The Captain's Table

by Muriel Bolger

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When a group of solo travellers meet for dinner on the first night of a luxury cruise, alliances are quickly formed.But as the ship makes its way through azure Mediterranean waters, it becomes clear that some of the passengers have their own reasons for wanting to escape their everyday lives . . .There's the glamorous London heiress looking for love; the wealthy businessman trying to decide between the life he has, and the life he really wants; the shrewd Scotsman looking for his next opportunity - in business and romance; and the newly separated Dubliner on the run from the media glare - and her controlling ex.Will they find what they're looking for on the open sea? One thing's for sure, it's a holiday they'll never forget.

Release date: June 3, 2013

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 448

Sample

HER TRIP HADN’T BEGUN AS PLANNED BUT, then, little was going according to plan in Jenny’s life this year. The flight to Athens had been uneventful – until the announcement from the cockpit just before landing had told them that, due to another general strike, the airport was closing at nine p.m. and there would be no public transport. No taxis either. That would have given Fergus a laugh, if he’d known that she’d left Ireland.

She had booked a budget hotel room near the port for the night, a small establishment that would not have sent transport to collect her, and by the time she had collected her bag she was prepared to negotiate with anyone to get her there.

She was lucky: a party of three asked her if she’d like to share their taxi. Admittedly it was a limousine and the driver insisted they each pay an additional ten euro for toll charges. She wasn’t even sure if there were toll charges on the way but there was little option. She wasn’t going to miss her cruise. He gave them a tirade on the state of the economy and pointed out the piles of rubbish at every corner, decomposing in the heat. The refuse collectors had been on strike for four days and the smell wafted in through the car’s air-conditioning. That night Athens looked nothing like the capital of ancient civilisation, despite the floodlit Acropolis on its distant hill.

The driver told her that her hotel was in an unsuitable part of town, where he wouldn’t have let his sister stay. Once he had given her time to digest that gem, he suggested another establishment, owned by his brother-in-law. She was resolute. She was a seasoned traveller and wouldn’t fall for that ruse. She had already paid for her room, and told him she had no intention of wandering anywhere tonight.

The place was basic, but a friendly porter took her bags to a rickety lift. She killed a few mosquitoes in her room, and almost knocked herself out with insect repellent before falling into an uneasy sleep. She couldn’t wait to join the ship the next day.



Down at the port, check-in was streamlined and quick, and she was glad to be out of the city, with its rubbish and flies. She followed directions, found her stateroom and discovered an unexpected invitation to go to the bridge for the sail-away. Her cases were yet to be delivered so she wandered about, finding her bearings and meeting others doing the same. She had a salad in one of the restaurants and listened to occasional announcements preparing the passengers for the mandatory emergency drill that would take place before their departure.

‘You’ll find your muster-station number on the back of your stateroom door and on your key card. Staff will be stationed along the routes and at the top of the stairways to offer directions and assistance to anyone needing it. You will not be allowed to use the lifts.

‘You’ll hear the ship’s signal – seven short bleeps and one long one. Take your life jackets, and make your way to the muster stations.’ The message was repeated in several languages.

A little later the signal sounded around the ship and everyone obeyed the drill with good humour. Some of the women remarked that the rigid orange jackets must have been designed by men, to be worn by men, as they certainly didn’t take bosoms into account. They listened quietly to the ensuing information.

‘When we have to anchor off certain ports that are too small to accommodate large ships such as this, we use the lifeboats to tender you back and forth, so there’s no need to panic if you see us lowering them into the water from time to time. We use them for crew-training sessions during some voyages too, so if you see us in them you’ll know that we’re not abandoning ship.’

‘Well, that’s reassuring,’ a man beside her muttered, and Jenny smiled back at him.



About an hour later Jenny made her way to the bridge and was surprised to find she had to be frisked before being admitted to the inner sanctum.

‘It’s just routine,’ the female security officer said as she ran the electronic wand over her.

Inside Captain Douglas Burgess welcomed the handpicked guests as old friends, before leading them towards a side table on the spacious bridge and telling them to help themselves to the array of canapés. A uniformed waiter served champagne.

‘Isn’t it wonderful to be allowed up here?’ Jenny said to a woman beside her. She knew that the task of choosing who should be there had fallen to someone in an office, whose job it was to work on such special lists.

‘It’s a real privilege – our son is working on the ship. How did you manage it?’

Jenny knew her invitation had come via her sister, whose husband’s brother was an engineer with the company – he must have put a word in. Before she could explain this, the captain was making a speech.

‘You might have noticed that we don’t shake hands here, but that doesn’t mean we’re unfriendly.’ He beamed. ‘We knock elbows or touch hips as we pass. It’s just a little precaution to avoid passing on germs. If you get sick, we’ll feel sorry for you. If we go down with something, it’s not sympathy we’ll get because no one will be going anywhere.’ That got a reaction from everyone. ‘So, before we hit the high seas, why don’t you get a bit of practice at the how-de-dos and say hello to each other?’

He walked over to the two people nearest him and they bounced hips. He knocked elbows with the next person. That was the cue for them all to begin raising elbows or gyrating – ‘Hello, hello, hello.’

‘Now, after that icebreaker, I’m going to ignore you for a bit. We’ve work to do,’ the captain told them. ‘Although you may not see much of us around during your time with us, we’re a bit necessary up here, especially First Officer Kurt Svensen over there. He can read the maps and the dots on the radar screens. Meanwhile, I’d like you all to be very quiet for the next few minutes, and not talk to any of us until we clear the harbour. This is a pretty tight one and, as you can see, there’s lots of traffic about so we need to concentrate. After that we’re all yours.’

They nodded, as though they understood just how intricate the operation was. Although the guests numbered about fourteen they took up hardly any space in the vast expanse that stretched the width of the liner. The control centre was manned by several crew; behind them, open cupboards held rolls of charts and flags.

‘There’s a nasty wind blowing up out there. It’s nothing to worry about, we’ll soon leave it behind, but as the verandas on these ships act like individual sails, catching all the gusts, we need to keep our wits about us. And,’ the captain emphasised, ‘the officers on the bridge need to be able to hear the communications from the pilots and from those guys you can see outside on the two platforms. Well, that’s my lecture over. When we’re out on the open seas I’ll answer any other questions you want to ask.’

Jenny stood beside a couple who had earlier introduced themselves and whose names she had already forgotten. She was too distracted by the efficient activity all around.

Through the panoramic window she could see two small pilot boats ahead of them in the channel, guiding the liner though a maze of ferries, yachts, a police boat and some cargo vessels. Behind, at the various piers, they left a clutch of even bigger cruise ships, some resembling tower blocks at the water’s edge.

Hush descended, broken only by disembodied static communications and jargon being conveyed from one officer to another. Jenny felt like a bit of an imposter in this hallowed sanctum. She’d never imagined herself up there, among the gleaming consoles and knobs, computers, charts and nautical maps or, indeed, amid these uniformed officers with gold stripes on their epaulettes. She looked at the other guests. They were probably frequent sailors or voyagers or whatever the nautical equivalent of frequent flyers was. Maybe they all had family working on board, or perhaps they were simply friends of some of the crew. She wondered what had brought them on this voyage and if any of them, like her, were trying to escape their past.

Once clear of the harbour the pilot boats broke rank and turned back. Athens retreated very quickly and the sea shimmered before them. The youthful-looking Captain Doug, as he had told them to call him, came back to join them. It was obvious that he loved what he did.

‘I believe we have a couple celebrating a forty-fifth wedding anniversary. Rose and Matt.’

A sprightly pair stepped forward. ‘That’s us.’

He smiled at them. ‘You must let me into your secret.’

Matt laughed. ‘Loads of patience and a bit of selective deafness.’

‘And,’ Rose said meaningfully, ‘that works for me too.’

‘It sounds like a good compromise,’ Doug agreed. ‘I believe you have a load of family with you too, for the celebration party.’

‘Eleven more – lucky thirteen altogether. We’ve been planning it for ages.’

‘I look forward to meeting them. And if we can do anything to make it even more special, let me know.’ He turned to the others and said, ‘And my spies have informed me that at the other end of the scale we have some honeymooners among us too.’

A flamboyant male couple grinned.

‘Congratulations and welcome aboard.’

‘Thank you. We’re Bud Harris and Sonny Carpenter Junior, from the United States. And, yes, we’ve survived two days of wedded bliss so far. I have to say I thought it would be much more … well, more frantic up here. It all seems so relaxed and quiet.’

‘Well, it helps when everyone knows what they’re doing. We do have a little help from the radar, GPS, and a few pairs of good eyes.’ He made it seem very simple. He showed them how they recognised the various shapes on the radar, and when they highlighted a dot, which proved to be another ship, it came up with the other vessel’s vital statistics – type of craft, passenger or cargo, number of crew and passengers.

‘You mightn’t think it, but the sea is full of roads, just like on land, which come with traffic rules and regulations we all have to obey.’

He took time to explain various instruments and gadgets. When they dispersed about half an hour later, Captain Doug had managed to make them feel that, as guests, they were the important ones on board, not the crew.



Jenny still had to unpack properly. When her case had arrived earlier she had taken out only the essentials before the bridge visit. Now she had time to settle in and arrange her bits and pieces. She was looking forward to wearing summery things again: the autumn had come in with a cold snap at home and the clocks would be going back in a few weeks’ time. She unfolded each item, stopping for a second to admire some of the new wardrobe she’d bought for the cruise. She’d left most of her clothes in her old home when she’d walked out, and she’d never gone back for them. She’d changed her hair too, lightening it and going for a layered gamine cut that was easy to care for and made her almost-forty-year-old face seem much younger.

She pushed her cases under the bed and smiled as she took the bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket. Nice, she thought. I’ll share that one evening when I’ve met some people. The bowl of fruit on the table gleamed, and she broke a few grapes off a small bunch. Popping one into her mouth, she sat down with the daily News and Pursuits bulletin. This charted their course, and gave the weather forecast and a list of events and activities for the following day at sea. Glancing through it, she thought, there’ll be no time to get bored.

Seven a.m. Walk a mile. Thirteen and a half times around the deck, it stated, was a nautical mile. That was a bonus: a regular mile was 1,760 yards, but she knew that was shorter than a nautical one so maybe she’d avoid the average cruise weight gain of a pound a day that a friend had warned her about. The stresses of the past few months had taken their toll and she’d lost weight. Now she wanted to make sure she didn’t put it back on. She vowed she’d do a mile every morning and another in the evening. It would give her the chance to meet some new people as well.

She noted that the Destination Lecture, which would take place later that day, focused on the attractions and the history of their first port of call. There was the Savvy Traveller Trivia quiz in the Mosaic Lounge at noon. She pencilled a ‘D’ for definite beside both. I’ll have to pace myself when sunbathing anyway, she thought. The sun doesn’t have much respect for my skin and the roasted-tomato look isn’t appealing. Now, what about this? A Solo Travellers’ Lunch, hosted by the cruise director.

Jenny dismissed it at first – forgetting briefly that she qualified not only as someone travelling alone but also as a single woman. Solo traveller … It had a much more wholesome ring to it than Singles’ Event. After all, travellers could be on their own for all sorts of reasons, couldn’t they? Maybe they had a spouse or partner who hated sailing, or a fear of flying, or a dependant at home who would rather stay behind watching golf on television or the grass grow. There could be any number of reasons. Maybe, like herself, they were running away from someone. She didn’t see herself ever doing a singles’ thing – they smacked of desperation and she certainly wasn’t desperate. She had a small library with her, and there was the balcony if she wanted to be alone. She marked another ‘D’ on the sheet. I’ll go to the lunch, she decided.

She slid open the patio door. The voile curtains caught the warm wind and lapped around her legs. Untangling herself, she stood for a while at the rail and looked out to sea. The only sounds she could hear were of the waves slapping the side of the ship, way below. She sighed and went back inside. She’d go and have a look at the sail-away buffet.



Further along Jenny’s corridor on deck seven, Hamish Macleod arrived back at his cabin some time after five and carefully made space among the papers on the dressing-table for his glass of red. He’d brought it from the dining room where he’d done justice to the all-day sail-away buffet. House wines were complimentary. He’d come on the cruise to get some sun and take time to think. He had business decisions that needed to be addressed and he hoped the distance between Scotland and the Mediterranean would make things clearer in his mind. If he decided to sell up, he could start a new life wherever he wanted to. If he didn’t, he’d be going back to more of the same, in what he now recognised was a very humdrum life of work, which no longer gave him any sense of satisfaction.

Earlier he’d decided to leave his unpacking until after he’d eaten. Now he set about putting his trousers on the hangers. Hamish was a broad, stocky man. He eyed himself in the full-length mirror. Not bad for a man of almost fifty. Not quite over the hill. Not quite overweight either. His relationship with good whisky over the years had rearranged his waistline, and now he pulled in his stomach. He was fresh-faced and his hair had turned to distinguished silver while he was still in his thirties, a family trait. That was when he’d decided to grow a matching moustache, believing it gave him a rakish look. He unfolded his collection of colourful shirts and cut-off shorts. He shook the creases out of two linen jackets and his dress suit, and draped them over padded hangers. Then he liberated the two bottles of Famous Grouse whisky he’d packed in his check-in luggage and slid them into a drawer beneath his underwear and socks. He knew he wasn’t supposed to bring booze on board.

During the meal he’d eyed up the talent among his fellow travellers, but it was a bit early to decide if there were any prospects of a fling. The Filipina bar server was a beauty. Flirtation, he knew from past experience, was not vetoed, but a dalliance with any of the staff was out of the question.

In the Mistral Suite on deck eight Bud Harris, a film producer and director, and Sonny Carpenter Junior were still a little jet-lagged after their transatlantic flight from New York.

‘It’s hard to believe it’s over, after all those months of preparations,’ said Sonny.

Bud agreed. ‘I’m glad it is, although it was terrific, even though it took almost as much stage-managing as a Broadway musical.’

‘And it cost about the same.’

‘I can’t wait to see the photographs and who picked up on them.’

The previous few weeks had been a whirlwind of preparations in the run-up to their civil marriage. They had been to a few other such ceremonies for friends, but Sonny, ‘style adviser to the stars’ and personal shopper to the rich and often famous, had been determined that theirs would outshine them all. It had gone without a hitch, as he had promised. Now it was all behind them and they were settling in to enjoy their honeymoon together.

‘I still can’t believe we got up on the bridge,’ said Sonny, the shorter of the two by a good eight inches. ‘That second officer was a looker, wasn’t he?’

‘You know it annoys me when you comment on good-looking guys.’

‘And you know, as I’m always telling you, that it’s you I’m with, so stop being a divo. You’re better-looking than any of them.’

Sonny reassured him regularly, but Bud could never see himself in that light.

They’d decided to retire early that first night and be ready for the gym and the sun the following day.

‘These sunbed tans are all very well but I can’t wait to feel the real thing on my body,’ Bud said, while Sonny rearranged things. Their butler had done their unpacking, but they liked to have everything just so. The man had also refreshed the ice in their champagne bucket and removed the untouched plate of canapés and cheese that he’d placed there earlier, with some chocolate-dipped strawberries. Their king-size bed had been turned down and there was a marzipan fancy on each pillow.

Sonny popped the champagne cork. ‘Let the honeymoon begin,’ he said. ‘But, please, no more geography lessons, or history ones for that matter. I’ll learn everything I need to know on the tours.’

Bud laughed. He loved all the strategic planning, deciding what they should see and what to avoid whenever he travelled anywhere.

‘Just remember I’m not a movie in the making. I’m not a project, and I don’t need constant stage direction. I’m your spouse now,’ Sonny added.

‘OK. In that case, let’s go to bed.’ He opened the door and slipped the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign in the slot outside.

THE SUN FOUND A CHINK WHERE THE curtains didn’t quite meet and woke Jenny. She looked at her clock, got out of bed and peeped through the opening, her eyes adjusting to the breaking dawn. In front of her she saw a horizon union between a serene sea and an equally serene yellow-tinged sky. She opened the sliding door and went out. It wasn’t yet hot, but the promise was there. She stretched and inhaled the salty air, appreciating that there was a certain freedom in being able to stand on her own balcony in her nightie. She felt almost as if she owned the world.

Freedom was a state she was getting used to after eight years of captivity. Not captivity in the sense of being locked up, although there had been times when she had longed for the solitude that that might have afforded her. Instead her shackles were the sort that came with being a possession, an exhibit. She had been relegated to that status very quickly after her marriage to Fergus Ruddy, although it had taken her a while to realise it. She could have been a portrait slotted between her husband’s Le Broquy and his dramatic Charlie Flanagan land and skyscapes, which fitted so well in their home, with its acre of gardens and the right postal address. Exhibit five: elegant wife, accomplished and charming hostess.

Her friends had envied her, but they hadn’t known the truth: the awful truth. Her husband, soon to be officially her ex, had never allowed her any freedom of any kind. They had met through work. A linguist, Jenny spoke German, Mandarin, Spanish and French, and worked as a translator for an international publishing house on a freelance but almost constant basis. She was also on various panels and was frequently called on when interpreters were needed, both at legal and at official levels. She had met Fergus when a trade delegation was being put together to target the possibilities of Chinese investment in Ireland. The ensuing mission had thrown them together, and when they had returned from the Far East they had become an item. The assignment was deemed a massive success. Millions had been secured in foreign deals and potential alliances, and Fergus was lauded by the press and the government alike for the part he had played.

She admired the masterful way he could sway an argument, or turn a conversation in the direction it needed to go during difficult negotiations. He had a presence that made people notice him when he walked into a room. He was almost ten years older than her, but she had never seen that as a problem. Now, when she looked back, she realised he was everything her father hadn’t been, strong, forceful and decisive. She hadn’t equated those traits with domination and violence. Because of the nature of their work they had often travelled together, before and after they had married. As a government adviser to the Department of Overseas Development and Enterprise he was away a lot and she continued with her translations. She worked from their spacious home, often sitting in the garden she loved.

A charmed life, her friends agreed. Little did they know that Fergus treated her like the hired help, measuring out his affection and money. He left cash for her on a table in the kitchen. If she wasn’t available for him when he decided he needed her, he often withheld it. In the beginning she had pretended not to notice, but it had got worse. I should have done something about it then, but I didn’t know what to do. What a fool I was. She felt disloyal even thinking that. She had wanted her marriage to work, desperate not to end up as her parents had, only communicating through their children. It had got to the stage when he hadn’t even liked her having her friends to the house, only his. That hadn’t happened overnight, but had been a slow progression, ensuring that she felt so uncomfortable when her friends visited that it had been easier not to invite them and meet them elsewhere, while he was at work, pretending that she needed to get out of the house – working from home was too solitary. She had never told anyone about his behaviour, hoping he would change.

When they entertained his contacts and friends at home or at official functions he was the perfect host and spouse – attentive, charming, complimentary and kind. Oh, yes, Fergus could certainly put on a good show when it suited him and when it might help towards his ultimate goal. He left his bonhomie at his golf club and rarely talked to Jenny when no one else was around.

She still got the shivers when she thought of the first time he’d hit her. She’d just stood there in horror, not believing it was happening. He had said sorry instantly and she had screamed that if he ever did that again she’d go to the police. That would put an end to his career and his political aspirations. His reaction to that had been a stream of expletives and door-slamming. Then he had driven away, and hadn’t come back until the next day. She had never found out where he’d stayed.

If she had told Leslie then, would he have changed? But that would have meant letting her sister know more than she had wanted to volunteer at the time. Maybe they should have gone for counselling – but Fergus wouldn’t have done that in case anyone recognised him.

He had been so different when they had first met and married. He had been genuinely thrilled when she had told him about the baby too, just like his old charming self, showering her with flowers and attention.

When Jenny had finally decided to leave, she’d known she should have done it a long time before. After he’d gone to the office she had taken a case from the attic, packed some clothes and gone. She had a fair bit of money put aside from her own work: her running-away money. It wouldn’t last forever, but it would tide her over for a while. She drove to her sister’s house and told her what had just happened, the reason why she had left Fergus and wouldn’t be going back to him. She had returned once more to the house she had called home for eight years, and only because she’d read in the paper that he was abroad, with some delegation or other. She had collected some more of her things, dropped her keys on the kitchen table where he used to leave her allowance, and driven back to the furnished apartment she now had in Castleknock, thanks to her brother-in-law Richie.

In typical Celtic Tiger fashion, no expense had been spared in doing it up. It had been ‘dressed’ by an ‘interior artist’, as Flavia Cantinella liked to call herself, although Richie had been convinced she was from Leitrim originally, one of the Cantwells, who used to have a forge way back. She denied all connection, saying her grandfather was Italian. Whatever her lineage, she had flair and claimed she sourced her pieces to showcase ‘an aspiration, a life you’d like to have’. That heralded the arriva. . .