Chapter 29
I won’t lie, I’m nervous. Even after two daiquiris, the much-needed bravado hasn’t quite hit yet.
I’m torn as to why I feel like this. I’m a confident woman.
I wow clients, mastermind campaigns, never letting my nerves affect me.
So why has this foray into saying yes turned all of that on its head?
The further I’ve gone, the more I’ve started caring what other people think.
Doubting myself. What happened to the legend?
The force to be reckoned with? The icon?
I wear a blue dress and white wedge sandals, my make-up simple and my hair tied in a side braid.
My mother believes that any kind of braid or pigtails should be abandoned after the age of twelve.
She also thinks the same about chicken nuggets and cereal.
I often wonder what it’s like to be so clearly wrong.
This is marketed as a dating event, even down to the pink love heart over the letter ‘I’ in singles.
However, as previously discovered, the singles aspect of the mixer could also apply to solo travellers and not necessarily unattached.
Although through the power of critical thinking, I figure that not many attached people are going to dump their significant others to cruise alone.
I walk up to the lounge and make sure the sign is definitely for a singles’ mixer and not the line dancing contest.
No shorts, flip-flops, beach clothes, sportswear or baseball caps.
Calm down, bikini police, I get it.
The space is bright, with neon everywhere from the lights to the bar.
There are four or five tables with plush purple seating and a large floor space.
I imagine this is where the mingling happens.
It’s 9.12 p.m. (never arrive too early for cocktails and awkwardness) and not particularly busy, though having never been to a singles mixer on a cruise, I have nothing to compare it to.
The fifteen or so people I see inside might constitute an excellent turnout, or an abject failure, I’m not sure.
Like all good mixers there’s a table of bellinis on the right and, further in, a spread of finger foods and nibbles, in case hunger strikes in the middle of forced conversation.
As I walk in, I tell myself not to be so pessimistic.
My dinner companions are delightful, so why should anyone here be any different?
Sure, from first glance it looks a little like a wedding reception, or a sunburn support group, but there are a mix of ages and genders, so that’s a start.
As I take a glass from the table, and scan the room, Alex’s words pop into my head.
Just remember, it’s not about being on the hunt, it’s about putting yourself into unfamiliar situations and being open to what that might lead to.
Gotcha. Just mingle and see what happens.
‘Come here often?’
I chuckle politely. Yes, it’s cheesy but full marks to the man in the white jeans who wasn’t anywhere near me three seconds ago and is now close enough to smell. That shower gel has got a lot to answer for.
‘I didn’t know people were still using that line,’ I tease.
‘What line?’ he asks. ‘I wasn’t using a line.’
I laugh again. ‘Do you come here often? It’s the oldest line in the book!’
He frowns. ‘What book? I was just asking a question. I’ve never attended one of these events. I was asking if you had.’
Shit. This is already off to a bad start. ‘Isn’t this the first mixer?’ I ask.
‘No, there’s already been two.’
Damn. They must delete events after they’ve happened.
‘My mistake,’ I reply. ‘And no, I haven’t been before. First time here, first time on a cruise.’
‘All right,’ he huffs, his eyes already focused somewhere else.
And he leaves. He’s either entirely clueless with regards to using that line in any other context or I annoyed him by not immediately playing along and falling for his charms.
I turn and face the other direction, hoping that future conversations go a little better. A woman to my left gives me a little nudge.
‘Ah, so you’ve met the come here often guy. Don’t worry, he asks everyone that. Thought he might have started wording his question differently by now. Obviously not.’
I smile as a wave of relief washes over me. ‘Oh, thank God,’ I reply. ‘Honestly, I wondered if I was just old and no one actually uses that line any more. I felt a bit silly.’
She laughs. ‘No, it’s still a thing and he’s the one who’s old. Dude must be at least late forties.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply, pretending she did not just say that. ‘He must be.’
I don’t know whether to feel insulted by her statement or happy that she thinks I’m not in the late forties category.
‘I’m Harper, by the way.’
‘Sophie,’ I reply. ‘Well, thanks for the heads up.’
‘No problem. There are some decent people here,’ Harper informs me. ‘We mainly come for the awesome snacks. But just be wary of the pineapples.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The pineapples.’ She grins. ‘If you see someone with a little upside-down pineapple pin, or one on their room door handle, hell, even a shirt with pineapples on it, I’d move on. Well, unless you’re into that.’
‘Into what? Sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Swingers! You know, couple swapping. Good timers.’
My jaw hits the floor. ‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Nope. It’s their secret code. A lot less common on this kind of cruise, but it still happens.’
‘But I’m not in a couple, so—’
‘They play with singles too. It’s a lifestyle thing. See the girl in the pink dress over there . . . by the bar.’
I look and spot her. Pretty girl. Light brown hair in a French roll. I wonder if she did that herself or used the on-board salon.
‘That’s my friend Jess. Last year she went on a cruise with her ex-boyfriend Dominic. They were clueless too until they got chatting to a whole table of swingers at dinner.’
‘Wow,’ I reply. ‘They must have been—’
‘Totally into it. Swapped with a couple from Poland.’
I cannot contain my laughter. ‘Whatever floats your boat!’ I reply. ‘No pun intended.’
‘She thought it was a one-time holiday thing. But her boyfriend thought it was the beginning of a new phase in their relationship. Hence the ex part.’
I see Jess wave Harper over. Harper acknowledges. ‘Looks like she’s had enough. I’d better run,’ she says. ‘Nice meeting you!’
‘You too,’ I reply, watching them skip off.
I turn to look at the rest of the room, which seems to be emptying just as quickly, though I do see a woman in a flowery muumuu attach her face to a guy in tartan trousers.
Good for them, I think, finishing my drink.
At least someone is having fun. Me? Not so much. Time for Hairspray #301.
I take the lift up to the main theatre, looking forward to singing along in my head, unless other people sing out loud in which case I’ll unabashedly join in.
The glass-fronted lifts give quite the view of the ship, especially at night.
Everything is warmly lit, with people sipping drinks on the terraces, surrounded by intermittent greenery from the plants, shrubs and flowers placed on each level.
As I reach the theatre, I can already hear the buzz of the audience.
Inside it’s exactly as I’d expect it to look.
Three tiers of seating with a stage at the front, only this is far more glamorous.
Neon lights stretch across the ceiling and the stage backdrop is illuminated in a vibrant blue.
The seats aren’t reserved so I look for somewhere that isn’t too close to the abundance of hyper children already bouncing on seats.
I find a space beside a couple, smile politely and sit down.
The opening music starts and the crowd whoops.
I sit forward, almost giddy as ‘Good Morning Baltimore’ begins.
Then I see Tracy Turnblad and my heart sinks a little.
Is that a fat suit? She looks like pudgy Monica from Friends. Disappointing.