"Why you… you…"
"Come on, Boondock. You're supposed to be a writer, a wizard with words. You can do better than that. Where is the Wildean barb? Where is the Churchillian insult? Cat got your tongue? Oh no, of course not, pussy and your tongue don't mix, do they?"
Boner clenched his fists and took a step forward. I prepared my famous kick-in-the-nuts-from-the-prone-position riposte.
"Boys! Boys!" interrupted Miss Lawrence. "Not before dinner. You can go three rounds with the gloves on later, if you wish. Find me a blackboard and an eyeshade and I'll open a book."
For a moment it looked as though Boner might make a serious mistake and take one more step, but the ship gave a lurch as we left the shelter of the land and Boner lurched with it.
"Impressive! Is that what they call pea-green? It looks as though your stomach is turning upside down, inside out, side to side, twisting and groaning, ready to send your lunch back the way it came in a vile tasting…"
Boner turned and ran to a downwind rail. Faint heaving sounds came over the crash of the ship's bows cleaving the ocean waves. He more or less straightened and staggered aft, holding on to the teak rail for support and wobbling out of sync with the ship's movement.
"See you at dinner, Bummer! Oysters and fried squid!"
Miss Lawrence looked at me disapprovingly.
"That wasn't very nice. Forgive and forget and all that."
"Sod forgive and forget and all that. The bugger had better keep out of my way or I'll send fried egg sandwiches to his cabin morning, noon and night. No one denies my wife the perversions that are her right. Why I'll… fuck me!"
"Later, dearest. Dinner at the Captain's table first."
"No, I meant, 'fuck me, it's her!'"
"What on earth are you talking about? And close your mouth."
"Frippery, that's what I'm talking about!"
"Frippery? The Duty Free shop isn't even open yet."
"No, you halfwit! Frippery Drippit! The ex-Mrs. Frippery Neptune! What the hell is she doing on this scow?"
I stared across at the willowy figure tying a scarf around its head and gazing meaningfully at the horizon. She hadn't seen me yet. I wondered how fast I could grow a beard.
"She's a writer, dear. You told me. This is a Literary Cruise. She's probably going to give talks and readings and things, and advise would-be Prousts. I shall be very nice to her and find out why you keep mumbling in your sleep about a frying pan. And how you got that scar."
Frippery finished communing with the horizon and turned. Her refocused gaze fell on my recumbent form. She took a few hesitant paces until she was standing before us. Her face went even paler than its usual dead white. Her eyes stared.
"Miss Drippit, Miss – er, Mrs. Neptune. Mrs. Neptune, Miss Drippit."
A drop of spittle appeared at the corner of Frippery Drippit's mouth.
"You bathtard!"
"Well, that's nice, I must say!"
I stared up at the tall, dark haired creature which dared to cast aspersions on my new husband's parentage. She was an odd looking thing, vaguely reminiscent of a slightly tattered parasol. No breasts to speak of (what poor Harry had made of her flat chest, I couldn't possibly imagine.) No hips either, so her dress draped vertically, as if on a hanger. She wore a floaty, almost ankle length floral frock, sensible sandals and a silk headscarf, frumpily tied under the chin in the manner of H.M. the Queen out walking the Corgis. Large hands and feet. With her long hair crimped and some more vibrant clothing, she would probably look quite striking, like one of those melancholy ladies in Pre-Raphaelite paintings. As it was, she just looked limp. The concept of Frippery Drippit and Harry Neptune forming an alliance seemed about as likely as the Democrats taking Happachappabunket. Miss Drippit gave her ex a superior look.
"It'th Boner-Drippit, Harry. You're not the only one who hath remarried. Will and I formed Romanthing The Bone Athothiates, to promote our writing careers. Inthidentally, my latht novel, 'Flenthing Tenthing' was thort-lithted for the Puker Prize. And you thaid I'd never publith a therious book!"
It occurred to me that the fine spray, which bathed my sun-warmed cheekbones, did not originate in the salty swell. I'd spotted Drippit's tome, 'Flensing Tensing,' on the bookstore shelves but wasn't tempted by the grim tale of existentialist menopausal angst which, incidentally, had nothing to do with either famous Sherpas or the practice of removing meat from dead whales. It was simply a suitably pretentious title. Too bad, really, as I'd always rather fancied Edmund Hillary and some of my ancestors were well acquainted with the business end of a harpoon. So, Harry's ex had hit the wordy big time. Well, that explained Boner's sudden interest in matrimonial bliss. There always was method in his madness. He certainly wouldn't part with a cent unless it was blessed with a guaranteed return. Speaking of El Diablo, the grizzled wonder himself was bearing down for a repeat assault. Must have found the Dramamine. I braced myself for a fresh bout of ground scratching, flapping and pecking but it seemed a second cock fight was not in the program.
"Come along, Frip. It's nearly time for your vitamin regime and we must have a chat with Bjorn and Heidi at the gym."
"Just coming, dear. Thee you around, Harry. Jaylene."
The gaunt couple retreated at a brisk, cardio-toning march. They looked like a mismatched pair of pipe cleaners. My newly betrothed and I stared at each other in mutual incomprehension.
"What the heck did you see in her? She's got no tits! And she thpits!"
"Jaylene? What were you doing? Singing country and western?"
It was a long story. I sensed that Harry had a rambling, convoluted epic of his own. I slipped my arm through his.
"It's almost time for dinner, darling. We can't possibly grace the Captain's table dressed like this. We're going to have to rent some nice new rags. There's plenty of time to swap 'ex files.' By the way, the Captain's name is Ahab, and no, I'm not making this up! He's incredibly dishy. Just like Omar Sharif."
Harry sniggered.
"Omar Sharif must be almost as old as the Pyramids, these days."
"Don't care. I prefer old things."
"Thank you, Mrs. Neptune."
"You're welcome, Methuselah."
CHAPTER THREE: DEATH IS A CABARET
The Captain was just like Omar Sharif. Tall, dark, flashing eyes and gleaming teeth. You could just imagine him charging across the desert on a wild stallion, a curved knife between his teeth, and the heroine clinging to him from the rear pillion. His slicked-back black hair had a distinguished touch of grey at the temples, just like mine. He wore an old fashioned pea jacket with brass buttons closing almost to the neck. I could have sworn I glimpsed the flash of a Croix de Guerre hiding behind the collar.
I was resplendent in white jacket, black tie and cummerbund. The insignificant person in charge of the rental department had typically uninformed ideas about wing collars and flashy waistcoats. He didn't even know what I meant when I said I didn't want to look like a homosexual snooker player. I brushed him aside and chose my own apparel. Conservative and distinguished. A man of substance who sets fashion, doesn't follow it.
For the first formal dinner of our married life my bride chose a simple pearl-colored dress with plenty of decolletage. She has taste, too.
We were ushered to our seats in the chandelier-lit dining room. The champagne arrived with commendable speed.
The Captain made his entrance and sat at the head of the table as the men bobbed half up then back down again. He didn't have a limp.
"I am Captain Ahab. Welcome to my table on the fine ship Caribbean Conch."
We all murmured our good evenings.