“Good. Call them.”
“I… All the details are on my phone. My phone is dead.”
He exhales sharply, like I’m inconveniencing him in ways I’ll never appreciate, “How do the young say it? This is ayouproblem?”
The thing I’ve learned about negotiations, during my career as a commercial manager, is that you can’t let the aggressor know you’re affected. Unless they like that andeventually bend to empathy. This man doesn’t give me that impression. In fact, I’d say he’s sick of having to deal with disorganised holidaymakers who miss their cruise.
I want to tell him I’m not actually like them.
But clearly, I very much am.
“Ok… Thanks, I guess.”
I step out of the office back into the mid-afternoon sun. I stare longingly out at the ship, its sleek shape shrinking as it travels further and further from the port. I huff, placing my floppy hat back on my head to protect my forehead.
“Bollocks,” I mutter. Again. “Just great.”
But it’s ok. I am a strong, independent woman who can absolutely make this work. So what if I miss one night on the cruise?
It’s fine. I’m good.
First things first: find a phone charger so I can call my insurance company.
I push my hand into my bag to see what I have at my disposal. There is about a hundred euros in there. I left my wallet with my debit and credit cards in the room because I have contactless set up on my phone anyway and I didn’t want to risk losing them abroad. Also in my bag, I have suncream (useful), the trinkets I foraged in the market (less useful), a packet of mint gum (eh?) and a few plasters that have been in this bag since I bought a new pair of heels about two years ago. I haven’t needed them yet, but who knows when a crisis might strike?
There surely must be a phone shop in the more modern parts of the city. As soon as I have my phone back on, I’ll be able to sort everything else. I turn back towards the townand feel my tummy fizz. I blink a few times to check my vision is correct because…
Popstar is standing where the cruise is meant to be docked, camera hanging around his neck, a confused notch between his brows.
There’s nowhere to hide. Not a tree, not a building, not even a Goddamn person.
His gaze slowly turns to me, eyes sweeping up my (probably sweaty at this point) body, before fixing on my face.
I would run away if I could, but the only other direction I can go in leads to the sea. And I can’t swim to Dubrovnik. So, I’m stuck. This interaction is unavoidable.
“Hey, you,” he says, clearing some of the metres between us. There’s a hint of playfulness in his tone. “Did they move the ship or something?” He’s wearing a white t-shirt and a black backwards cap. Curls spill out from either side, despite his clear effort to conceal them. His skin is already sun-kissed, the tip of his nose a little red, and his shirt is fitted enough I can make out the shape of his toned physique underneath. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find him mildly attractive, but that’s ridiculous. Obviously, I’m attracted to a celebrity. The issue is, so is everyone else. He could have any woman he wanted.
What am I even talking about? Obviously, that is irrelevant!
I shake myself out of it and use words like a grownup. “Yeah. You could say that.”
“Where’ve they moved it to?”
“To Dubrovnik…” I say, letting the moment linger.
He blinks a few times and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Oh, like it’s gone?”
“Yeah.” I frown. Where else would they have moved it to?
His lips fall apart and he stares out into the distance. “Shit. Is that it?” he asks, pointing at the sleek beauty disappearing across the horizon.
I nod. “The very one.”
He runs a hand down his face and kicks a loose stone. “Crap. This is…” He doesn’t finish his sentence but laughs instead. “What a fucking moron,” he mutters under his breath.
“Excuse me?”
“Me. I’m the moron,” he adds, without looking my way.
