“Great,” I say. “My phone’s about to die.”
“At least you have one,” she mutters.
“What?”
“I forgot mine on the boat.”
A push alert pops up on my phone from my credit card company.
It’s a potential fraud notification asking me to verify a £3,201.22 charge.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
“What?” Hope asks.
“My wallet was stolen and now someone’s trying to use my card.”
Her eyes go wide. “Was your ID inside?”
“Yep.”
“So to recap,” she says. “We’re both stranded in a foreign country without our passports, and you have no money or ID, and I have no phone.”
“And my phone’s about to die, for good measure.”
“What do we do?” she asks.
I close my eyes. There are so many layers to this catastrophe that I’m not sure which problem to attempt to solve first.
And the fact that there’s a “we” here is not helping.
“I don’t bloody know,” I say.
We both stare off into middle distance, where we can still see theRomance of the Seachugging serenely away.
“To be very clear,” she says. “I have no desire to be in your presence. However, under the circumstances, I think we need to work together. If you can convince yourself this isn’t part of my master plan to steal your fortune.”
I don’t have a choice. Hope may be a manipulative person, but she’s the onlyone I’ve got at present. And all she’s missing is her phone. I’m missing money and my entire identity. In the hierarchy of who is more fucked, I’m at the top.
“You’re right,” I say. “We need to team up.”
She rubs her temple with an air both tragic and weary. “All right,” she says, “here’s the plan. We’re not going to be able to apply for passports tonight. And you’ll probably need to file a police report to document that your ID was stolen in order to get travel papers. So we need to find a police station.”
“Yes,” I say. “Which will require my phone not to die. So first, phone charger.”
She nods. “Let’s ask where the closest place to buy one is.”
The kiosk guy directs us to a shop on the high street across from the port. Hope buys a charger, and I ask the clerk if I can plug in my phone for a few minutes. We sit down on the floor next to an outlet. Hope is silent while I methodically cancel my credit cards.
A text message from my sister comes through.
Pear:Where are you? We’re waiting.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I forgot about the dinner. As an anniversary gift to my parents, I arranged a ten-course private tasting menu for my family tonight at the chef’s table. We’re due to meet for pictures with the cruise ship photographer beforehand.
My family is going to go mental. And I, once again, am the self-destructive twat who can’t be trusted not to destroy their happiness, even when I try to do something thoughtful.
I am awash in a shame I haven’t felt since about six months into my sobriety, when I finally began to believe I was worthy of earning back their trust.
