Page 33 of Escape to the Sun

‘How was it, then?’

Louis hadn’t noticed Tim wandering up beside him, arms folded as he too stared out to sea.

‘How was what?’ Louis lowered his binoculars.

Tim grinned. ‘The woman on your table. Looked like you struck lucky last night, Captain.’

The tone offered itself as amused, with added blokey vibes.

If Louis had possessed hackles, they would have stood on end at Tim’s comment. Annoyance fizzed its way up the back of his neck. He raised his binoculars, deciding how to respond. Tim beat him to it.

‘I get it. What happens on cruise stays on cruise, and all that. She didn’t look in a fit state to say no to anyone – fair game if you ask me.’

Louis lowered the binoculars before Tim could notice how badly his hands were now shaking. ‘What are you suggesting?’

Tim nudged his elbow. ‘Nod is as good as a wink – I get it.’

Louis swallowed. ‘I know you’re new to the Ballygowan, Tim, and I’ll do everything I can to welcome you as part of our team. But if you’re trying to insinuate that I did anything other than escort Miss Maynard safely back to her cabin, then I think you and I are going to have a problem.’

‘You really do have a stick up your arse, don’t you?’ The words were quietly spoken, nobody else on the bridge would have heard them – or indeed any part of the conversation thus far – but Louis heard and was sure it was intended that he should.

I’d rather have a stick up my arse than be a predatory bastard. It was probably as well Louis kept the words inside his head, but it had been a closely fought battle.

‘My focus remains on the smooth running of the Ballygowan, Tim. As, perhaps, should yours.’

Tim laughed, then turned and strode away. Louis stayed put, waiting for the adrenalin to settle and for his hands to stop shaking.

18

Ruth was frustrated. And to add to her frustration about the situation with Hannah, Millie was driving her bonkers, demanding to know when she could go to the bridge and feed the cat.

She supposed she should be grateful her daughter wasn’t pestering her about Christmas presents or moaning about the fact she only ever got a basic Cadbury’s advent calendar when most of her friends got more expensive ones.

But despite her frustrations, this trip had placed a different emphasis on Christmas – unbelievably in only five days’ time and inescapable with glittering decorations at every turn. Being on the Ballygowan had lifted them out of the usual festive shenanigans. The fact that neither child had mentioned they wouldn’t be seeing their father this year – not since Nathan had stropped off when they first boarded the Ballygowan – was a big win.

And Ruth had been convinced it was a cunning plan to suggest Millie and Hannah go to feed the cat. A brilliant way to keep Hannah and the captain in proximity to one another. But now she wasn’t sure what to do for the best.

It sounded like they’d got themselves into plenty enough proximity the evening before, but Louis’ last-minute chivalry, however well meant, had resulted in Hannah retreating into her shell again.

Ruth wondered what might have happened if Hannah hadn’t been so inebriated the night before, if she’d just been a bit tipsy and therefore more than able to decide what she wanted from Louis. Wondered if that would have been better, or potentially even worse.

It was obvious to Ruth that the captain fancied Hannah, and vice versa. But maybe the timing was too far off. Perhaps Louis’ last-minute retreat had been for the best. Well, obviously it had been in terms of his not taking advantage of Hannah while she wasn’t fully in control of her decision-making faculties. But perhaps it was bigger even than that.

And maybe it was a sign, a way for the cosmos to tell Ruth to back off too and mind her own business.

Anyway, whatever was destined to happen for Hannah and Louis, there was little doubt that Millie’s life was going to be very much shorter than it might otherwise have been if she didn’t stop going on about the bloody cat.

‘I’m not sure Hannah is feeling well enough to take you to the bridge, Mils,’ she said, for the seventeenth time.

‘She’s not ill, Mum, she’s hungover,’ Millie stated with an expression Ruth recognised from her own mother’s repertoire. Family genes really could be unnerving.

‘Yes, but when you’ve experienced a hangover of your own, Mils, you’ll understand it sometimes feels worse than actually dying, so…’

Millie frowned. ‘That makes no sense. How can it feel worse than dying? Because if you know how it feels to have died, then you’re dead and you can’t feel anything else, so it’s too late to make the comparison.’

‘Oh, Jesus Christ, I’ll take you to feed the damned cat.’

‘And if you’re hungover, you deserve to feel bad anyway because Miss Brannigan, the science teacher at school, says that every time you have alcohol it kills some of your brain cells, so how is that going to feel anything other than bad?’