The Captain was good. He had memorized the place settings on the small piece of paper I saw the purser slip him as he came into the room.
"On my left is the charming Miss Lawrence – nay, Mrs. Neptune! And the most very fortunate Mr. Neptune. May I offer my heartiest congratulations on this happy day!"
Polite applause and a couple of bravos came from our fellow guests, though with more enthusiasm in some quarters than others. Miss Lawrence wriggled a little closer to the Captain on her gilt chair.
"Next to Mr. Neptune is the lovely Miss Loretta Swat, familiar to us all as celebrity weather lady and for Loretta's Book of the Month."
I knew Loretta's Book of the Month could make or break authors and even publishing houses.
I turned to nod a greeting to my neighbor and barely managed not to turn it into a drool. I don't watch much TV, and I prefer to look out of the window to see what the weather is doing, so while I had heard of Miss Swat I was not prepared for the reality. She was thirty-something, tall, tanned, blonde, full bosomed, and half-naked. Her black cocktail dress could not possibly have hidden even the flimsiest foundation garments. Her eyes met mine.
"My, Mr. Neptune, what a pleasure," came a husky Southern voice. I wondered if the voice was real. I didn't care if the boobs were or not.
"The pleasure is all mine, dear lady, all mine," I replied gallantly, dragging my eyes up to hers.
I felt a small but determined foot kick my shin from the other side of the table. Here we go again. Well, it was my honeymoon. I returned my attention to the Captain. Mind you, Miss L likes a threesome as well as the next lusty bisexual vixen, so perhaps…
"And now, to help me entertain such a scintillating company, our ship's Medical Officer, Dr. Dunnett."
Dr. Dunnett was Scottish – one could tell before he even opened his mouth. In his early fifties, slightly stooped, half-moon glasses, his patently dyed red hair was brushed over a bald pate. Thin grey hair was growing out under the henna'd mess, and dandruff spattered the worn and shiny dinner jacket. He was obviously a man who knew his mind, because instead of the usual collection of wine glasses, he had before him a cut-glass whisky tumbler and a decanter in a silver swinging cradle. As long as the glass was in the right place, not a drop of the water of life would be spilled as the decanter tipped and poured.
"Good evening, Doctor," I said politely as I leaned forward slightly to get a better view of the decanter and stand.
They were somehow familiar. I cast my mind back to the last Reunion at Edinburgh Castle. I recalled just the same decanter before each of my assembled comrades, though not much else about the evening. At least not until we hit the bars behind Princes Street in the early hours, but that is another story and anyway there is an official record. Yes, there was the Castle crest, discreetly engraved on the side of the stand. It looked like the Old Medical School bash had been held at the Castle as well.
I leaned back and sneaked a peek at the Swat cleavage as I went. For my pains I got another kick in the shin.
"Next to the good Doctor, Mr. and Mrs. Boner-Drippit. Mrs. Boner-Drippit is of course well known to all of us on the Literary Cruise, and I am sure Mr. Boner also has a tale to tell."
Frippery was dressed in taffeta, as near as I could make out. The years had not been too kind, and her neck was better now described as scraggy than thin. She looked like an ostrich with stomachache. Or maybe that's just the thankful ex-husband speaking.
Boner had been taken in by the fashion idiot in the tuxedo rental department. Wing collar, paisley waistcoat in unnatural shades, trousers with red stripes down the sides, and a strange jacket with pocket cuffs in the same paisley as the waistcoat. He sat upright and nodded round the table. He seemed to think he looked good dressed as a clown.
"Finally, and far from least, the charming lady on my right…"
"Gigi! Gigi! You must all call me Gigi! Oh, what fun we shall have! Miss Swat, I watch your cookery program all the time! The maid does your angels on horseback so well!"
So la Swat was a celebrity chef too? Well, with a shelf like that I dare say she could get away with anything from gardening to political comment.
Mrs. Gloria Goldfinkel (of the Happachappabunket Goldfinkels) was still in pink. Lots of pink. Not to mention gold and sparkling diamonds. I couldn't begin to describe the ensemble. Jay is far better than I at that kind of thing. Suffice it to say that had she fallen overboard, she would be visible as a beacon from outer space, if the weight of wealth didn't drag her to the bottom first to be a hazard to submarine magnetic navigation equipment.
Mrs. Goldfinkel smiled radiantly around the table, the epitome of party fun.
Captain Ahab had finished his introductions and evidently felt like a break from social duties. He sat back and sipped at a glass of mineral water. There was silence for a few moments, then as the most presentable male guest (and as Harry Neptune) I took up the burden of conversation.
"How's your stomach, Boner? Up to the delights to come? A glass with you."
"I don't drink. Nor does Frippery."
"Well, actually, I wouldn't mind just a teenthy-weenthy glath…"
"We don't drink alcohol," Boner continued, firmly removing the wine glass from poor Frippery's place. "It's the ruination of the western world. And an emerging problem in the Third…"
I switched off, as my former lover began to drone on in a familiar and dreary speech I'd heard a thousand times before. I could probably repeat it, word for word, just as I could still recall the lyrics of the musicals he played from dawn to dusk when composing his tomes. I turned my attention to the new Golden Delicious of my husband's eye, a peroxide blonde with suspiciously convex tits. She looked like she had a couple of colanders stuffed down the front of her frock. (Maybe she did.) Harry was obviously having a hard time (as it were) maintaining eye contact as they chatted knowingly of Caribbean cuisine.
"Oh, I agree, the flying fish filet at the Far Flung Farrago, is infinitely superior to the tunny tournedos at Terrapin Terrace!"
They laughed, comfortable in a smug shared world of culinary conceit. I wondered how long it would be until Ms. Swat discovered that Harry thought okra was an Afro-American talk show host. The first course arrived and Blondie examined it with an expert eye. I sighed deeply and briskly draped my napkin across my lap. Things could well get messy and I'd hate to get grease on my fine new frock. Not that H would notice if I'd rented a gorilla suit. I took a dainty bite of the chilled Crab Surprise. It was delicious so I decided not to commence the petulant neglected spouse routine until I'd sampled all six courses, then go for the conversational jugular with a soothing liqueur. The glamorous weather forecaster, cook, and serial fornicator (according to the tabloids she had a weakness for sportsmen – by the team) continued to turn her plate around, cooing and purring at what looked remarkably like a lettuce leaf, some crab meat and a large dollop of pink sauce. TV cooks indeed! Give me Nigella Lawson any day. That woman knows how to live. I laid down my fork and stared at my own plate. To my intense surprise, nothing happened whatsoever. The way the blonde was communing with it, I had expected it to get up and dance.
"Looks like crab to me. What's the surprise, I wonder? Don't tell me, it's lobster dressed as crab. "
Naughtily, I cast a pointed glance at Ms. Flyswat's frontage. She had to be at least forty-five. Even Joan Collins knows when it's wise to keep your baked goods wrapped.
Harry glared at me. Alas, it was one of those rare and unfortunate moments when a thought solidifies and becomes a barb (usually after considerable forethought and precision timing). I smiled sweetly at my dearly beloved. Then, in the brief moment when I had his attention, I mouthed: