Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
WHERE IT ALL BEGAN . . .
Peter was in his cabin, where, thankfully, the plumbing seemed to be fully functioning.
He sat down on the bed and thought of the conversation at breakfast, feeling rather chuffed that it had been suggested by others that his birthday be celebrated at the dinner that evening.
Peter didn’t want to be sixty, but it was a milestone in his life.
On the table by his bed sat Bob’s birthday gift, and reaching out, Peter began to unwrap it.
The card was home-made, depicting the numbers six and zero on the front and decorated throughout with drawings of sausages.
In each sausage was the name of one of Bob’s children and grandchildren, and a message to Uncle Peter.
Peter felt a pang of wistfulness for his family.
His nephews, nieces, great-nephews, and great-nieces were full-on and a large, rowdy bunch.
To the younger ones, he was ‘Uncle Peter the Spy’ – a title earned through his stories of covert missions conducted between the butcher’s counter and the walk-in fridge.
Gathering the children by his garden shed on a Sunday afternoon, Peter would lower his voice, tap the side of his nose and spin them an unlikely story.
The children adored it, while the adults tolerated it with amusement.
Peter told himself that he’d never missed fatherhood, but now, at sixty, he wondered if that was true. Beneath his spy games, he remembered that particular mission with Mary had, sadly, never been fulfilled.
Unwrapping Bob’s gift, Peter found a photograph in a gold-coloured frame.
It held a black-and-white image of two smiling six-year-old boys, standing before the wooden counter of the family shop.
Their butcher’s aprons almost reached their ankles, sleeves were rolled, and each held a sausage on a fork, like a trophy.
Behind them, the tiled walls gleamed, and a set of old scales sat on a counter, beneath a hand-painted sign, Bully’s Butchers.
Peter studied their sepia faces and realised that fifty-odd years on, the boys were still there beneath their greying hair.
A lifetime of partnership spent side by side, continuing to maintain and grow the family business.
Bob had captioned the photo, Where It All Began, and Peter felt a tightening in his chest. Bob had always accepted Peter, the fantasies and the quirks, never mocking, at most giving a raised eyebrow and a grin.
Peter wished that Bob was here with him now.
He remembered their last big party to celebrate their fiftieth and how he and Bob had enjoyed celebrating at Clitheroe’s Pig & Whistle in a room above the pub.
It was a proper do, with Bob’s sprawling family, friends, and loyal customers squeezed in shoulder to shoulder.
Together with Mary he’d enjoyed devising the birthday buffet they named Over the Hill and Under the Grill.
Peter had outdone himself with new recipes for bangers that included the Golden Jubilee Jumbo and Half-Century Hotshots, which, he remembered, had produced such a ferocious kick that several guests had come close to needing medical attention.
Peter smiled at the memory. Fifty felt like a long time ago.
He pictured a photograph still standing on a mantelpiece at home.
The two of them, close together, his arm around Mary, her head tipped towards him, having fun, laughing with an ease that had come so naturally.
In those days, their life had been full, both happy simply being side by side.
But in his mind, the photograph had faded, as though the colours had slowly seeped over the years while the happiness of married life in the last decade drained away.
When had the sparkle slipped so far out of reach?
One day, you were together, sharing a party with family and friends, then the next, you were sitting alone in a cabin on a river cruise, wondering where it had all gone wrong.
Birthdays, he realised, were a reality check, and the reality of his situation was suddenly clear.
He missed Mary.
Peter missed her moving about the kitchen and pottering around the garden and found himself wishing that she would simply come home, as though the past year were a misunderstanding that might yet be undone.
But he knew better. He had worked with the police, answered their endless questions, retraced every step, until they, too, suspended investigations.
Peter had been forced to admit it. Mary had chosen not to return.
And if that was true, he was certain that she wasn’t coming back.
But was there new hope on the horizon?
The question hovered as he placed Bob’s gift on the table beside the upright card. ‘Sixty is hardly an age to say goodbye to romance,’ he told himself.
Could he move on and find comfort in the arms of another?
Anouska thought of him as a man of consequence, and there was no mistaking her feelings in every glance, each touch, and her lovely lingering smile.
Might he enter his next decade with a new woman by his side?
It would certainly set tongues on fire back in Clitheroe, and Peter’s mind already conjured up a new range of aphrodisiac sausages for the shop counter display:
Be My Banger
Love at First Bite.
The regulars would love it!
Feeling heartened, Peter checked his watch and stood.
It was time for Meet the Captain & Bridge Tour.
Something he didn’t want to miss. Opportunities to observe command firsthand didn’t come along every day.
Straightening his shirt and squaring his shoulders, he paused to arrange his image in the mirror.
With the Esna Lock approaching, there might be delicate manoeuvres to observe, coded radio exchanges, and complex clearances.
If the captain required a second opinion, Peter intended to be available.
Slipping his cabin keycard into his pocket, he stepped into the corridor.
Sixty, he thought, might not be so bad after all.
Anouska wandered along the top deck, scanning the loungers until she found one perfectly positioned. Satisfied, she set her bag down, slipped gracefully from her wrap, and eased her bikini-clad body towards the pool, where the water shimmered, offering a flattering backdrop.
Taking her selfie stick, she held it at an angle and tilted her chin. Her glossy lips formed a careful pout as she angled her shoulders to catch the light. The result on Instagram, she knew, would look effortless and attract scores of new likes.
Wandering back to her space, Anouska paused.
Just a few feet away, beneath a large cream umbrella, Sylvie lay with her eyes closed and a book resting face down on her chest. Beside her, emitting an irritating snore, was Hattie, her stupid white hat having slipped from shading her face.
Pearls at the pool? Anouska shook her head and thought that Hattie’s necklace and pink tankini belonged to another decade, and the thick white stripe of factor fifty covering her nose was like war paint. What the hell did Gerald see in this woman?
Anouska’s mouth tightened.
If she had a drink in her hand, she would have let it cascade over Hattie’s sleeping body. But she had nothing to hand except her phone, which, she realised, might be even better. Quietly, she chose her angle. The hat, the pearls, the open mouth and the bulging body.
Click.
Satisfied, Anouska moved away.
Back on her lounger, she tapped out a text on her phone and together with the photo of Hattie, pressed send.
Certain that the message would set off a firework and help her cause, Anouska lay back.
Tonight she planned – she intended – to get Peter into bed, even if it meant occupying his vile little cabin.
Gerald, the rat, had minimised their suite and now, behind his locked door, she couldn’t taunt him.
Neither could she help him meet with an accident and shove him overboard, for the wretched man had covered his tracks with the voice recording.
At least Gerald hadn’t had time to change his will. That sort of thing, she felt sure, could only be done officially at home, with witnesses in person.
Closing her eyes, she thought of Peter. From the careless way he mentioned bonds and offshore accounts, she was certain he was loaded and wondered what his home was like.
Perhaps a Lancashire manor, with a gravelled drive, in honeyed sandstone with mullioned windows set deep in thick walls, where roaring fireplaces welcomed the hoi polloi of the county.
Or maybe something more modern, she pondered, imagining a huge new-build surrounded by rolling fields deep in the Ribble Valley, with open-plan living and every mod-con, to entertain his wealthy friends.
‘Whatever.’ She sighed, turning onto her side.
There was very little she couldn’t fix, and with a little more tact and subtle sexual charm, she was confident that in Luxor, they’d be hot-footing it off the boat, and straight into a jeweller’s shop in search of the largest ring he’d need no persuasion to buy.
Men such as Peter were like cats. Stroke them consistently and correctly, admire them without appearing to try, and before long they’d be purring at your feet, proud, possessive and entirely devoted.
And soon, as the boat smoothly sailed on, Anouska too was sound asleep.
‘Everyone! If you’re hoping to join the Meet the Captain & Bridge Tour, please make your way along to the lounge. I’m waiting there to escort you.’
Sue’s announcement came over the PA system, and her warm, soft Irish lilt woke many of the passengers on the sundeck.
Hattie slowly sat up, still aching from the earlier yoga. With a yawn, she adjusted her hat and glanced over at Sylvie. ‘Are you up for this?’ she asked.
Sylvie, wide awake, shook her head. ‘No, I’m going to rest and carry on reading for a little while.’ She smiled.
As Hattie stood, she saw Ezra in the pool and waved.