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‘Shouldn’t you be taking pictures of everyone, not just me?’ she said at last.
‘I will. But for the moment I like looking at your face,’ he said.
‘Wrinkles and all?’ Diana laughed.
‘You worry too much,’ he said.
‘How old are you?’ she said.
He looked down to check something on his camera. ‘Does that matter?’
She looked over at me and saw I was eavesdropping. I quickly looked away at the ceiling, which was not terribly interesting, so it fooled no one.
‘My sister Jill and I are both very curious about people. Some might say nosey.’
I think that was directed at me, and I moved a couple of steps away.
‘And perhaps that is why your face is so remarkable. I’m fifty-five.’
Younger than us then. Good heavens; eight years younger than me.
‘You must have enough pictures by now,’ Diana said.
He looked at her, smiling. ‘Have dinner with me one evening?’
She burst out laughing after a moment. And she looked happier than I had seen her for a long time. Was this all it took? Some silly flirting?
‘Don’t be daft,’ she said.
Excellent. She was more than standing up for herself and I felt confident enough to leave her to it. Perhaps she didn’t need her older sister hanging around her like a bodyguard or a chaperone after all.
I went to talk to another of the crew, who was standing running a finger around the tightness of his collar. He was tall, blond, and looked very young compared to some of the other officers.
‘Jill Parker,’ I said, holding out a hand, which he bowed over very gallantly.
‘Charles. Charles Bouchard,’ he replied, his accent making even that sound seductive.
‘And you are an officer by the look of all that braid on your jacket.’
‘I am, madame. First Officer. I hope you are enjoying the trip so far?’
‘Very much,’ I said, feeling very exotic and glamorous. ‘And you are French too, such an attractive accent.’
‘You are too kind, madame,’ he blushed, which made me feel unexpectedly maternal.
‘And how long will you be at sea? Are you based in France?’
Hmm, either I was quite good at this small talk, or he was unused to being quizzed like this, because he started telling me all about his new second-floor apartment in Nantes, where he had moved in with his dog after the break-up of his marriage. The problem with the removal company, his ex-wife’s character, even his dog’s fussy palate.
‘Chic is a real problem at the moment,’ he said, sadly.
There was a burst of laughter somewhere at the same time and I misheard him.
‘Yes of course it must be. And having no garden. Are the French very diligent about that sort of thing?’
He looked puzzled. ‘Not that I know of. It is up to the owner of course.’
‘Yes, but all those poo bags. Do they do that in France? There are all sorts of fines in England if you don’t. And it can’t be very pleasant. A dog with an upset tummy in a second-floor apartment. I mean do you have carpets?’
