FIESTA
So somewhere around seven-thirty, I realize that maybe my plan of staying in my room for the entire trip might not work out after all.
Why?
I want to eat.
That bottle of wine (yes, the whole bottle) made my mind happy, but my stomach? Not so much. Judging by the impolite grumbles in my gut, I venture that I could possibly eat a horse, or at least a Shetland pony, which isn't that unreasonable. See, in my scrambling to get to the plane last night and then in the rushed trip from the airport to the cruise terminal, I somehow forgot to eat. Didn't eat on the plane either. Then again, that wasn't really an option since all the airlines are pretty much assholes when it comes to food nowadays anyway.
But either way, starving here.
If you're wondering, yes, I have some snacks – more complimentary goodies! – but right now, I'm wanting more than cashews and weird gourmet-flavored pretzels. Sure, there's the buffet, but frankly (and maybe this makes me sound snobby but whatever), I'm not sold on the whole concept of trough-style dining. Plus, I don't know where it is.
Now, sure, there's also room service, but (I'm just full of buts, aren't I?), there are two problems with that course of action. One, room service is expensive, and I don't really feel like unnecessarily shelling out more than I've apparently already paid (thanks, jerk-face asshole). And two, even if I wanted to order, it's going to be a while before it makes its way here.
So reluctantly, all the while plotting the ways and paths in which I can avoid ED Alec, as I'm now calling him in my head (and yes, that ED is totally intentional and perhaps juvenile), I throw on one of the multitude of "smart casual" skirt and top ensembles I blindly shoved into my suitcase in my last minute packing frenzy. With a cursory fluff of my hair, swipe of lipstick, and quick brush of mascara, I deem myself at least presentable. And after a quick consultation with the map beside my door, with maybe a little more bounce in my step than I'd have guessed possible (perhaps due to my lingering wine buzz), I make my way back up the long ass hall, concentrating on just staying upright in my heels.
Why? Because the ship is listing a little (a lot) more than I'd anticipated, so it takes some real conscious effort and maybe more balance and grace than I possess to move with the side-to-side motion.
Fine, truth is, I wind up just ricocheting off the walls like I'm in some giant pinball machine. Whatever.
Thankfully, somewhere mid-ship (or at least I think that's what you call it), I finally locate a bank of pretty glass elevators that overlooks a fancy, multi-floored lobby-like area. I take the first one I come to down to Deck 5, as per my trusty door map, and as I descend into the belly of the ship, in a way, I kind of wish that I'd explored the ship itself this afternoon. This is all new to me, and, well, more than just a touch overwhelming.
Circling the lobby-like area, there are all of these small shops – jewelry, clothing, cigars, sundries – just about anything you'd ever need. And of course, there are at least four or five bar areas, too, all of which I mentally tag for later. At the bottom, right in the middle of the lobby, there's some guy in a tuxedo playing a huge, glossy black piano. I think it's some ballad from Les Mis, but my knowledge of Broadway tunes isn't really that great, okay.
Either way, everything – all the way from the swirly stone-tile floors to the rich wooden banisters to the thick fabrics in dark reds and golds to the massive crystal chandelier hanging from the painted dome ceiling – it's just… nice. Like four-star hotel nice.
Granted, it'd be even nicer if there weren't so many people.
Not kidding, there is a metric fuckton of people on this boat. I clearly had no idea.
Continuing on with my mental cataloguing, judging by the various shades of peppered gray and "no way is that natural blonde", the vast majority of the boat's inhabitants are a solid twenty to thirty to forty (maybe fifty) years older than my thirty-two. Yes, there's a handful of people closer to my age, most of whom seem to be attached. There are even a couple of small children running around.
Great.
Not to go off on some random tangent, but how they aren't in school, I honestly have no idea. The leftover kid in me is insanely jealous of that, by the way. Charlie and Renee never, ever let me skip for vacation. My parents were obviously assholes who cared way too much about stupid things like grades and reading and getting into college. Which, I guess, worked out okay. But still.
Before I forget, there's one other thing all of these people have in common.
They're all drinking.
Not kidding, everyone has something in their hand – martini, beer, wine, cocktail, scotch, you name it. And frankly, well, that's also kind of nice because now I don't feel bad at all about downing that (whole) bottle of wine. It seems that cruising with a buzz is simply the thing to do.
Works for me!
After a long moment of observation, somehow I manage to weave through the throngs of slightly swaying people and find my way to the dining room. Like the lobby/atrium/whatever it's called, it's a grand affair with dimmed lights, candle-lit centerpieces, and enough silverware at each place sitting to outfit a dozen boats. Part of me wants to just look around. Well, maybe it's the same part that's making my stomach somersault over eating by myself. You know, since that's always such an uncomfortably awesome experience…
As luck would have it, however, I don't really have time to think about any of that because, again, I'm starving, and, too, as soon as I give my name to the slick, dark-suited man standing at the podium, another guy, this one in a crisp white jacket and black bowtie, whisks me away.
Like ED Alec, white jacket guy – Stefan from Romania, according to his nametag – has an accent out of a wet dream. He's also insanely good looking – tall, dark, and European – and the entire trek through the tables, he's grinning and waving and yammering about how tonight's dinner is going to be "just marvelous".
If it tastes half as good as he looks, I'll be fine.
But seriously, people, the eye candy on this boat's staff is just superb. Seriously superb. We're talking Grade A material.
Yeah, go ahead, call me shallow. I don't care. We're talking a year, remember? So shoot me for looking and lusting.
We finally stop in the very back corner, and it takes me a moment to process the scene in front of me. Where I'd expected a small table for one, hopefully by a window, in a corner, and maybe behind a curtain, instead I'm being motioned toward a linen-covered chair on the right side of a big round table set up for… eight. And it's half-full already.
Great.
"Your table, Miss!" Stefan exclaims, as he simultaneously pulls out my chair.
I quickly decide that my insanely attractive attendant must also possess some variety of magical powers. Even though butterflies are exploding in my stomach, I sit without a hint of protest and smile my best fake smile as Stefan drapes a dark, wine-colored napkin across my lap with the grace and flourish of a toreador.
"Hello, there! I'm Esme Cullen," an older woman immediately says from my left, offering a slim, perfectly manicured hand in greeting.
I glance up, still maintaining my plastered on smile and find one of the most elegant women I've ever seen. In my life.
Soft caramel hair pulled up into a twist, subtle, understated make-up, and wearing what I'm thinking is an authentic cream-white Chanel suit, complete with matching pearl bobs in her ears and around her throat, this woman looks like something out of one of my grandma's old Elegant Living magazines. I'm guessing sixty, but honestly, this lady could pass for forty-five. I want to ask her who does her work because her face is incredible.
I don't, however, because I do possess at least a few manners.
"Hi, Mrs. Cullen." I try my best to not gawk at the freaking rock on her left hand. "I'm Bella. Bella Swan." Like 007, but not.
"Bella!" She pauses like she's tasting my name, and then rushes through a burst of introductions. "So glad you're joining us! You must call me Esme. Mrs. Cullen is my… delightful… mother-in-law." She winks at me and I have to bite my lip. "This is my husband, Carlisle."
Esme gestures beside her to a stately blond man whose only sign of age are the spots of ash at his temples, and… holy wow. In the face, Carlisle Cullen might as well be Paul Newman reborn. And just like his wife, he drips a kind of WASPy sophistication that you typically only see in magazines or in Ralph Lauren ads. When he offers his own welcome, revealing just a whisper of a British accent, I'm not surprised at all.
Of course. Why not? No one speaks plain, boring "American" here anyway!
"And this is my son, Emmett." Emmett's a dark-haired bear of a man with twinkly, amused eyes and an easy, infectious smile that makes my smile not so fake. He's the perfect blend of his very attractive mother and father, just… football-sized. He's roughly my age, too, so that's a plus.
"And his lovely wife, Rosalie…" who in her clearly designer black cocktail dress looks every bit the part of the quintessential ice queen: long, blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, refined, statuesque, and curvaceous in all the right places. In other words, flawless. Yeah, and for me, her polar opposite – dark hair and eyes, a smidge over 5'4", slim, and with a B-cup max – she's intimidating, too. When Rosalie smiles and I see just a hint of a gap between her two front teeth, as petty as it sounds, I want to heave a sigh of relief that I'm not sitting beside Aphrodite incarnate after all.
"Good to meet you, Bella," she says with a wink, and I'm stunned because I think she actually means it.
I hide my surprise behind my glass of water. "Same here."
"Oh! And just in time," Esme goes on. "Here's Garrett and his wife, Kate." Another elegant fifty-something couple appears and sits diagonal from me. Like the Cullens, both are wearing easy, genuine-seeming smiles, and even though I don't know them from Adam, I can't help but instantly like them.
Over the next few minutes, we say our hellos and how are yous, and once the Cullens and their friends begin their own rounds of greetings, I pretend to glance down at my menu, silently ticking off all of their names and committing them to memory so that I don't commit some appalling social faux pas.
Like mistakenly call Emmett some other terribly outdated or old fashioned name.
Like… I don't know, Edward or something.
But seriously, three couples.
And me.
Awesome.
"So you're all related?" I ask over the top of my menu, making an attempt at small talk. I'm not a hermit, okay. I do know how to socialize when needed.
"No, but we might as well be," Kate answers with a mischievous snicker before snapping a straw-thin breadstick in half and popping it in her mouth. "Garrett went to school with Carlisle… At Oxford." The way she presses the back of her hand to her forehead, pretending to swoon, makes the whole table laugh, me included.
"Oh, come on now! I didn't hear you complaining! You liked England!" Garrett argues with faux indignation. "And I'm not that old! Carl was posting then. He's the old one!" He laughs and gives me sparkly-eyed wink that were I fifteen years older might make me seriously squirm. As is, I just blush like an idiot.
And as heat climbs my cheeks, first off, I thank God that this room is as dim as it is. Secondly, I can't help but wonder at what kind of boat I'm on.
Is this like the attractive people only cruise?
Because young, old, staff and guests, there's nothing but 8's and over as far as I can see.
And that's not even counting the flat out 10 coming our way, hands in his pockets, unhurriedly meandering through the tables like he owns the place.