“I told Hope I’d meet her there,” I confess.
Cue the mocking and fawning from the ladies, and the grimace from my father.
“Hope,” Mum says. “How nice. Isn’t she a lovely thing.”
“Far too lovely for Felix,” Prue says.
Meanwhile, Pear is singing, “When the boat is a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’,” in a very poor imitation of Elvis’s voice.
“That’s not an Elvis song,” I tell her.
“Just be careful,” Dad says. “Don’t… you know.”
“Oh, let him have his little cruise flirtation, Father,” Prue says. “It might make him nicer.”
“I agree,” Pear says. “I haven’t seen him this bubbly in months.”
“I am notbubbly,” I protest.
Prue stands up. “Well, come on then,” she says. “We can’t be late. Poor Felix may never have another date again, with his looks and attitude.”
We dash out of the restaurant but are confronted with a scrum on the way to the lifts, as the corridors are congested with fellow cruisers strolling about in evening finery—many a bow tie, many a sparkly frock. The ladies also seem fond of a heavy spritz of perfume. The lift smells like the cosmetics department at Selfridges.
Our pace is not helped by the fact that the ship is listing a bit, and people are moving more gingerly than usual. Which is good, as there will be a bottleneck if someone falls over and breaks a hip, and then we’ll certainly be late to meet Hope.
By the time we navigate to the theater, we only have three minutes to spare. I’m worried Hope will have given up on me and gone inside. But Pear elbows me and stage whispers: “Ooh. She dressed up for you.”
I follow her gaze to the doors, where Hope’s waiting with Lauren. She’s looking in the opposite direction, which gives me a moment to take her in. She’s got on a fluttery green dress that swishes around her hourglass figure, her hair is smoothed out into waves that fall down past her shoulders, and she’s wearing bright lipstick that radiates old-school glamour.
It’s like someone asked me to imagine my dream girl, then plucked her straight out of my brain.
I walk ahead of my sisters and say her name. She doesn’t look up—it’s loud amidst the crowd milling into the theater and she’s chatting with Lauren—so I tap her shoulder.
She jumps.
“Sorry!” I say. “It’s just me.”
She smiles softly, not at all hiding that she’s pleased to see me. “Ah. Just you.”
“Well, and my sisters,” I say, because they are now hovering six inches away from me, grinning.
“Hi, Hope and Lauren!” they singsong in unison.
I wish they’d given me thirty-five seconds to tell this woman how smashing she looks before barging up.
It’s fine. I’ll be sure to tell her later.
“Hey!” Hope says, flashing Prue and Pear a warm smile. “How are you?”
“Ready for the King!” Pear says. She switches to her fake Elvis voice and sings: “We’re gonna rock around the clock tonight—”
“Also not an Elvis song,” I interrupt.
“It is!” she protests.
“Bill Haley and His Comets,” Hope says. “My dad has the album. But Elvis covered it. So you’re both right.”
“Wow, good intel,” Prue says. “Are you a music buff?”
