Hooked on You
Chapter 1 Ore
Chapter 1
Ore
Nouméa, New Caledonia
Ore wasn’t sure she was going to make it. Her footing was no less affected by the sway of the waves than her stomach was, and what had seemed a simple journey to the railings, now felt an impossible feat. She brought her hand to her mouth, and stumbled on.
As she vomited down the side of the boat, her mind cleared enough for her to register the footsteps approaching.
‘What are you doing out here? Vicky is waiting for you inside, and you need to get into your uniform ASAP.’ His voice was stern, low and gravelly; she’d lived in New York long enough now to detect a southern twang, though she couldn’t narrow it down any further than that. She could tell he was black, as she usually could.
She armed herself with her brightest smile and turned around, ready to explain herself. She was painfully aware that she must look like shit. To make matters worse she found herself taken aback by how handsome the face looking back at her was. Still, he was the first to drop his gaze.
‘I’m not …’ she started, just as another wave hit her and she returned to her agonisingly inelegant position hunched over the railings.
‘Just what we need,’ she heard him mutter under his breath, which she felt was a little unfair. She threw up again, wondering what could possibly be left in her stomach.
When the retching subsided, she turned back, wiping her mouth and smiling apologetically.
The pretty man in the white uniform did not return it, and Ore wondered how bad she must look to have lost her touch. Most men could be relied upon to smile back at her.
‘I’m sorry, I was just waiting for …’ she started, but he held up his hand, to cut her off.
‘There’s no point spouting excuses. Let’s get you to Vicky; she’ll know what to do with you.’
Ore was taken aback, humbled even. The man turned on his heel and walked off briskly.
‘Follow me,’ he called over his shoulder, without slowing down. Ore scurried after him. ‘I’m Captain Wilsons, but you’ll be answering to the first stewardess.’
‘I …’ Ore tried to interject and explain, but she was trotting along to keep up and every time she opened her mouth, she faced the peril of something other than words spilling out.
Finally he stopped, so suddenly that Ore walked into him. They were standing outside a nondescript cream door, far too close to each other. He seemed to come to the realisation at the exact same moment, stepping away and looking down awkwardly.
‘This is the mess,’ he mumbled. ‘You can meet the rest of the crew.’
‘I’m not …’ Ore felt as though the room was swaying. As her vision blurred, she knew there was nothing she could do to stop what was about to happen.
It splashed across his highly polished shoes, onto the floor and a little up the walls. Ore was doubled over, and glad for it. She suspected she would never be able to look the man in his rather beautiful face, ever again.
Just then, the door swung open. Ore could only imagine what Vicky’s first thought might be on finding the captain splattered with vomit and the errant reporter heaving onto the cream carpet. To her credit, Vicky seemed undaunted. She calmly ushered Ore through the door, leaving the captain out in the corridor.
‘Drink this.’ Vicky sat Ore down at a large table in the middle of the room and handed her a glass of cloudy-looking water. Ore eyed it suspiciously.
‘It’s just rehydration salts, dear. I’m not trying to poison you,’ Vicky said dryly. She spoke with a slight accent, which Ore couldn’t place. As she drank, Vicky got out a walkie-talkie.
‘I have the journalist with me in the mess. She’s …’ Vicky unashamedly eyed Ore from head to toe ‘… looking a little worse for wear,’ she finished diplomatically.
The response was so muffled, Ore could barely make it out: something something ‘quarters’, something something ‘dinner’.
‘Copy that,’ Vicky said flatly, clipping the radio back onto her belt. Reading Ore’s look of confusion, she explained: ‘I’ll take you to your room to get changed and cleaned up, and then Chuck will meet you for dinner at seven on the third deck.’
‘Was that him on the radio?’ Ore had regained enough of her senses to remember that she was here to ask questions.
Vicky chuckled wryly. ‘No, that was Agatha .’ Ore detected a hint of venom in the way she said the name. Ore already knew who Agatha was, but it was always best not to let on how much research you’d done. She remembered her favourite professor’s advice: play dumb; it’s amazing what most people will tell you when they think you don’t really understand what’s going on. Gail Fairweather had led the investigative course at Columbia.
‘Who’s Agatha?’ Ore asked innocently.
Vicky gave her a hard look; maybe she wasn’t as easily played as ‘most people’.
‘Mr Regas’ assistant,’ she said finally, clearly having decided that this information didn’t qualify as ‘classified’.
‘Ah.’ Ore smiled brightly. ‘Thanks very much for that.’ She gestured to the empty glass. ‘I feel much better already.’ Vicky nodded curtly. This had not been the plan. She had hoped to charm all the staff from the word go. They were the key to this story after all – a profile was just a puff piece if you didn’t go hard on background.
Suddenly she remembered the captain in the corridor. ‘I should apologise to Captain Wilsons,’ she said, trying to stand. Immediately a wave of nausea washed over her, and she quickly sat back down.
‘Oh don’t worry about him; he’s just a contractor. He’ll hardly be able to tell you anything about Mr Regas, and that’s why you’re here right?’ Ore felt very much that Vicky was the one calling the shots in this conversation. She had forfeited that privilege the moment she was found covered in her own sick.
‘Noted.’ Ore was keen to get to her room and get herself in the zone before dinner with Chuck. She wasn’t going to let this false start dampen her enthusiasm. ‘I think I’ll head to my room now if that’s OK? I’m not sure where my bags are though …’
‘Oscar will have taken them off the chopper to the room already.’ Vicky was already at the door. Ore scrambled after her, noticing that the captain was nowhere to be seen as she was marched down the corridor, up some stairs, down some others, through a door and then down again. Ore realised she was going to have a hard time navigating this boat – literally and figuratively.
‘Here we are.’ The door in front of them was made of highly polished wood, not the flimsy beige laminate she had just seen in the crew quarters. Ore pushed it open and gasped.
The first thing that struck her was the light, streaming in through two floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the space. It was immense and momentarily blinding, somehow more so than being outside in its direct reach. Once her eyes adjusted from the gloomy corridor, the distinction between the midday expanse of sunlight sky, and the sparkle-dappled waves came into focus. They both stretched out into the infinite horizon. Wandering around the boat, she had begun to feel what she guessed was something like cabin fever. But the room in front of her was about as far from a ‘cabin’ as you could get.
The bed was huge, and half covered in an array of unnecessary cushions of various sizes. The carpet underfoot was plush and the ceiling surprisingly high.
‘This is the bathroom.’ Vicky pointed to another door, which stood opposite a huge built-in wardrobe. Ore was almost salivating over the shelf space, as she thought about the plastic crates stuffed full of clothes, crammed under her bed in her tiny room in Queens.
Ore turned the handle. She had high hopes for this bathroom, and she was not disappointed. For a moment her mind went on a tangent, trying to imagine how you go about getting a standalone marble bath onto a boat.
‘Your bags are here.’ Vicky, of course, was impervious, and seemed impatient to get on with other, more important things.
‘Thank you very much – the room is absolutely lovely.’ Ore couldn’t help her childish glee.
Vicky smiled politely, though it never reached her eyes, then bowed her head slightly as she backed out of the room.
Ore was impatient to take stock of her home for the next two weeks. She would have to go exploring before dinner. It wasn’t often that her freelance gigs involved staying on a six-hundred-million-dollar superyacht. Admittedly, that was only an estimate – it turned out the world of the international super-rich and the value of their assets were frustratingly opaque. She assumed that was the point. Maybe she would just ask Chuck directly. He had seemed surprisingly friendly, forthcoming even, when they had spoken on the phone.
Ore supposed that she was in a strange position in the hierarchy of the boat: not quite guest and not quite staff. A spy then, she thought mischievously.
It was hard to believe that this time two weeks ago she had been in despair, wondering if she even wanted to be a journalist anymore, and now here she was, in the thick of it and raring to go. Pulled back into the here and now, she knew that the very first thing to do was shower and change, and then let the adventure begin.