The Woman in Cabin 10(14)

Inside the minibar was tonic, ice, and half a dozen miniatures of gin, whiskey, and vodka. I shook ice into a tumbler and then emptied in a couple of the miniature bottles, pouring with a hand that still shook slightly. I topped up with a splash of tonic water and gulped it down.

The gin was so strong it made me choke, but I felt the warmth of the alcohol spreading through my cells and blood vessels and felt instantly better.

When the glass was empty, I stood up, feeling the lightness in my head and limbs, and pulled my phone out of my bag. No reception, so clearly we were out of range of the UK transmitters, but there was Wi-Fi.

I clicked on mail and downloaded my e-mails, chewing my nails as they popped one by one into the in-box. It wasn’t quite as bad as I’d been fearing—it was a Sunday after all—but as I scanned down the list, I realized I was tense as an elastic band about to snap, and at the same time, I understood what I was looking for, and why. There was nothing from Judah. I felt my shoulders slump.

I answered the few that were urgent, marked the others unread, and then pressed compose to start a new e-mail.

Dear Judah, I wrote, but the rest of the words wouldn’t come. I wondered what he was doing right now. Was he packing his bag? Crammed onto some economy flight? Or was he lying on his bed in his room, tweeting, texting, thinking of me . . .

I relived again the moment I’d smashed the heavy metal lamp into his face. What had I been thinking?

You weren’t thinking, I told myself. You were half-asleep. It’s not your fault. It was an accident.

Freud says there are no accidents, said the voice in the back of my head. Maybe it’s you. . . .

I shook my head, refusing to listen.

Dear Judah, I love you.

I miss you.

I’m sorry.

I deleted the one to Judah and started a new one.

To: Pamela Crew

From: Laura Blacklock

Sent: Sunday, 20 September

Subject: Safe and sound

Hi, Mum, safe on board the boat, which is seriously swanky. You’d love it! Just a quick reminder to pick up Delilah tonight. I’ve left her cat basket on the table, and the food is under the sink. I had to change the locks—Mrs. Johnson upstairs has the new key.

Lots of love and THANKS!

Lo xx

I pressed send, then pulled up Facebook and messaged my best friend, Lissie.

This place is insanely nice. There are UNLIMITED free drinks in the minibar in my cabin—sorry, I mean f*cking enormous SUITE—which doesn’t bode well for my professionalism, or my liver. See you on the other side, if I’m still standing. Lo xx

I poured myself another gin and then I went back to the Judah e-mail.

I had to write something. I couldn’t leave things the way they were when I walked out.

Dear J. I’m sorry I was such a bitch before I left. What I said—it was incredibly unfair. I love you so much.

I had to stop at that, because tears were blurring the screen. I paused and took a couple of shaking breaths. Then I scrubbed crossly at my eyes and finished.

Text me when you get to Moscow. Safe journey.

Lo xxx

I refreshed my in-box, less hopefully this time, but nothing new downloaded. Instead, I sighed and drained my second gin. The clock by the bed read 6:30, which meant it was time for ball gown number one.

Rowan, after she’d informed me that the dress code for dining on board was “formal” (translation: insane), had recommended that I rent at least seven evening dresses, so that I wouldn’t have to wear the same dress twice; but since she wasn’t proposing to shell out the cost, I had rented three, which was three more than I’d have done if left to my own devices.

My favorite in the shop had been the most over-the-top one—a long silvery-white sheath studded with crystals that, the shop assistant had claimed without a glimmer of sarcasm, made me look like Liv Tyler in The Lord of the Rings. I’m not sure I kept my face sufficiently straight when she said that, because she kept shooting me suspicious looks as I tried on the others.

But I wasn’t feeling quite brave enough to kick off with crystal studs, given there might well be people there wearing jeans, for all I knew, so I picked out the most modest choice—a long, narrow slip in dark gray satin. There was a little spritz of sequined leaves across the right shoulder because you didn’t seem to be able to get away with none. Apparently the majority of ball gowns were designed by five-year-old girls armed with glitter guns, but at least this one didn’t look entirely like an explosion in a Barbie factory.

I wriggled into it and zipped it up the side, then I shook out the full array of ammo from my makeup bag. It was going to take more than a swipe of lip gloss to get me looking even halfway human tonight. I was just smudging concealer across the cut on my cheekbone when I realized my mascara wasn’t among the clutter.

I hunted through my handbag in the vain hope that it might be there, trying to remember where I’d last seen it. Then I realized. It had been in my handbag—pinched along with everything else. I don’t always wear it, but without dark lashes, my smoky-eye makeup looked strange and out of proportion—like I’d given up halfway through. I thought briefly and ridiculously about improvising with liquid eyeliner, but instead I tried one last, vain hunt in my bag—tipping everything out onto the bed, just in case I’d misremembered, or had a spare one stuck in the lining. In my heart, though, I knew it wasn’t there, and I was replacing everything back into the bag when I heard a noise from the cabin next door—the roar of the pressurized toilet flushing, recognizable even above the muted hum of the engine.