Carl's birthday started to loom over me. After the guitar, the increasingly urgent problem of what to get him for his birthday became all-consuming.

Finally I went to see Dad. "Do you think I could invite a friend onto the boat for Carl's birthday?"

He nodded thoughtfully. I flicked through all my girlfriends in my head. Not many of them would be Carl's type, and the ones that were were far too shy to go on a blind date with the kinds of people they knew lived on the boat with me. I didn't want someone who'd just sleep with him and then blow him off. Dave had tried that.

I looked at Dad forlornly. "I don't actually know anyone who'd do something like this that Carl wouldn't freak out at the sight of."

Dad, thinking of the one friend of mine he'd met, Josie, who was completely insane and went around grabbing Felicity's breasts and jumping on everyone else, including him, snorted. "Well then, I believe we have a problem," he said unhelpfully.

"No shit," I replied sarcastically. I thought for a while, then my befuddled brain dredged up a long-dead memory. "Don't I have a cousin on your side?" I asked, frowning. "I vaguely remember a failed tea-party where Mum attacked your sister."

Dad laughed. "I vaguely remember being told about that, too," he said reminiscently. "Yes, Lou does have a daughter. Marianne. She'd about his age, too…"

"Can you write to her? Do you think she'll do it?" I asked eagerly.

He smiled his odd smile. "I'm sure she will. I'll write tonight."

The lone memory I had of Marianne was an attempt from my mother to try and let me get to know Dad's side of the family. She had written to Dad's sister Louise and arranged to get us together for tea.

The only thing I remember was eight-year-old Marianne's face as the conversation turned ugly, like it usually did when Mum started talking about Dad, and she bodily tackled my aunt Louise across the table.

She'd grown up a lot since then, I thought, looking at her across the table in Dad's cabin over red wine and Felicity's pasta, and was now quite pretty. I'd asked her where she bought the dress as soon as she was within earshot, spattered as it was with anchors and set off with her sea-green tights. Carl, to my delight, was obviously smitten, and she seemed quite taken with him as well.

I sat there, eating my pasta, feeling quite pleased with myself, sharing the odd smug glance with Dad over the table.

After the tea-party incident had been related as fully as possible and all our pasta plates had been scraped clean, Dad and I excused ourselves and shut the door carefully behind us.

"Good idea," Dad said quietly.

"I think it's working," I whispered in reply. I glanced through the porthole-shaped window. Marianne was laughing, her fingers flirting with the stem of her wineglass. It looked good.

Later that night I sat in the downstairs cabin teaching myself the middle eight to Michelle by the Beatles on the guitar when Gavin came in loudly. I glanced up at him, then rolled my eyes and pretended I didn't notice, but started playing the song again from the beginning in the hope he'd hear how good I was getting.

To my delight, he came and sat down next to me; however, this had a negative effect on my fingerpicking. On my third fumbled note, I stilled the strings and looked up at him irritatedly. "What?"

He grinned, nonchalant. "How long have you been playing?"

"I got the guitar for my birthday about six weeks ago, but I played for a year before I came here." He raised an eyebrow. "So on and off for about three years now. Do you play?"

He shook his head. "My job is to play records, not instruments," he said, a wry grin playing with his mouth. He had a really interesting voice, drizzled in husk until every word sounded as though it were whispered between sweaty bedsheets.

"So's mine, but I play both anyway," I replied lightly. He chuckled. "Unless you've got anything worth saying to me, please go away so I can practise," I said offhandedly.

He looked at me for another few seconds as though trying to change my mind, then stood up and headed for the door. "Your little friend Carl's doing well, in case you were interested," he said innocently. "He just came by asking for a condom."

I couldn't help grinning. "Brilliant. Thanks, Gavin."

He grinned back, though his grin was dripping sleaze. "Anytime you need a condom – or someone to use it with."

"Thanks, but I'm sure I can find someone on my own." He shut the door. I launched into I Love My Dog, but I was only the second chorus when the door opened again.

It was Carl. I felt a sly smirk creep onto my face. "Hey, Carl. Where's Marianne?"

He flopped down on the other sofa opposite me. "Gone."

I couldn't resist changing my D chord smoothly into an A chord and slowing the strum. He recognised the song and tried a glare, but then gave up and hunched into himself, looking tiny and insecure. "What happened?" I asked.

"We were kissing. Stuff happened and I went to borrow a condom from Gavin, and when I came back she was in bed with Dave." He said it quickly, as though this might make the blow less severe.

I flinched. Harsh. I tried to think of something comforting to say, but came up dry.

"Come over to the window, my little darling,

I'd like to try to read your palm," I sang instead. He looked as if he might cry and I made as if to stop, but he gestured that I could go on.

"I used to think I was some kind of gypsy boy

Before I let you take me home…"

I changed my chord progression slightly and Harold and John came in; Harold was carrying a cup of tea, John a plate of chocolate biscuits.

"Now so long, Marianne,

It's time we began

To laugh… and cry… and cry…

And laugh about it all again."

They put down the cup and plate and pushed them towards Carl. He just looked at them, so I took a biscuit and ate it myself.

"Your letters, they all say that you're beside me now

Then why do I feel alone?

I'm standing on a ledge

And you're finding spiderweb

Is fastening my ankle to a stone…"

Harold followed my lead and took a biscuit; with a tentative look at Carl, still gazing straight-ahead, he dipped it in the tea before eating it.

"Now so long, Marianne,

It's time we began

To laugh… and cry… and cry…

And laugh about it all again."

Before too much of Carl's unresponsiveness, there was one biscuit left and the teacup was only half-full. I had a smile on my face as I kept softly keening the song, but Carl still didn't respond.

"For now, I need your hidden love

I'm cold as a new razor blade

You left when I told you I was curious

I never said that I was brave…"

Finally, Carl jerked out of his trance and snatched the last biscuit. Harold grinned and offered him the teacup; a wry smile on his face, he dipped the chocolate in the tea.

"Now so long, Marianne,

It's time we began

To laugh… and cry… and cry…

And laugh about it all again."

"Don't worry, Carl," I comforted as I flourished the last chord and stilled my guitar-strings. "There are other girls."

I think I always knew I was wrong, but he didn't seem to. "Thanks, Court." Overcome by happiness in his childish manner, Harold hugged Carl and spilt the still-hot tea all over his trousers.

Carl's photography was amazing. It always surprised me when I walked into his room to see my own face staring back at me several times over, along with almost everyone else on the boat: Gavin, posed with his outstretched tongue inches from the microphone; Mark, sunbathing in his tight leather pants; Simon pulling a childish face; the Count flipping the bird and turning his face away. I'd never considered myself photogenic, but Carl's photos seemed to show me in a new light, somehow still pretty mid-laugh, mid-exhale with cigarette smoke writhing snakelike around my face. Even John with his odd, square face still managed to look poetic, eerie and haunting somehow until the pictures were almost beautiful.

It gave me chills. "Hey, Court," Carl said, coming into the cabin behind me.

"You're so talented," I told him pettishly. "I'm so jealous." He smiled incredulously, but to my satisfaction he didn't reject the compliment. Last time I complimented him – his handsome face, his skinny but still muscular body, his photography, his innocence – he'd denied it. I can't stand false modesty.

"You're talented too," he said, sitting down on his bed. I snorted. I'd tried to take pictures with his camera, but they'd failed quite spectacularly. "No, seriously! Admittedly, not a photography, but your guitar-playing is getting to be amazing."

I grinned. "Thanks, but I'm no Jimi Hendrix." I sat down beside him. "I tried one of his riffs the other day, but I fucked it up pretty bad."

He laughed. Kevin came in with that odd look on his face when he thinks he's being quite clever. "Hey Carl, Courtenay," he said quickly.

"Congratulations, you've remembered our names," I said drily. Sometimes I had no patience for Kevin.

"What's one plus one equal?" he asked proudly, not registering my sarcasm.

"Oh, and basic arithmetic, too, we are passing in leaps and bounds."

Carl laughed at me, but in a way that made me feel bad for being so scathing to poor Kevin. He couldn't really help it, after all, and sometimes he could be really quite endearing. "One plus one, um, that would be… two?"

"No!" said Kevin ecstatically.

"No?"

Kevin shook his head with the demented glee of a two-year-old. "It's 'window', see?" I laughed at the ancient joke and produced a piece of paper for him to demonstrate. "You see? Because one…" he drew a line on the paper, "plus… one… equals… Window!"

"Very nice, Kev. Who showed you that?"

"The Count."

"I'll be having words with him." I was about to explain how one plus one may make a window when you write them down, but that didn't mean it equalled 'window', when Simon came in behind us.

"Hey, guys," he said, in a voice at least an octave higher than the one he usually used. I looked around in surprise; Simon was bursting with so much excitement he was actually singing. "Carl," he sang in a key even I couldn't reach, "my mate," here he grabbed Carl by the neck in an over-affectionate gesture, "my best mate… I have some news…" I coughed slightly and he seemed to recall a mite of decorum. "I don't know why I'm singing," he apologised. "I just… I can't… my words are just coming out in tune, I'm so happy."

I started to get worried; Simon was swaying his pelvis in a motion that was starting to make me seasick. He looked thoroughly deranged. "If I were the Count right now," he continued, his voice rising again, "I would definitely be using the 'f' word to describe the level of this good news…" his voice went far too high and he struggled to keep himself under control. "Oh… come hold me…" he pulled Carl into a clumsy hug.

"Spit it out, then, Simon," I said finally, my ears still ringing from his last 'news'.

"I'm getting married! To a woman!"

It was like a slap in the face, only pleasant. Simon? Married? "Wow," I said, hugging him. "Congrats!"

He squeezed me so tight I couldn't breathe and then bounced off up the corridor. "I'm going to tell the others!"

It was the first time I'd ever hated being a girl on the boat, when I stood there in the recording studio with Harold and the Count as they went over the plan for Simon's stag night. I knew what they had in mind, and it sounded like the kind of fun I hadn't had in ages, spending far too much time bar-hopping and getting absolutely smashed.

Harold, even though he wasn't going, seemed almost more excited than the Count. "I have the tapes," he said, pointing to them, "and I'll play them in for each of your shows."

The Count winked at me. "And then we'll return at the cracking crack of dawn, when the real Simon will slip in seamlessly at precisely 5.59am."

Harold nodded excitedly. "Well, that's just groovy."

"You don't know how groovy!" The Count exclaimed. Sure don't, I thought sullenly. "We'll have the ultimate stag party, and Quentin will never know." I snorted. I didn't really think Dad would mind anything except his exclusion from the event.

Then the Count darted ninja-style from the room, and Harold and I were alone.

I didn't even think about the radio past then; it was playing in the background, obviously, as always, but I alternated between playing board games with Harold and baking with Felicity all night. It somehow felt wrong to sleep when I knew they were all out there having the time of their lives.

I was with Felicity when something Bob said on the radio caught my attention. I sat up and listened harder. "…and I'm handing over to the man of the hour, Simple Simon himself."

It took me a second to react to the sudden silence on the radio. Then I looked at Felicity and saw on her face the same look that must have been on mine. "Shit!" And I ran.

For the first time in my life, I agreed with Dave's wish that the kitchen and the recording studio were closer. I sprinted down the hallway, feeling like half of Britain was speeding under my feet, hearing nothing but the pounding of my own footsteps.

It wasn't until I reached the door that I realised that the reason I wasn't hearing the radio was no longer because it was silent.

Harold sat in the seat with his feet on the table, just like he'd seen Gavin doing numerous times. "I'm afraid to tell you that my man Simon is not quite feeling up to his game," he said languidly, in a voice that rivalled Gavin's best radio persona and completely belied the skinny, awkward boy sitting in the DJ's chair. "So I hope you're game for a roller-coaster ride that is," he flicked on a circus-style record I didn't recognise, "Spike Seeeeeeeeeeeattle!" He turned off his mike. I stepped into the room properly and he jumped, looking at me guiltily. "Sorry, Courtenay," he said meekly.

"On the contrary," I told him, grinning. "Thanks for saving our skins. In style, I might add."

He smiled sheepishly, then started to get up. "You can have the seat now," he said.

"Oh, no!" He stopped. "You can't give audiences a brilliant introduction to a new DJ, play them one song and then give them back boring old Courtenay! You have to finish what you've started!"

They found us like that three hours later, Harold still broadcasting in his lazy Spike Seattle voice, me still sitting in the tech box watching him with a helpless little smile on my face. They piled in, wondering who the fuck Spike Seattle was, and then looking like I had when I first saw Harold in the studio, as confident as if he owned the place. Harold, caught up in a stirring sign-off, ("Have a sweet, sweet day, and never forget that we live in a world where dreams can, and usually do, come true…") didn't see them enter until he'd switched off his mike and turned to face me. Once again, he gave a guilty start and jumped off the chair.

"Morning, Harold," Angus said casually.

"Uh, morning, lads," Harold said, his arms going awkwardly to his lower back, his weight bouncing from foot to foot. "Just keeping the seat warm," he explained hurriedly. "Hope I haven't let you down."

"You have not," Angus said authoritatively. "In fact, you've made us proud." He shook Harold's hand. I stood up and started a round of applause, which the others continued eagerly. Simon hugged him and then made bowing gestures as though worshipping him. Harold, his dark cheeks flushed, his skinny chest swollen with their praise, stepped into the tech box with a triumphant wiggle. "I am the King!" he exclaimed happily, and I found myself laughing at how childishly cute he was.

"Sure are." I hugged him and gave him his usual seat back; he continued to pace awkwardly, touching a few things in the box to make sure they hadn't been moved in his absence. He adjusted an imaginary crown on his head. "King Harold," he said, now slightly awkward in his self-delight.

About an hour later, I decided it was time to take Simon to bed. I found Carl, dragging absently on the last of his cigarette in the hallway, looking engaged in thought and thoroughly out of it. Simon was extremely overexcited and kept jumping on people, knocking poor John completely to the ground. "Help," I commanded Carl, and then jumped on Simon, which seemed to subdue him.

"So how'd it go?" I asked Carl as we led Simon back to his cabin.

"Kevin dropped a bombshell," he replied, obviously not focussing on the here and now.

"Oh?"

"Yeah." Simon stumbled and we both lunged to catch him. "He thinks… and I actually accept his reasoning for this one…" he trailed off as we managed to dump the inebriate on the bed, then he turned to me, his face dead serious. "He thinks Quentin's my dad."