headache which I fully deserve. Have I not learnt anything since my university days? I lean over my bed and grab my phone. It’s already nine. Shit. Breakfast finishes at ten and the tour I’ve booked today in Rovinj leaves at eleven-thirty. This means there’s no time to feel sorry for myself.
Pity.
I groan horribly, tossing off the duvet and forcing myself to sit upright. I instantly feel that familiar hangover ache throughout my body. Even still, I manage to shower, get dressed and make myself semi-presentable in record speed, arriving at the clubrooms on the upper deck where I’m shown to a table and offered coffee.
See. This isn’t so bad!
I nab a croissant and some fresh fruit from the buffet, opting out of a hot breakfast today, and nurse my hangover with an unhealthy dose of sugar and caffeine. I’m just starting to relax, the dull ache at the base of my skull subsiding, when I spot him.
Bollocks.
He’s heading this way.
Fuck!
Not again! No, no, no!
Dread overwhelms me as the memory of last night’s emotional breakdown comes flooding back. He probably thinks I’m a rude, insane woman who was practically hanging off the bow of the ship, howling her head off. I dip in my seat, angling my face towards the view of the distant coastline as he strides past. Doesn’t matter if he was nice once. His character is still up for scrutiny. I steal a glance in his direction.
I don’t think he’s spotted me.
What a relief!
When I’m sure he’s gone, I rise from my seat, pastries and coffee in hand, acutely aware of my surroundings and make a beeline for the deck, stopping dead in my tracks when I spot in him at the bar. He’s fresh faced and wearing a loose fitted dark top. He looks like he smells good – fresh and oaky. A few of the younger guests (there are maybe five people under the age of sixty, including me and that man on this ship) are talking and laughing with him. I can’t help but wonder what their dynamic is. They don’t appear overly familiar, but there’s a strange intimacy.
Are they hitting on him?
Then one of the girls hands him her cap, which he takes and signs with a sharpie.
Is he famous?
Shit!
Is he famous?!
I knew he looked familiar, I just couldn’t place him. I stillcan’t. But then again, I’ve never been hot on celebrities.
Who is he?!
Imagine if he’s a low-key royal or an Olympic athlete, here on holiday and on the first night he had to escort an insensibly drunk, hysterical woman back to her room.
