Page 1 of The Cruise Club

Chapter One

“A cruise is more than the start of a journey, it is the beginning of a love affair with the sea, where every port brings a new adventure.”

Carmen Cunningham fought the impulse to murder her mother. If Carmen’s life was a novel, Betty Cunningham would have been edited out long ago, for no matter how hard she tried to please, Carmen could never satisfy the old lady’s relentless demands.

At eighty, Betty was a force to be reckoned with. Despite pleading infirmity, she moved with surprising agility, and whenever Carmen felt the old lady’s silver-topped cane prod into her arm, she found it hard not to snatch it from her mother’s hand. It would be easy to pick up a cushion, hold it to Betty’s face and muzzle the endless nagging, for whatever Carmen did to make life easier it was never to her mother’s liking, and at times, Carmen despaired.

‘For heaven’s sake, Carmen, can’t you do anything right?’ Betty watched her daughter struggle with a ladentray. ‘You know I like my tea at five o’clock, and you’re ten minutes late.’ Betty’s permed grey hair bounced like a cloud of silvery spaghetti, as she snapped out each word.

Carmen, named after her father’s favourite opera, bit back a retort. Long ago, she’d learned that arguing with her mother was like trying to hold back the tide. Instead, she offered a placating smile. ‘Sorry, Mum, I was busy.’

‘Busy? How can you be busy?’ Betty muttered. ‘Look at this room. When was the last time you cleaned? My asthma wouldn’t be half as bad if I didn’t have to live in a dust bowl.’

Carmen placed the tray down and sighed. Betty’s asthma had a schedule of its own and only flared up if there was a job to be done. It was no use reminding her mother that Agnes, their delightful home help, was on a much-needed break in Cornwall, and Carmen made a mental note to try and remember to run a duster around the room as soon as she cleared the tea things.

Her latest manuscript would have to wait.

Cosy crime writer Carmen Cunningham was behind on a deadline, and, like Agnes, her ideas had gone on holiday too. Carmen’s current writer’s block meant staring at a blank page while her imaginary friends stayed silent.

‘I’m sorry, Mum, but I’m trying to finish my new novel, and the hours seem to slip away,’ Carmen said.

‘No wonder your skin is ageing, slouched over that TV all day.’ Betty’s tone was cruel. She sat stiffly in her armchair and lifted a salmon paste sandwich to her lips. ‘Do you want to end up like Mrs Mitchell down the road?’

Carmen removed her heavy-rimmed glasses and touchedher face to smooth her skin. She’d be delighted to end up like Mrs Mitchell, who, despite chronic osteoarthritis, was on her fourth husband. Her life was one long, happy holiday, and the woman always had a cheery word and a beaming smile, telling Carmen that she was a saint for putting up with her mother.

‘It’s not a TV,’ Carmen said. ‘I work on a laptop. It’s how I write,’ she patiently explained and handed Betty a folded napkin.

‘What’s wrong with a pen and paper?’ Betty chewed with exaggerated slowness, dabbing at her mouth with the napkin balled between her fingers. ‘No wonder you need glasses if you use those new-fangled machines.’

Moving to the window, Carmen tucked her glasses in a pocket and tweaked a curtain to shade the late afternoon sun from blinding Betty while she ate. As Betty moaned that her tea was lukewarm, Carmen stared at the lawn where sparrows pecked the grass.At least someone is enjoying their meal, she thought. Even in the simple act of eating, Betty found something to complain about, her dissatisfaction with the world as unyielding as her tongue.

If Betty was a character in Carmen’s current novel, she would have been killed off by now. But as Des and Betty Cunningham’s only daughter, Carmen was bound by a promise to her dad. On his deathbed, Des, short for Desmond, weakly gripped Carmen’s hand. ‘Look after your mother,’ he’d said, ‘I know she’s a dragon but there used to be a good heart in there. It just got a bit lost over the years.’

Resigned to seeing out her mother’s days as chief carer,cook and bottle washer, Carmen tried to ignore Betty’s daily threats of leaving her estate to a cat’s conservation charity. Carmen appreciated the house she lived in and knowing that she would inherit it if she bowed to Betty’s demands, her unwavering sense of duty kept her going. But Carmen secretly hoped that the grim reaper would come knocking on Betty’s door before Carmen called it a day and couldn’t take any more.

‘This needed salt,’ Betty declared as she pushed the last round into her mouth and tapped her cane on the floor. ‘Honestly, Carmen, why can’t you make a decent sandwich?’ she said. ‘I don’t see why you should inherit this house if you can’t do a better job of looking after me; your father would be turning in his grave.’ Betty sat forward to place her plate on the tray, her painful expression exaggerated for maximum effect. ‘My arthritis is playing up something fierce today,’ she continued and attempted to rub her side.

Carmen thought that if Betty’s arthritis were an actor, it would win an Oscar. Like clockwork, Betty’s pain appeared on the dot of washing-up time after every meal. Her arthritis knew precisely when there were jobs to be done.

Leaning back in her chair, Betty crossed her arms, tossed her newspaper on the tray, and pointed to her radio. ‘Let me know whenThe Archersis on,’ she ordered and closed her eyes.

Moments later, the elderly lady was sound asleep, and Carmen picked up the tray and tip-toed out of the room.

Carmen turned a tap and swished bubbles in the sink. Her thoughts about silencing Betty were only in her head and, gently washing the crockery, Carmen knew she lacked the courage of her fictional characters. She resigned herself to the fact that she would remain a diligent daughter until Betty popped her clogs. Her frustration towards her mother, meanwhile, was released through her writing with the continuation of her cosy mysteries.

But as Carmen dried her hands, she sighed.

At that moment, her frustrations were rampant. Her current novel, which needed rewriting following a nondescript first draft, had come to a grinding halt, and no matter how long she stared at the screen, words refused to form. Her first book had been moderately successful, gaining an Amazon bestseller badge, and her publisher insisted that to continue momentum for her readers, Carmen must keep to the deadline in the proposed series.

But time was running out and the deadline was looming. Carmen had three months to hand the novel to her publisher.

As she folded the towel and placed it on a rail, she remembered her joy when she’d been accepted by a major publisher. After many rejections, her writing dream had come true and, for the first time in her life, Carmen had achieved something she was proud of. At fifty-three, her debut, entitledThe Rainbow Sleuth, stormed to the top of the cosy crime charts, and readers were eager for the next in the series. Her three-book publishing deal had made the trade press, and Carmen’s cosmopolitan hero was due to solve a series of mysteries.

‘Writing muse, where are you?’ Carmen called out.

As though searching for inspiration, she looked around the kitchen at Desbett House and studied the 1970s retro designs. Bold burned orange was predominant on wooden cabinets, and woodgrain finishes patterned shelving and countertops. She stepped across the vinyl flooring, which was dented by decades of pounding heels, then flicked a pendant light to illuminate her laptop, which lay on a Formica table.

Carmen found her glasses and placed them on her nose. She sat down, and as she turned the pages of a notebook, she wondered if she could place her lead character in a time capsule like this kitchen. Would the Rainbow Sleuth discover a victim slain by a Pyrex dish smashed into their skull or strangled by the macramé plant hanger? Might the casualty slip on the contents of a fondue pot or be chopped into pieces by the whir of an electric carving knife? If only she could find inspiration, glue her fingers to the keyboard and set the story alight.

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