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On the stage, Melissa Montana waved to the audience and invited everyone to join her as the band began to play‘Make My Wish Come True’. She looked pretty in high-heeled boots and a short red Santa dress, the hood and hem trimmed with soft white fur. After two more festive numbers, she announced that she would return that evening for the Christmas cabaret.

‘I thought you were ill,’ Dicky hissed as he stood in the wings and Melissa came off the stage.

‘Whoever told you that?’ Melissa smiled sweetly.

‘Youcould have organised this competition,’ Dicky snapped. ‘I’ve got far too much to do today.’

‘What?’ Melissa raised an eyebrow. ‘Deprive you of wearing this wonderful outfit?’ Melissa bit her lip and giggled, then stroked Dicky’s snowman sweater. She raised her hand and touched his face. ‘Have you been exfoliating?’ she asked. ‘Your skin looks as though it’s been sand-blasted.’

‘Sod off!’ Dicky snarled and, ripping the microphone from her hand, stepped out.

‘Break a leg!’ Melissa called out, ‘or a carrot!’

Dicky broke into a dance as the band played an intro. He tapped and turned and, with a spin, held out his arms as he came to a stop and greeted everyone. ‘Are you having a good time?’ he called out.

‘Not as good as you!’ Harold replied.

Dicky was aware that the audience was laughing. In fact, most of the faces were wiping their eyes and shaking their heads as they watched Dicky move across the stage. Damn Peter! he thought and cursed the entertainment director for making him wear the most ridiculous Christmas sweater he’d ever seen.

But…Things appeared to be going well, and perhaps he should play on it?

‘Do you like my carrots?’ Dicky called out and shook his chest.

On his sweater, two plump snowmen sat side-by-side. With coal-black eyes, they wore woolly hats and scarves. Their noses were protruding carrots, at least a foot long and cleverly sprung to bounce from Dicky’s nipples as he moved.

‘Look out for a pantomime horse!’ Harold continued, ‘he’ll eat your carrots!’

‘Ah, but at least I’ve made an effort,’ Dicky said and began to parade around the stage. ‘There isn’t an outfit in here that can beat me.’

‘Oh yes, there is!’ a voice called out, and heads turned to see a newcomer hurrying through the room.

‘Oh, gawd…’ Harold said and put his head in his hands.

Nancy, resplendent in silky red culottes, wore a Christmas sweater. She clambered onto the stage and, grabbing Dicky’s hands, turned to face the audience then placed his fingers on her breasts. Knitted perfectly into the wool were two giant traditional Christmas desserts.

‘Hands off my puddings!’ Nancy yelled, and the crowd, leaping to their feet, went wild. Party poppers popped, glow sticks glowed, and trumpets hooted.

‘A surprising sweater,’ Dicky said and stood back to join in with the applause, ‘and I think we have a winner!’

‘Tosh!’ Bridgette could be heard to say as she stomped out of the room. ‘My baubles are much better than her puddings!’

ChapterTwenty-Three

On the balcony in Hibiscus, Boxing Day began quietly. Having left St Maarten, theDiamond Starwas now making its way to the island of Antigua. It would be a lazy morning for Kath, Jane, and Anne, who decided on a light breakfast in their suite. They’d enjoyed a delicious meal the previous day. Kath swore she wouldn’t cook a Christmas dinner again as course after course of mouth-watering food was served throughout the afternoon.

‘I never thought that I could eat so much turkey.’ Kath, dressed in cotton pyjamas, sipped a cup of peppermint tea and stared out to sea. ‘Did we have ten or twelve courses? I lost count after a while.’

‘Twelve delicious examples of Jaden Bird’s wonderful creative cooking,’ Jane said. ‘I’m surprised he’s working on a ship and not a celebrity chef on TV.’

‘I think travelling the word on a cruise liner is a very good career,’ Kath replied. ‘If you admire him so much, why don’t you ask for a tour of the kitchens?’

Kath’s comment didn’t pass Jane by. As she studied the endless sea beyond the balcony, Jane yearned to look at the complex set-up that provided round-the-clock cuisine. But her days of professional cooking were long gone, and there was no reason for the chef to welcome a middle-aged, overweight retiree into a world she would never be a part of again.

She decided to change the subject and turned to Anne.

‘What happened to you last night?’ Jane asked. ‘Did you have another night on the tables, spinning the wheel with Santa?’

‘Don’t call him Santa,’ Anne said. ‘Dicky hated that horrible heavy suit.’ She flicked two aspirins out of a packet and, taking her tea, gulped them down.