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He carried on listing the many delights which we could look forward to on our way to Athens until it sounded as though we were in for a Royal Variety performance every night.
‘…So all you need to do it sit back, enjoy yourselves, keep watching for your daily updates on the cabin newsletter so you don’t miss anything. It’s a wonderful, fun-packed day at sea tomorrow. And if you want to learn to dance with us, look out for our newest stars, Alasdair and Daphne Pool-Bucket, they were Latin American champions of Des Moines no less.’ He tapped his earpiece and looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Oh yes, I mean of course Alexander and Daphne Prule-Brocket. Silly me! The midnight buffet will be open at midnight on deck 5, and tonight it’s everyone’s favourite; burgers, ribs and hot dogs with all the fixins’ as they say in America. Vegetarian and vegan options also available. Though what that would be is anyone’s guess. And if that’s not enough for you, tune in to channel 100 Avanti Gossip, on your television. Conversations, information, and in-depth interviews. Now then, without more ado, it’s time for our first show. And you’ll be amazed really you will, bless your hearts. Have a great Avanti evening!’
He smoothed his hair down, gave a triumphant fist pump and scurried off backwards, nearly falling over a sound cable and we watched as the curtains drew back to reveal a set decorated like derelict street and a puff of dry ice.
Diana nudged me. ‘I think we are in for a salute to the 1980s.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve just seen a chorus member in leg warmers, and I bet you twenty quid there will be a tribute to Michael Jackson.’
‘How do you know that?’ I asked.
‘I’ve seen them all over the years, remember. And now I’m afraid the eighties really is vintage stuff to these young things.’
‘That makes me feel old.’
‘You are old, Jill. We’re in our sixties. Aha! The music to “Billie Jean”. I told you I was right.’
It was really good. A very thin young man did some impressive backflips onto the stage and some excellent moonwalking. Followed by a troop of girls in leotards and legwarmers who gave a nod to the Jane Fonda workout movement. Everyone was in a holiday mood by this point and the theatre was rocking in no time. People clapping along to the music and cheering. I don’t think I had seen an audience so appreciative for years. Perhaps the free alcohol at the sail away party had something to do with it? Perhaps Dick Dainty was really good at warming up an audience.
Waitresses in blue and white uniforms were dashing up and down the steps, delivering cocktails in neon-coloured glasses which were generously festooned with paper umbrellas and fruit.
‘Those dancers must work terrifically hard,’ I said, as we applauded the girls off the stage. ‘I read they have to do all sorts of other things, not just dancing – they hardly get any rest, and when they get a day off they tend to sleep.’
Diana nodded. ‘Casper said they were always going on, even if they were ill or injured. And they don’t get much time off. Eight shows a week, can you imagine it?’
‘Doesn’t sound much fun,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose your photographer friend will see daylight either.’
‘He’s not my photographer friend.’
‘Of course he’s not,’ I said airily. ‘We should get him to take a proper studio photo of us though. To celebrate.’
‘I’m not the most photogenic person, you know.’
‘Nor am I but I’m sure he has filters and stuff. We’re definitely doing it.’
When the show finished we dithered about what to do. Considering it was nearly ten thirty at night, I would normally have been in bed, and I think the same went for Diana. But somehow, we were swept along with the crowds leaving the theatre and found ourselves in the Lautrec cocktail bar.
It was small place, decorated with French café posters advertising things like pastis, Le Train Bleu, and cheese. There were several little booths which were upholstered in red velvet, dim, rather intimate amber lights on each table, and they were all occupied by couples. We heaved ourselves up onto bar stools and I reached for the cocktail menu.
Diana took a menu and scanned it, muttering.
‘Gin. Vodka, rum. I can’t drink rum; it makes me ill. And I can’t touch anything that’s been near a bottle of Cinzano Bianco. I had a very unfortunate experience with that when I was at college. Everyone had that, don’t they? A drink you got a bit reckless with and now the very thought of it is horrible. What’s yours?’
I thought about it for a moment. ‘Pernod.’
She pursed her lips and nodded and then went back to the cocktail menu. ‘What about…’
She stopped suddenly and stared at the laminated booklet in front of her.
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘What?’ I tried to peer over her shoulder.
She stabbed at the menu and made some gasping noises.
‘Look at this! On page five. They’ve named a cocktail after him. After Casper!’
