Page 44 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

The barman, who has had his back to me wiping down the bar surface, turns around and I realise he’s Swastika-man. He glares at me, grunts and walks purposefully away from the bar muttering some obscenities in French. He’s not going to serve me. Bastard.

A waiter rushes past placing empty glasses and a half bottle of red wine on the bar surface next to me. When he’s gone, I gently and deliberately tip the bottle onto its side, so red wine leaks all over the bar and drips onto the floor before I brush my hands and walk away.

Up yours.

I return to the table to find coffee pots are being delivered by a waitress.

Monica pours us both a large, steaming cupful and Fay taps her cup with a teaspoon.

‘Not another speech,’ I mutter to Monica. ‘I’m not sure I can cope with any more.’

Fay, her voice taut – and for some reason sounding alarmingly like that of the late queen – begins, ‘On behalf of us all I would like to express our enormous gratitude to Clarissa and Hazel for this wonderful meal.’

We start to clap. I whisper in Monica’s ear, ‘Her Royal Highness, Queen Frosty,’ but Fay hushes our applause with her hand and continues in earnest.

‘The river cruise, and wonderful food and drink is well above and beyond anything we had been expecting…’

Hazel is looking embarrassed and wags a finger to indicate Fay should stop.

‘…and I hardly need remind you Hazel’s extraordinary munificence in paying for us all to drink genuine French champagne…’

‘Fay, thank you, but please, no more. You’re all most welcome.’

Fay, with just a hint of an indignant frown, peters out. Her displeasure is short-lived as we all clap heartily and Bonnie shouts, ‘Well said, Fay.’

‘Absolutely. Thank you, Hazel.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘It was very nice meal.’

‘Hear, hear.’

Our boat will be mooring again soon, and Monica and I take our coffees out onto the deck to look at the Eiffel Tower – all lit up – looming large.

‘It’s magical, is it not?’

I lift my phone above my head and point it in all directions. ‘No flaming reception.’

‘Checking if Max has called?’

‘Yes. And no, he hasn’t. Damn. I’ve missed two calls from Will too.’

‘I would lend you my phone, but it is as dead as a dodo. Besides…’

‘…there’s no flaming reception,’ we say together.

‘Grrr. This is infuriating. I mean we’re in the middle of Paris for God’s sake.’

‘ Mesdames et messieurs, nous sommes arrivés .’ The announcement prompts us to return to the dining room for our jackets so when the ship moors, we are ready to disembark.

‘Hazel has got the captain to order two large taxis to take us back to our hotels. They’re to be minivans that will fit in wheelchairs,’ Cath tells us.

This is a big relief; no one fancies navigating the Paris transport system at this time of night. We thank Hazel and I push her out to wait on the deck.

Every few seconds, I check my screen to see if I have any ‘Gs’. I look at the pedestrians strolling along the riverside. If only I could conjure up Max standing there waiting for me, contrite and eager to talk. Dream on, Ruby.

The boat docks and I ready myself to push Hazel along the gangplank. I balance the phone with one hand on the edge of the chair, glancing at the screen to see if any bars appear.

Monica goes in front to steady our descent and as I start to manoeuvre the chair over the small lip, someone barges into me from behind and my phone slips from between my hand and the chair and drops down into the river.

‘No!’ I screech as the handset hits the murky water, frothing and churning with the motion from the boat’s engine. It instantly disappears below the surface.

I turn to see who crashed into me just in time to see the smirking face of Swastika-man before he retreats into the boat.

‘Oh, Ruby. Your phone.’ Monica, one hand on Hazel’s wheelchair arm, leans over the gangplank and shakes her head. ‘It’s gone. What happened?’

‘That shit of a deckhand deliberately barged into me.’ I turn to go and give him a piece of my mind, but there are fifty or more passengers pressing into us to move forward and get off the boat. How the hell am I going to contact Will or Max now?

‘You bastard!’ I shout.

‘Ruby, have a little decorum please.’ Clarissa is right behind me. ‘You are representing Dance Excellence with Clarissa Kirkland.’ She points to the insignia on my top. ‘It is most unfortunate about your mobile phone, but I am sure that man only bumped into you due to the motion of the boat.’

‘Oh, for crying out loud, Clarissa, he did it deliberately the little…’ My expletive is drowned by the ship’s horn.

Passengers start to complain and shout ‘ Dépêchez-vous ’ and ‘ Allez ’.

I have no choice but to clamp my mouth shut and push Hazel forward.

‘Oh, Ruby.’ Monica puts her arm around me as I look despondently into the now still river water. ‘That’s both of us without phones now.’

*

Even by taxi it takes almost an hour to get back to our hotel. We see distant fireworks going off in the Paris night sky.

‘Must be some kind of celebration. It is too early for Bastille Day. That is not until July,’ Fay remarks.

We watch the display from the taxi windows and lapse into a sleepy silence until Cath, in her beautiful lilting Irish voice begins to sing about Roman candles burning in the night.

Those of us who know the Ash song, ‘Shining Light’, join in quietly one by one and as we finish the song the emotion is palpable.

I don’t know who everyone else is thinking about, but when I think about the light in my life, I can’t get Max’s face out of my head.

We’re all knackered when we finally get back to our room having found the Smut Hotel lift was still broken but eventually locating a service elevator for Fay in her wheelchair. Fay is almost faint with relief to get to a bathroom where Ingrida offers to help her.

I feel like someone has cut off my arm without my phone. I keep going to check it forgetting it’s gone. Asha lets me borrow hers and I try to call Will, but it goes to answer phone. In the end, I have to leave a message.

Will, I’m sorry I missed your calls. I hope you’re OK.

We were on a boat without Wi-Fi or a decent reception.

Anyhow, now my phone’s at the bottom of the River Seine – long story – and Monica’s phone is smashed, so can you send me a message on this number?

This is Asha’s phone and if you need to speak to me, ring here.

But even if you don’t need to speak to me, send a message anyway.

I just need to know you’re OK. Love you.

I hand Asha her phone back. She gives me a smile having heard the voicemail.

‘I can leave my phone on overnight in case your son calls.’

‘Thanks, Asha.’ She doesn’t look well, and I wonder if the food has disagreed with her. I also vaguely wonder what’s up between Asha and Ingrida as there’s definitely a bit of an edge between them. I guess tempers fray when you’re with others twenty-four-seven.

I think about Max. It would be tempting to call him from Asha’s phone, but I can’t for the life of me remember his number.

Anyway, I expect he is on a flight home.

I wonder if he got my voicemail? I guess if he can’t be bothered to let me explain, he isn’t worth bothering with.

Probably just as well he hasn’t become a permanent fixture.

I just need to get over this stupid prevailing sense of loss…

We’re all settled in our beds quickly, and I toss and turn to the sounds of Bonnie’s snoring before falling into a fitful sleep.

Stark images bombard me; I’m drowning in churning water.

The face of the vile deckhand is gloating above the water line as I sink.

A phone is ringing. It’s just out of reach and I can’t get to it.

I end up awake and unable to sleep for hours.

As a distraction to the awful nightmare, I force my thoughts into planning my new dating business in fine detail, determined to write it all down in the morning.