Chapter Five
Waking the next morning, I am greeted by an almighty headache which I fully deserve.
Have I not learnt anything since my university days?
I lean over my bed and grab my phone. It’s already nine.
Shit. Breakfast finishes at ten and the tour I’ve booked today in Rovinj leaves at eleven-thirty.
This means there’s no time to feel sorry for myself.
Pity.
I groan horribly, tossing off the duvet and forcing myself to sit upright.
I instantly feel that familiar hangover ache throughout my body.
Even still, I manage to shower, get dressed and make myself semi-presentable in record speed, arriving at the clubrooms on the upper deck where I’m shown to a table and offered coffee.
See. This isn’t so bad!
I nab a croissant and some fresh fruit from the buffet, opting out of a hot breakfast today, and nurse my hangover with an unhealthy dose of sugar and caffeine. I’m just starting to relax, the dull ache at the base of my skull subsiding, when I spot him.
Bollocks.
He’s heading this way.
Fuck!
Not again! No, no, no!
Dread overwhelms me as the memory of last night’s emotional breakdown comes flooding back.
He probably thinks I’m a rude, insane woman who was practically hanging off the bow of the ship, howling her head off.
I dip in my seat, angling my face towards the view of the distant coastline as he strides past. Doesn’t matter if he was nice once.
His character is still up for scrutiny. I steal a glance in his direction.
I don’t think he’s spotted me.
What a relief!
When I’m sure he’s gone, I rise from my seat, pastries and coffee in hand, acutely aware of my surroundings and make a beeline for the deck, stopping dead in my tracks when I spot in him at the bar.
He’s fresh faced and wearing a loose fitted dark top.
He looks like he smells good – fresh and oaky.
A few of the younger guests (there are maybe five people under the age of sixty, including me and that man on this ship) are talking and laughing with him.
I can’t help but wonder what their dynamic is.
They don’t appear overly familiar, but there’s a strange intimacy.
Are they hitting on him?
Then one of the girls hands him her cap, which he takes and signs with a sharpie.
Is he famous?
Shit!
Is he famous?!
I knew he looked familiar, I just couldn’t place him. I still can’t. But then again, I’ve never been hot on celebrities.
Who is he?!
Imagine if he’s a low-key royal or an Olympic athlete, here on holiday and on the first night he had to escort an insensibly drunk, hysterical woman back to her room.
Oh, the horrors.
I force myself to keep walking, moving closer to the door, but just as I’m about to reach for the handle, he lifts his chin to meet my gaze.
Ahh!
His eyes lock with mine for the briefest of seconds and because I’m wholly embarrassed it does something mean to my insides.
I turn on my heel and launch myself out onto the deck, keeping my head down until I know I’m out of view. We’ll be arriving at the port soon, and I won’t have to worry about seeing him again.
Well, until later. Ugh!
*
The tour of Rovinj is slow and (honestly?) tedious.
Some of the historical facts are fun but the guide delivers them so slowly and without flair, possibly because he’s said the exact same thing five million times already, and because I am still, despite appearances, deeply hungover.
I keep finding myself drifting, heading instead towards things that interest me.
I’ve been to a few European cities before and what I love most is their quirky features: alleyways narrow enough you can reach out and touch both walls; rooms that seem to have been added at random, jutting out into the street with wonky windows and colourful shutters.
I wonder about the people who live here, strolling past amber coloured churches with their terracotta roofs, a few small markets and hundreds of cafes and restaurants. Not a high-street chain in sight.
By the end of the tour, I’ve finally managed to relax.
We part ways with the guide at a small market near the port, allowing everyone some time to browse the stalls at their own pace.
I’m hyperaware of not missing the departure time – they’ve made it clear they wait for no one.
Even if you’re rich and famous. Speaking of, I’m relieved our very own celebrity didn’t join the tour.
Just the thought of being in close proximity is initiating my fight-or-flight response.
Unfortunately, I do spot him as we’re heading back along the dock towards the ship. He’s sitting on a bench, his sandy curls bursting from under the black cap he’s wedged onto his head. A large camera hangs around his neck and he looks like he’s studying the contents.
While his head is down, I pull out my phone. There’s no way my sisters won’t know who he is if he is indeed famous. It’s possible, of course, that he’s the captain or something and cruise fanatics get their captains to sign things – but I doubt it. I might be oblivious but I’m not entirely daft.
I find my camera app and hold it up towards him, snapping a quick photo. Click.
Shitting fuck.
When did I turn it off silent? It’s so loud the people in front turn on me with a scowl.
“So sorry,” I say. “I was taking a selfie.” They’re clearly very sophisticated so I can’t decide if they’re more offended by the selfie part or my phone making noise part.
Does the embarrassment never end?!
I sneak a look back to Mr Celebrity only to find him smiling. He lifts his camera and points it at me, before clicking several times. I’m pretty sure my face is beet red. When he lowers the camera, he laughs, then winks in my direction.
Well, I deserved that, didn’t I?
Back in my room, I send the photo to my sisters for their (mostly harmless) stalking abilities.
Is this man famous?