Prologue
Off the Mediterranean Coast, late at night
‘Quick! He’s getting away!’
Two women in evening gowns give chase. Rushing across the pool deck of the giant cruise ship, they dive past the live band and down the stairs. Darting and dodging through the uniformed crew and jiving guests that have gathered for the Dancing Under the Stars extravaganza.
‘Sorry, excuse me, sorry,’ apologizes the older woman.
‘Get outta the way!’ yells the younger.
Rainbow-coloured cocktails go flying; paper umbrellas rain down like confetti through the warm, floodlit skies as passengers are knocked fully clothed into the swimming pool with loud shrieks and splashes.
‘What the . . .?’
‘Oh, my God, I am SO sorry! Please, send me the drycleaning bill.’
But there’s no time to stay and apologize.
The cruise ship is nineteen decks high and the length of three Premier League football pitches.
And he’s getting away. Clutching on to the hems of their dresses, they race in hot pursuit.
Adrenaline pumping. Chests heaving. Hearts hammering.
There might be a generation gap between these two women but you’d never know it from the way the fifty-year-old is out-sprinting the twenty-six-year-old.
‘Be careful, don’t trip—’
Too late. Spoke too soon.
‘Argh!’ As the older woman races ahead her heel catches on the sequinned hem and she goes flying.
‘Shit, you OK?’
‘I can’t run in these heels!’
‘Durrr! Don’t you know the high heel is a patriarchal tool to slow women down? Why do you think I’m wearing my trainers?’
‘Oh, shut up and give me a hand.’
OK, forget the bit about the generation gap.
A whistle blows behind them. They both snap back and turn to see the cruise ship’s own security team suddenly appear. They’re uniformed and armed with batons and stun guns.
‘Stop! Security!’
One of them shouts a command and waves a stun gun.
Hang on, is that a real gun? Screams rise up from the crowds but the fleeing assailant has no intention of being arrested and now the security team join the chase as he leaps tables and overturns chairs, roughly shoving guests and crew out of his path as he makes his getaway.
‘STOP HIM!’ both women yell urgently.
‘He’s a thief!’
‘A liar.’
Tossing her heels aside, the older woman clambers to her bare feet.
‘The biggest mistake of my life!’
Way up ahead, on the dance floor, Dolores Lopez from Miami, recently divorced and celebrating her new-found freedom with a two-week cruise around the Mediterranean with her two best girlfriends from high school, is on her third round of strawberry daiquiris and enjoying some kick-ass moves, when the live music abruptly stops and she suddenly finds herself in the middle of all this commotion.
And now directly in the path of a dark-haired man sprinting towards her. Hearing the woman’s cry, she’s unexpectedly – and very annoyingly – reminded of her ex-husband. And she really doesn’t want to be reminded of her ex-husband.
Which is the reason she decides to stick out her rhinestone stiletto.
‘It was for all the years I had to wear flats ’cos he was a short-ass,’ she tells local police the next the morning, showing them her six-inch stiletto as evidence when they come on board to take statements.
‘And that was for all the years I had to do his goddamn laundry,’ she adds, explaining why she tipped the rest of her daiquiri all over the assailant’s white dress shirt as he stumbled and fell.
What Dolores doesn’t tell the police is that for the split-second he lay at her feet, he flashed her a cute smile. Or that, taken aback by his reaction, instead of whacking him over the head with her empty cocktail glass, she stared, momentarily frozen. Then, unable to help herself, smiled back.
But it doesn’t go unnoticed by the two women, even from a distance.
‘Wait! Is he flirting with her?’
‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’
‘I don’t know. Does it? You don’t get many bears on the Pennines.’
And then before you know it, he’s up and off again, disappearing through the crowds.
‘Stop! Security! Surrender immediately!’
The team of security race past them. Crikey, where did they spring from?
‘Don’t worry. He can’t get away. We’re at sea.’
‘He always gets away with it.’
‘Not this time.’
‘That’s what you think.’
Breathless, the two women rush to catch up. As they near the helm of the ship they watch as he races up the staircase and leaps onto the glass railing. A loud gasp goes up from the crowd and a sound from a loudspeaker.
‘Move away from the edge!’
There’s nowhere further to go. Nowhere to run.
Finally caught, he turns and looks back at the armed security team, scanning the crowds of passengers, until his eyes fall on the two women.
They both stare at him as his gaze flicks from one to the other.
A few seconds. A million emotions. Anger.
Regret. Triumph. Loss. Heartbreak. Empowerment. Justice.
They reach for each other’s hand, squeezing tightly as armed security move forward to arrest him. This is it. The End. It’s over.
‘Gotcha,’ they mouth, fixing him with their gaze.
But instead of guilt and remorse, he stares back, unrepentant.
And then, with his figure silhouetted against the inky blackness, he turns to look at the wide ocean far below.
And he jumps.