“Me too,” I say. “Gives me something to focus on while I’m cooking.”
“Same.”
“You cook?” I ask.
“Well, not professionally, but I love it. It relaxes me.”
“What do you do professionally?”
“This and that,” she says, waving away the question. “Nothing interesting. Mostly PR.” She says this apologetically, like her job is embarrassing. “I’d much rather be a chef. Sounds exciting.”
“It has its pleasures. Next time you’re in London you can come by one of my pubs and I’ll put you to work in the kitchen.”
“I wish,” she says. “I haven’t been there since grad school. Haven’t been abroad at all, actually.”
“You’re abroad now, I think. International waters.”
“Soaking up the rich culture of this cruise ship, yes,” she says, gesturing at our elderly compatriots sleeping in their lounge chairs.
“Well, don’t discount the excursions,” I say. “You can absorb the vibrant culture of luxury beach clubs. What are you planning on doing—”
I’m trying to see if she’s going on any of the scheduled outings at port, so I could perhaps conveniently join her, but her friend comes bounding toward us and plops down at Hope’s feet.
“Felix!” she says. “It is Felix, right?”
“Indeed. And you’re…” I wince. I don’t remember her name.
“Lauren,” she provides, unoffended. “I’m starving after that. Want to join us for brunch?”
I consider accepting even though I gorged myself on (very good) pastries an hour ago, but I don’t want to come on too strong.
Or maybe I’m just nervous.
It’s been years since I’ve had a crush on a girl.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I say. “I’ve already eaten.”
Hope starts gathering her things.
“Nice chatting,” I say to her.
She smiles at me. “Yeah, see you around.” She gestures with her chin at my book. “Can’t wait to hear what you think of the ending.”
I’ve never wanted to finish a novel so badly in my life.
I spend a few hours reading and pounding back iced teas. Hope is correct that Casaubon gets worse—the bloke is even a controlling asshole from the grave. Why is everyone in nineteenth-century novels so miserable?
By midday it’s grown intolerably hot, even in the shade. I’m about to pack up and retreat to my room when my entire family comes down the staircase from the Recreation Deck, dressed in tennis whites.
“We just bollocksed the girls at doubles,” Dad reports to me cheerfully.
Prue and Pear both scowl at him.
“Unfair victory,” Pear says.
“The wind was against us,” Prue adds.
Prue and Pear hate losing at anything.
