Page 41 of The Cruise

‘Each to their own.’ Jane stretched out her arm and reached for a fruit flapjack. ‘But after my Slim & Tone treatment I feel like I’ve lost pounds.’

Kath and Anne exchanged glances and shook their heads as they watched Jane devour her snack.

‘What was so special about the treatment?’ Anne asked.

‘I was wrapped in some sort of foaming substance on my thighs, hips and tummy then had another wrap of something called Frigi-Thalgo, to eliminate toxins and excess fluid.’ Jane patted her stomach.

Kath interrupted as the manicurist gave the finishing touches to her pearly pink toenails. ‘We’re having our hair done next, and I can’t wait to see what the stylist suggests.’

‘Did someone call for a stylist?’ A voice called out, and the three friends turned to see a lean and muscular man walk towards them. ‘Philippe to the rescue! News on the ship’s grapevine tells me that this is an emergency,’ he said.

Kath, Jane, and Anne stared as the tattooed apparition, wearing patchwork harem trousers and a Nehru shirt, stood before them. Jane gripped the arms of her chair and was about to bolt, but Kath and Anne tugged on her robe, forcing her to remain.

‘All beads, bangles, and Buddha,’ Jane whispered. ‘He’s not touching my hair.’

‘Admiring the sleeve?’ the man asked, thrusting his arm out. He rolled his shirt to reveal the full extent of his vivid tattoos. ‘Tribal graphics,’ he said, ‘I know a man in Martinique. If you’re going ashore later, he’s very quick.’

‘No thank you,’ Kath said and folded her arms. ‘Not for me.’

The man clapped his hands. ‘Let’s get to work,’ he announced. ‘I haven’t been called in from my mindful meditation to stand here chin-wagging.’ He reached out and pulled Kath’s turban off. As her hair sprang out, he ran his fingers through the greying mass, ‘Hmm, dry, dreadful and dull.’ Shaking his head, he turned to Anne and, repeating the process, sighed, ‘Over-bleached, split-ends and done up like a dog’s dinner.’ He ducked as Anne’s arm swung out.

Looking down, Jane removed her turban and gripped it in her hands. She knew what was coming. His comments would reflect a terrible masculine cut and ageing white hair that had never seen a stylist’s scissors.

‘Now, dear,’ he said and softly caressed Jane’s head, ‘we’re going to make you look beautiful.’

Jane wondered if Philippe was on drugs and winced away from his fingers.

Kath had heard enough and decided to take control. ‘Philippe,’ she began and sat forward. ‘My dear friends and I are at a time in our lives when heads fail to turn.’ Knowing that Jane was about to interrupt and say that heads had never turned for her, she held a finger to her lips. ‘We hate to admit that we won’t see sixty again and perhaps we could have tried a little harder with our hair, in the past.’

Anne’s head jerked up. ‘Speak for yourself,’ she said.

Kath ignored Anne. ‘But I have it on great authority that you are one of the most respected stylists in the north of England, having a residency at the famous Sparadise Spa in Lancashire. We are indebted to you for your time today.’

Philippe’s pearly white veneers shone like a dental advert as he touched his hair and preened.

‘We want people to sit up and notice us,’ Kath said. ‘Can you make our days of disappearing into the wallpaper a thing of the past?’

Philippe’s hand flew to his luscious thick locks, and they saw a flash of gold from a bracelet amongst layers of leather and beads twisted around his wrist. His dark eyes shone as he flicked back chocolate-tinted curls. ‘Challenges like this are as rare as a four-leaf clover,’ he said, ‘but it is a challenge that I accept.’ He clicked his fingers, and an assistant appeared with gowns. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked, looking from one to the other. Trance-like, Kath, Anne, and Jane nodded.

Philippe turned on his heel, and, following in his wake, the assistant guided the friends through to the hair salon, where they sat in a row, staring at their reflections in a mirror.

‘You are to put your complete trust in me,’ Philippe said. He had a wicked gleam in his eye as he raised knife-like scissors in one hand and a long-tailed comb in the other. Kath, Jane, and Anne shrank low in their chairs. ‘Let the magic begin!’ Philippe whispered and, wasting no more time, began his mission.

* * *

On the south side of the island of Martinique, Selwyn stood on the beach at Grande Anse des Salines and watched hundreds of holidaymakers. Many were from theDiamond Star, enjoying the sun and sea in one of the most iconic locations in the Caribbean. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his bright scarlet swimming shorts and wished there were fewer people on the beach but knew it was a downside of high season. The cold winter evenings he’d left behind in Lambeth felt like a million miles away as he felt the sun heat his skin. How many nights had he sat alone and dreamt of clear turquoise waters, long stretches of white sand, and overhanging coconut trees?

Despite the heavily populated beach, Selwyn appreciated the beauty of his surroundings. It was a bright clear day, and in the distance, he could see the island of Saint Lucia. Jutting out of the water, in the channel between the islands, Selwyn saw the famed Diamond Rock glittering in the sunlight. The tiny inaccessible island was covered in thick vegetation and had an imposing peak. He remembered reading that at certain hours during the day it looked like the jewel it was named after.

‘Martinique is one of the few Caribbean islands that still grows sugar cane...’

Selwyn turned to see Bridgette walking towards him.

‘Christopher Columbus landed on the island in 1502, but the French eventually took ownership,’ Bridgette continued, ‘and since the 1970s, it’s officially a region of France.’ Bridgette’s little bare feet hopped up and down on the hot sand. ‘Christopher Columbus once said,“You can never cross the ocean unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore,”and I’ve always thought that made a lot of sense.’

Selwyn agreed. It was an interesting quote. Still, he didn’t need a history lesson and had spent considerable time reading his guidebooks. But as he looked down at Bridgette, he was pleased to have her company and decided to indulge his new friend. ‘Did you know that Napoleon’s Empress Josephine was born on the island?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ Bridgette replied. ‘She was revered for her fame but reviled for propagating the trade of slavery. In the 1990s, the locals became angry that she’d been pro-slavery and destroyed her statue in the capital, Fort-de-France.’ Bridgette shook her head. ‘And I can’t say I blame them.’

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