The Woman in Cabin 10(23)

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound too pathetically grateful.

“Great. It’s number one. Looking forward to it.”

“Sorry,” Cole said in a low voice, his breath tickling the hair tucked behind my ear. “Did my best. What can I say? He’s a wanted man. How can I make it up to you?”

“Never mind,” I said awkwardly. He was standing uncomfortably close and I wanted to take a step back, but Rowan’s voice was nagging in the back of my head: Network, Lo! “Tell me . . . tell me something about yourself instead. What made you come? You said it’s not your usual thing.”

“Richard’s kind of an old friend,” Cole said. He grabbed a coffee from a passing stewardess’s tray and took a gulp. “We were at Balliol together. So when he asked me to come, I felt I couldn’t say no.”

“Are you close?”

“I wouldn’t say close. We don’t really move in the same circles—it’s hard when one of you is a struggling photographer and the other one’s married to one of the wealthiest women in Europe.” He gave a grin. “But he’s a good guy. He might look like he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but that’s not the full picture. He’s had some tough times and I guess that’s what makes him hold on all the harder to . . . well, all this.” He waved a hand at our surroundings—at the silk and crystals and burnished fittings. “He knows what it’s like to lose things. And people.”

I thought of Anne Bullmer, and the way Richard had walked her to her cabin in spite of the roomful of guests waiting to talk to him. And I thought perhaps I knew what Cole meant.


It was around eleven that I finally made my way back to my room. I was drunk. Very, very drunk. Although it was hard to tell exactly how drunk, as we were now midocean, and the shifting movement of the sea mixed queasily with the champagne . . . and the wine . . . oh, and the frozen shots of aquavit. Christ. What had I been thinking?

There was a moment of clarity when I got to my door and stood for a moment, steadying myself on the frame. I knew why I’d got drunk. I knew exactly why. Because if I was drunk enough, I would sleep the sleep of the dead. I couldn’t cope with another broken night—not here.

But I pushed the thought away and began the task of retrieving my room key from where I’d stashed it inside my bra.

“Need a hand, Blacklock?” slurred a voice behind me, and Ben Howard’s shadow fell across the doorframe.

“I’m fine,” I said, turning my back so that he couldn’t see me struggling. A wave hit the boat and I lurched and staggered. Go away, Ben.

“Sure?” He leaned over me, deliberately peering over my shoulder.

“Yes”—my teeth were gritted with fury—“I’m sure.”

“Because I could help.” He gave a lascivious grin and nodded towards the top of my dress, which I was gripping with one hand to stop it from peeling down. “You look like you could use an extra hand. Or two.”

“Fuck off,” I said shortly. There was something wedged beneath my left shoulder blade, something warm and hard that felt a lot like a key. If I could only get my fingers far enough round . . .

He moved closer, and before I’d realized what he was about to do, he shoved his hand roughly down the front of my dress. I felt a streak of pain as his cuff links dragged over my skin, and then his fingers closed over my bare breast and squeezed, hard, in a way that was presumably meant to be erotic.

It wasn’t.

I didn’t even think about it. There was a ripping noise like a snarling cat, and my knee connected with his groin so hard that he didn’t even cry out, he just toppled slowly to the floor, making a kind of weak, gasping whimper.

And I burst into tears.


Some twenty minutes later I was sitting on the bed in my cabin, still sobbing and wiping borrowed mascara off my cheeks, and Ben was crouched next to me, one arm around my shoulders and the other holding a tumbler of ice against his crotch.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice still croaky with suppressed pain. “Please, Lo, please, stop crying. I’m really sorry. I was a dick, a complete arsehole. I deserved it.”

“It’s not you,” I sobbed, though I wasn’t sure he could understand the words. “I can’t cope anymore, Ben, ever since the burglar I’ve just been— I think I’m going mad.”

“What burglar?”

I told him—between sobs. Everything I hadn’t told Jude. What it had been like, waking up, realizing there was someone in my flat, realizing that no one would hear if I cried out, realizing that I had no way of getting help, no chance of fighting the intruder off, that I was vulnerable in a way I’d never thought I was before that night.

“I’m sorry,” Ben kept repeating, like a mantra. He rubbed my back with his free hand. “I’m so sorry.”

His awkward sympathy only made me sob harder.

“Look, sweetheart—”

Oh no.

“Don’t call me that.” I sat up, shaking my hair away from my face, and pulled out of his hold.

“Sorry, it just— It slipped out.”

“I don’t care, you can’t say that anymore, Ben.”

“I know,” he said distractedly. “But, Lo, if I’m honest, I never—”