The Woman in Cabin 10(18)
Fuck. Fuck. Why hadn’t I done that? It was what any good reporter would have done—and I’d not even thought of it. But then, Ben probably hadn’t spent the last few days in a haze of sleep deprivation and PTSD.
“How about—”
But whatever Ben had been about to say, it was drowned out by the ting ting ting! of metal against champagne flute, and Lord Bullmer moved into the center of the room. Camilla Lidman put down the flute and teaspoon she was holding and made as if to step forward and introduce him, but he waved a hand and she melted into the background with a self-effacing smile.
The room fell into a respectful, faintly anticipatory silence, and Lord Bullmer began to speak.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming to join us here on the Aurora on this, its maiden voyage,” he began. His voice was warm, and had that curiously classless tone that people from public school seemed to strive for, and his blue eyes had a kind of magnetic quality that was hard to look away from. “My name is Richard Bullmer, and my wife, Anne, and I would like to welcome you aboard the Aurora. What we have sought to do with this ship is make it nothing less than a home away from home.”
“Home away from home?” Ben whispered. “Maybe his home has a sea-view balcony and a free minibar. Mine sure as hell doesn’t.”
“We do not believe that travel has to mean compromise,” Richard Bullmer continued. “On the Aurora, everything should be as you would wish, and if it’s not, my staff and I want to hear.” He paused and gave a little wink at Camilla, including her in the remark as an acknowledgment that she would likely be on the sharp end of any complaints.
“Those of you who know me will know of my passion for Scandinavia—for the warmth of its people”—he shot a quick smile at Lars and Anne—“for the excellence of its food”—he nodded at the tray of dill and prawn canapés traveling past—“and the spectacular glory of the region itself: from the rolling forests of Finland, to the scattered islands of the Swedish archipelago, to the majesty of the fjords in my wife’s native Norway. But I think that, for me, the defining quality of the Scandinavian landscape is—perhaps paradoxically—not the land at all, but the skies—wide, and almost preternaturally clear. And it is those skies that provide what for many is the crowning glory of the Scandinavian winter experience—the northern lights, the aurora borealis. With nature nothing is certain, but I very much hope to share the spectacular majesty of the northern lights with you on this trip. The aurora borealis is something that everyone should see before they die. And now, please raise your glasses, ladies and gentlemen, to the maiden voyage of the Aurora Borealis—and may the beauty of her namesake never fade.”
“To the Aurora Borealis,” we chorused obediently, and downed our glasses. I felt the alcohol trickle through me, taking the edge off everything, even my still-aching cheek.
“Come on, Blacklock,” Ben said, setting down his empty glass. “Let’s go do our bit and schmooze.”
I felt a twinge of reluctance to approach the group with him. The thought of being taken for a couple was awkward, given our past, but I wasn’t about to let Ben start making connections while I hung back. As we started across the room, I saw Anne Bullmer touch her husband’s arm and whisper something in his ear. He nodded, and she gathered up her wrap and the two of them began to make their way towards the doorway, Richard holding Anne’s arm solicitously. We passed in the center of the room, and she smiled, a sweet smile that illuminated her drawn, fine-boned face with a shadow of what must have been her former beauty, and I saw that she had no eyebrows at all. The lack of them, together with her jutting cheekbones, gave her face a curious, skull-like appearance.
“You’ll excuse me, I’m sure,” she said. Her voice was pure BBC English, no trace of accent that I could detect. “I’m very tired—I’m afraid I’m ducking out of dinner tonight. But I look forward to meeting you tomorrow.”
“Of course,” I said awkwardly, and then tried to smile. “I—I look forward to it, too.”
“I’m just going to see my wife to her cabin,” Richard Bullmer said. “I’ll be back before dinner is served.”
I looked at them as they walked slowly away and then said to Ben, “Her English is amazing. You’d never know she was Norwegian.”
“I don’t think she actually lived there much when she was younger. She spent most of her childhood at boarding schools in Switzerland, as far as I know. Right, cover me, Blacklock, I’m going in.”
He strode across the room, scooping up a handful of canapés as he went, and inserted himself into the little group with the practiced ease of a born journalist.
“Belhomme,” I heard him say, his tone full of a sort of Old Etonian faux bonhomie, which I knew to be completely out of keeping with his actual background, growing up on an Essex council estate. “Great to see you again. And you must be Lars Jenssen, sir, I read that profile of you in the FT. I very much admire your stance on the environment—mixing principles with business isn’t as easy as you make it look.”
Ugh, look at him, networking like a bastard. No wonder he was working at the Times doing proper investigative stuff, while I was stuck in Rowan’s shadow at Velocity. I should get over there. I should inveigle myself into conversation with them just as Ben had. This was my chance and I knew it. So why was I standing here, holding my glass with cold fingers, unable to make myself move?