Page 41 of The Cruise Club

‘Hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that you don’t look okay… I mean, well, I was just shocked.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You look bloody amazing, and I didn’t recognise you.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, Fran insisted that I had a makeover.’

‘Fran is to be congratulated. You’re absolutely gorgeous, my darling.’ He grinned. ‘Not that you weren’t before, well, just a little, er…’

‘Dull.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Dowdy.’

‘Perhaps…’

‘I need your help.’

‘Anything. Shoot.’

‘Ruskin Reeve is in the corner, and he doesn’t recognise me. He was being nice to me, and I’ve been drinking champagne, and…’

‘You’re feeling confused and tipsy and need to discuss the awkward situation,’ Theo interrupted.

‘Exactly.’

‘Ah, then it’s down to your friend Theo to whisk you away, and the casino is the perfect place for Caterpillar Carmen.’

‘Caterpillar?’

‘You’ve metamorphosised into a beautiful butterfly.’

‘Oh…’ Carmen allowed Theo to take her arm and, without daring to take a backward glance at Ruskin, was led away.

Ruskin watched Carmen leave the bar on the arm of Theo McCarthy. He was confident that she hadn’t a clue that Ruskin had realised who she was when she joined him and they began to chat, and he wondered what Carmen was up to. As an author of crime and mystery, it wasn’t difficult for him to suss her out.

A real-life Cinderella, he thought and grinned.

Ruskin remembered the occasions when they’d met and wondered if Carmen had deliberately tracked him down to the bench by the beach in Maxos. Had she purposely run into him during his morning jog, or sat next to him in theSocrates Café in Rhodes? But, he considered, the meeting with Theo by the pool was probably accidental. She’d told him she was a writer, and he wondered if she wanted to feed off his knowledge. Whatever it was it didn’t explain her transformation or her sudden departure from his company.

How curious, he thought and decided that he’d keep a close eye on Carmen and get to the heart of the matter, if only to use her character in his novel.

But there was a worrying development.

Ruskin had spent thirty years with a woman whose wild, bohemian way had been attractive. Now, those days were gone, and after his official separation from Venetia, he wanted nothing more than to be on his own, with no romantic involvement. But tonight, he’d felt something stir, and that was because of Carmen.

The woman who’d sat opposite him in the bar was enchanting.

Ruskin wished she’d stayed longer. He’d watched her hazel eyes sparkle, and as the minutes passed, something shifted, and Ruskin found himself listening intently, absorbing every word. It was clear that Carmen longed for a place of solitude to live and work. Until now, he hadn’t given her more than a moment of his time and he wondered why she’d chosen to appear so plain and dull in the daytime, blending into the background in frumpy clothes that made her easy to overlook.

Ruskin felt a pang of guilt. Was he only seeing her now because she’d shed her inconspicuous look? She’d walked into the bar with an effortless confidence, her appearance completely transformed, and the attraction was instant.

But this was ridiculous! The last thing Ruskin wanted was any attachment, no matter how fleeting a fling. It would be easy to engage in an affair, he told himself, a brief onboard interlude, but he’d vowed to have a period of solitude after the agonies of his divorce. To be female-free and focus on his work.

Ruskin poured the last of the champagne and thought of Venetia. Wild, carefree and more concerned with saving the planet than cooking a family meal, his wife had embodied an unconventional lifestyle, from her weird and eclectic clothing to her numerous projects, and for years, Ruskin had supported her.

But Venetia’s Dandelion Project, which promoted biodiversity and absorbed a chunk of the advance royalties for Ruskin’s last book, was a step too far for the Kensington community where they lived. The gated communal gardens, transformed into Venetia’s Gardens of Wildlife and Weeds, had upset the residents, who expressed heated objections and demanded their neat and orderly borders and carefully curated topiary be returned immediately. Likewise, Venetia’sWheels for Wishes– pop-up art installations of decaying old bicycles – hardly gave Banksy a run for his money. Ruskin remembered the rusting bodies when they appeared entwined in vines with broken flowerpots hanging from their handlebars. The decrepit metal frames and chaotic positions were hazardous to the residents of the borough, where every pram is pushed by a perfectly uniformed nanny, while yummy mummies sip oat milk lattes and discuss designer handbags and shoes.

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