Chapter 23
I pull back the sliding door and step out onto the balcony, the salty sea breeze immediately filling my nostrils.
It’s glorious. The July sun is shining, the warm breeze is welcome and it’s my first full day at sea.
How exciting. I have the whole day to explore the ship and maybe have a couple of cocktails by the pool in my new blue swimsuit with its surprisingly effective tummy control panel and sewn-in nipple covers.
I don’t need to be pointing in anyone’s direction when a cool wind blows my way.
After smelling the shower gel last night, my jasmine bodywash comes with me into the bathroom. I tie my hair into a bun, stick on the cap and step into the shower. Since I’m going to the pool later, I skip the hair washing. By the time it takes me to dry it, it’ll be time to fly home.
There are four other people, all smelling like that bloody bodywash.
An energetic couple wearing matching Union Jack hoodies, who keep giggling like children, and an older lady with a younger woman.
They look like mother and daughter, which gives me a fleeting moment of sadness.
My mum and I are both going on cruises, but we would never dream of going together.
We’re just too different. As I’ve aged, I’ve become far more reserved than I used to be, whereas Mum is the opposite.
I’m the one who would have to keep an eye on her and we’d both resent that.
‘Buenos días!’ we’re greeted by a rather handsome member of staff as we all enter the dining room.
The couple behind me giggle again (nothing is that funny) as they clumsily reply, ‘Grazie.’ At least they made the effort, even if it’s in Italian.
The mother and daughter ignore him, eyes fixed on the extensive bread display.
Everything smells amazing. After only one sitting last night, I consider myself to be a brown belt at buffets. Prepare, attack, retreat.
After finding a seat, I saunter over to the plates. I look around, deciding what I’m in the mood for. Fruit? Maybe yoghurt and granola. A croissant with my coffee? I pause at the hot counter. Or maybe a big dirty, unsophisticated fry-up, like the one I see a gentleman devouring at the next table.
One plate of sausages, bacon, mushrooms, a poached egg (not lukewarm) and toast later, I realise that I probably should have gone with the croissant and coffee.
I’m so full, I might throw up. Or burst. Maybe both, because there are no restrictions to how many ways you can humiliate yourself in public at once.
Naomi once got so drunk, she tripped over a traffic cone, threw up and farted all in the space of thirty seconds.
Thankfully by the time I’ve finished my tea, my gluttony is starting to wear off, though I might need a crane to transport me from the table to my cabin.
I return to my room and immediately loosen my skirt.
Day two and I’m already expanding to Violet Beauregarde levels.
I call the restaurants, hoping to make bookings for the rest of the week.
There are eight restaurants in total, including the buffet.
Main dining room (assigned seating time is 7 p.m.), Italian, steakhouse, Japanese, Mexican, seafood and global, where a combination of cuisines is available for larger groups where no one can agree on where to eat.
Global, Mexican, Italian and the steakhouse are fully booked for the week, which leaves me with Japanese, seafood and the main dining room, booked for tonight, Friday and Saturday.
Given my current state, I’m finding it hard to get excited about anything food related but I’m sure I will do nearer the time.
Right now I feel like some Gaviscon might be required.
My eyes glance down and notice a splatter of egg on the front of my T-shirt. Jesus, why can’t I eat or drink like a normal adult? There are two-year-olds with better hand-eye coordination.
As I scrub the eggy mess, my phone vibrates in my bag.
I need photos and an update. Are you married yet? Being prised from the jaws of a great white shark? Romanced by a Polish oil baron with a weak heart?
Noami, it’s only my second day! I’ve barely had time to get used to my surroundings.
I realise that I haven’t even bothered to assess the man situation. I’ve barely even looked. She doesn’t need to know that. I see her typing on WhatsApp.
You haven’t even bothered to look, have you?
Dammit. She knows me too well.
You’re not just here for a jolly, Sophie. You have a mission, a quest for—
I’ll send you some photos. Got to run, going to the pool. Byeee!
I swiftly send her the few photos I have and close WhatsApp. Hopefully that will satisfy her for a while. She’s right, though, I didn’t come here just to relax and eat myself into oblivion. I’m here to increase my chances of meeting someone.
Fuelled by sausages and determination, I jump off the bed, rebutton my skirt, powder my shiny face and make my way back downstairs, credit card in my cardigan pocket.
Exploring the ship is my next plan of action.
I can also buy overpriced nonsense at the gift shops while I scout for men in a completely non-threatening manner.
One eye on the duty free, another on potential targets. No, not targets, Sophie. Companions.
The lift is empty for one floor before everyone else piles in.
With the exception of a gentleman in a straw trilby, all the other people in the lift are dressed in beachwear.
I’ve never seen so many shades of pink in one place.
They chatter in German, which reminds me of the speed dating Bier Halle catastrophe.
I recognise some of the words from my lessons at secondary school.
Ja, nein and ich habe Hunger (the trilby gentleman) and others I would recognise if I’d actually paid attention to Frau Tweedy and her front-seamed trousers.
As the rest of the conversation goes completely over my head, I decide to make it my next life goal to revisit the German I haven’t spoken since 1996.
I’m grateful to the blonde lady who carries her sun hat in a crowded space but glares at the back of another who has kept hers on.
As much as I want to knock it off her head, I decide that I’d rather not have an assault charge on day two.
The door opens on floor two and I squeeze my way out.
The shopping areas look exactly like a mall and are just as busy.
The white floors shine below the spotlit ceilings with neon trim.
Tall mirrors have been placed in between glass shopfronts, showcasing bags, watches, jewellery, clothing, wine and every kind of souvenir from soft toys to keyrings.
In the middle sits a kid’s merry-go-round, a genius idea to keep the rugrats entertained in between being dragged around stores by their selfish parents.
Looking around, the only solo shoppers I see are women.
There are plenty of menfolk shuffling around but unsurprisingly they’re attached to wives, girlfriends and children begging for stuff they’ll play with once and then forget about.
If I could have kids, I’m certain that I’d only like my own spawn.
Other people’s children are just so annoying.
Well, apart from Naomi’s twins. I’d like to think that my role as fun Aunt Sophie was pivotal to their upbringing and resulting awesomeness.
I figure that my first stop should be the watch store.
My reasoning is that men buy watches, especially expensive ones, unless they are like my last fling Will, a forty-year-old man who wore a digital, silver Casio watch.
It cost him twenty pounds from a charity shop and played the most irritating alarm jingle I’ve ever heard.
The watches on display start from nine hundred pounds and run into the thousands. I guess that if I had that kind of money to spend on a watch, I think I’d rather buy it here, tax free, than be fleeced on land by a charmer with a bag full of knock-off Rolexes.
But as watches go, the ones here are nice.
A simple, silver Cartier watch grabs my attention but for three and a half grand I’d expect something that wasn’t so simple.
Plain even. I’d at least expect a leather handbag and private jet to carry it home in.
Maybe some Wedgwood bowls to hold the ramen I’d be forced to live on after blowing my remaining savings on a timepiece.
However, there are two men in the store.
One tall middle-aged guy in linen trousers and another shorter blond-haired man in red cargo shorts.
They continue perusing the glass cabinets closely, despite the fact they’re both already wearing watches.
I don’t get the fascination with watches. I haven’t worn a watch since 2010, preferring to check my phone or Alexa when she understands what the hell I’m saying. Still, red shorts man is quite fit, so I begin to peruse too.
‘Can I help you with anything, madam?’
I smile at the woman behind the counter. People don’t call me madam enough. Or at all. I like it.
‘I’m fine,’ I reply. ‘Just looking.’
As I see red shorts glance in my direction, an idea springs to mind. This man obviously likes watches so much, he wants to buy two. Maybe this is a good opener. I sidle up to him.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘I’m looking for something for my . . . brother.’
Confused, he looks down at his attire, then back at me. ‘I don’t work here.’
Despite his snippy tone, I laugh. His Australian accent is quite charming. ‘Of course, but I’m sure you could help me anyway. It’s my brother’s birthday and, well, I’m just not too sure what he’d like.’
Red shorts stares at me like I’m an idiot. ‘Well, if you’re not sure, how would I know what your brother likes?’
This Australian man has a point. I should have thought this through more. It was a great idea until I opened my mouth. I smile politely. ‘Sorry, no, I just meant, it’s a gift and I thought another man might be able to point me in the direction of something cool. Not too stuffy.’
Red shorts sighs and looks at the display case. ‘Hmm, for a basic watch, you can’t go wrong with a Tag or Longines. For more premium, I’d go with Omega.’
I glance down. There’s a Tag for ￡1,950.
￡1,950 is basic? They have three Omega watches, none of which has a price tag.
How is that even legal? I don’t know whether to snort or march my middling salary arse right out of the store.
I can see the saleswoman hovering nearby.
If I don’t move quickly, she’s going to start making me touch the merchandise with my big man hands.
‘Thanks,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe shop around a bit.’
‘Right. Good for you.’
He turns his back and waves the assistant over. The only thing this man is leaving with is a second watch and the knowledge that I’m a moron.
I back up to the exit and continue along the shopping mall, wondering what other male shopping stereotypes I can come up with.
The only other male-focused shop appears to offer suits and tux rentals.
Why would I be in there? To buy a suit for my fake brother?
Rent a tux for my dead father? What if there are no customers besides me and I’m set upon by commission-hungry salespeople?
I decide to get a drink and rethink my plans.
The bar at the end of the mall isn’t too busy and I’m surprised to see that it’s a pub.
Inside it looks like a smaller version of The Duck and Ivy near the office.
Outside, there are tables and chairs; inside, a classic brown bar, wrapped around the back of the room, with barstools in front and a huge selection of bottles behind.
There are several round tables inside with padded beige chairs, a dartboard and two large TV screens showing football without any sound.
Unlike The Duck and Ivy, there isn’t an old drunk in the corner, six pints in, having a fight with himself.
I take a seat at the bar and despite it being seconds after 12 p.m., I order a rum and Coke.
The staff behind the bar are British, which I’m sure will be a great comfort to those who complain that their foreign holiday is full of foreigners, and they don’t serve Heinz beans or chips.
After the watch fiasco, I’m starting to feel a little foolish.
The whole point of undertaking this ‘365 days of yes’ challenge was to throw myself into different situations where I might meet someone, not try and force men to help me choose a gift for my fake brother.
Why do I keep inventing family members? Next, I’ll be claiming to have five nephews and a talking horse.
‘I think you dropped this.’
The man beside me holds up a room card. I reach inside my pocket to find my credit card and some crumbs from the cookie I grabbed from the buffet last night.
‘God, thank you! I didn’t even notice.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ he replies, in an American accent. ‘I expect plenty of these will be lost before we even get to the next port.’
‘Really? Good to know. That makes me feel less of an idiot.’
I slip it back into my pocket. If I were alone, I’d slip it into my bra for safe keeping, the same place I keep my keys, my earbuds and occasionally the remote control.
Naomi keeps her vape and her mobile phone in her bra when she’s out in the garden.
As great as pockets are, they’re not quite as reliable as a Marks and Spencer DD cup.
The man next to me is attractive, only this doesn’t fully register with me until he finishes his drink and gets up.
I’m somewhat grateful, otherwise I might have asked him to help me choose a drink for my imaginary friend, cementing my idiot status.
He has black hair, deep brown eyes and a small amount of stubble, which leads me to believe that, just like me, he didn’t bother grooming before breakfast.
‘Have a nice day,’ he says, pushing his empty glass to the back of the bar.
‘Same,’ I reply, ‘and thanks again!’
I try not to watch him walk away but my eyes refuse to look elsewhere. My urge to follow and make conversation is strong but in no universe is this man single. He most definitely has a girlfriend on board with him. Possibly a wife. Maybe both.
I turn back around and finish my drink.