Page 3 of The Cruise Club

Ruskin Reeve studied his reflection in his bathroom mirror and decided he looked exhausted. At sixty, he had the rugged handsomeness that only deepened with age, but at that moment, his chiselled features were prominent, and his piercing blue eyes lacked vitality.

Running his fingers through tousled hair, Ruskin frowned.

The thick wavy locks were now more salt than pepper, but the silvery gleam was attractive.

Ruskin thought he looked the part of a world-weary wordsmith and given that he’d just completed a twenty-stop book signing tour of Great Britain, he felt justified in his tiredness.

‘Any self-respecting author would now settle down, stay home and put their feet up, enjoying a break before embarking on the next novel,’ he told himself as he reached for a razor and began to shave.

Having been away for several weeks, he knew that as soon as he stretched out on his sofa, the door would pound, and Venetia would insist on making her presence felt.

Only a restraining order would keep his ex-wife from barging her way in, throwing herself at his mercy and begging for a second chance.

Venetia was a force to be dealt with and still clung to the hope of rekindling their long-gone marriage.

During his recent tour, a dishevelled Venetia appeared in a book signing queue and, to his embarrassment, publicly pleaded for another chance when she reached Ruskin.

It had taken security to stand by the door and bar Venetia from entry as the tour progressed.

As Ruskin held the razor to his skin and stroked gently over two-day-old stubble, he felt a glimmer of regret. Venetia’s tears stirred a sense of responsibility, but he couldn’t shake the relief he’d felt when the constant arguments and misunderstandings had ended.

‘After thirty years of marriage I simply fell out of love,’ Ruskin told his reflection.

The devotion they’d once shared had faded as their two boys grew up and had families of their own and was replaced by a yearning for freedom. Ruskin wanted to be alone, live as a single man and do what he enjoyed most. Writing was his life.

Yet, despite his longing for solitude, he adored his grandchildren – two precious girls – and cherished the moments they spent together.

He would often smile as he recalled their curious questions, their little eyes wide, as they listened in awe to the stories he told.

Even as he embraced his new independence, he held a soft spot for his sons and those little people who called him Grandpa, and Ruskin saw them as often as he could.

The creation of a character called Detective Inspector Blake had propelled Ruskin into the limelight, and his books were a huge success.

Adapted for television, the fictional detective was a national treasure, a character so loved that mentioning his name elicited smiles and nods of recognition.

With his dedication to justice, Detective Inspector Blake was the nation’s favourite detective.

‘You made me a ton of money,’ Ruskin said and thought about his character as he rinsed the razor under the tap. ‘Now, if I could extract myself completely from Venetia, I might be able to focus on the next book.’

Ruskin stepped into the shower. Sharp needles of piping hot water pummelled his skin as he soaped his still-lithe body.

His early morning runs and regular swims had paid off, and Ruskin was in good shape.

He remembered that his agent was pressing for an outline, something to hand to his publisher to stay within the terms of his current contract.

Unlike many high-profile authors, Ruskin didn’t give the research to a team or ask for plot ideas; he prided himself on being in control, every word his own.

But he knew he needed a break, a place where Venetia couldn’t find him, where the internet was sketchy and his agent would leave him alone.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Ruskin walked into his bedroom, where a suitcase lay on the bed.

He’d exchanged his usual tweeds as he’d packed and now chose lighter linens.

When he’d been contacted by the marketing team at Diamond Star Cruise Lines and offered an opportunity of a luxurious Mediterranean cruise in return for a talk and a couple of workshops, Ruskin had jumped at the chance.

How good it would be to trade stories of his writing life in exchange for the soothing embrace of the sea, and for days, he’d been dreaming of tranquil, sunlit decks. A space to relax, recoup and unwind.

As he dressed, Ruskin told himself that he could well afford a luxury cruise and had no need for a complimentary passage.

But Ruskin was conceited and despite yearning for a break from the whirlwind of his literary life, he fed off public attention wherever he went.

The promise of an eager audience, excited to listen to his tales, was almost as good as sex, and he revelled in the thrill of captivating a crowd.

Suited in pale cream linen and booted in soft leather brogues, Ruskin reached for his satchel and checked his lecture notes.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that he was on time for the cruise line’s driver, who would arrive at any moment.

Draining a half-empty cup of coffee, Ruskin closed his case and carried it to the hallway, where his luggage was neatly lined up by the door.

Mustering the energy to charm a new audience, Ruskin gave a last-minute glance in a mirror.

His eyes sparkled with the excitement of the upcoming trip and vainly, he stared at his reflection.

Perhaps Ruskin would take Detective Inspector Blake with him, he thought when the doorbell rang.

As he reached out to answer it, a book title popped into his head, and with a smile, Ruskin set off.

Two days later and the early morning easyJet flight from Manchester to Kefalonia was delayed by an hour.

Passengers, already tired and cranky after rising in the middle of the night, had been told to move through the terminal to a new departure gate.

Loaded with hand luggage, they wearily displayed their boarding passes.

To everyone’s dismay, a coach waited at the base of the jetway steps, and despite torrential rain, passengers were instructed that in order to board the plane, they were to be ferried across the tarmac to the aircraft’s boarding steps.

Comedian and cruise ship entertainer, Dicky Delaney, dismounted from the coach and stood in a queue as the rain bucketed down.

His spirits were as dampened as his clothes, as heavy drops fell with a furious intensity.

The air was thick with the smell of jet fuel and passengers voiced discontent as they waited for their ordeal to end and to be allowed into the comfort of a dry aircraft cabin.

‘This is no way to start a holiday,’ a man with a thick Yorkshire accent called out.

Dicky nodded his head in agreement. It was no way to begin the start of his working stint on the Diamond Star , and he silently cursed Clive, his London agent, who’d organised his travel to the ship.

Years ago, Clive would have insisted that Dicky travel first-class with a chauffeur to hand on both sides of the journey, but Clive had still not forgiven Dicky for an incident with a theatre manager’s wife in a seaside town where Dicky had a summer residency.

It had resulted in Dicky’s contract being abruptly cut short and Clive losing his agent’s commission.

Dicky had also done a runner on a recent Benidorm gig, and the memory of Clive’s furious, red-faced tirade, punctuated with veins throbbing at his temples, was still fresh in his mind.

‘You’ll travel with the masses and no arguments,’ Clive growled down the phone from his Soho office. ‘You may have redeemed yourself on the Caribbean cruise at Christmas, but you’ve still got a long way to go.’

The aircraft door suddenly opened, and smiling cabin attendants greeted the bedraggled passengers. ‘Welcome to easyJet,’ they said to the crowd climbing the steps and cramming into the doorway.

‘It’s good of you to arrange a complimentary shower before the flight,’ a woman commented as she was directed to her seat. Her perfectly styled holiday hair, which hours ago had been set in curls and waves, now clung to her head in soggy strands.

‘Is this a new water ride feature?’ the Yorkshire man asked. ‘I didn’t know we were off to Splash Mountain.’

As Dicky entered the cabin, he was tempted to ask if standing in the rain for fifteen minutes was an innovative easyJet spa treatment.

Instead, he flashed a toothy grin at the prettiest attendant and made his way down the aisle.

Listening to the disgruntled northern holidaymakers, Dicky whipped out his notebook.

Their remarks were comedy gold, and he wrote down a comment from a man in the seat behind, who asked his wife if he should be looking for a seat in a lifeboat, not a plane.

Overheard gems of wit often made their way into Dicky’s stage act.

The cabin crew checked seatbelts, and the flight took off.

As it soared over the sodden sight of Manchester and arced gracefully into a turn to leave behind the rolling Cheshire plain, Dicky stared out of the window.

They rose into marshmallow mountains of cloud, and he watched the play of light as the flight glided through a soft, ethereal world suspended between heaven and earth.

Dicky thought about the last few months which he’d spent in Spain.

With a gig at a well-known club in Benidorm, arranged by Clive, he’d enjoyed a relationship with a pretty woman named Anne, whom he’d met on the Caribbean cruise.

Their plans of starting a new life together had soon come to an end when Anne caught Dicky backstage with one of the dancers.

As she packed, Anne’s rage knew no limit, and Dicky, knowing when it was time to bow out, to Clive’s fury, had also left town in a hurry to head back to his ex-wife in Doncaster.

‘Women…’ Dicky sighed as he watched giant cotton wool balls of cloud. He couldn’t live without them, but he sure as hell couldn’t live with them for very long.

Dicky had hoped that Anne was The One. But it turned out she was just another plot twist in his own romantic comedy.

Back in familiar territory, his ex-wife’s reception had been as chilly as an arctic blizzard, making it quite clear that he was no more than a passing shadow in her now well-ordered life.

Dicky had stayed for one night only before heading to London to beg an angry Clive to find him work.

The drinks trolley was rattling in the aisle, and Dicky unclipped his seatbelt.

When your luck ran out and your toast landed butter-side down, there was only one thing to do.

He’d get back on stage, and during the cruise, push his autobiography.

Dicky’s book, My Life in Showbusiness , sold well on a cruise, and, if he kept under the purser’s radar, there was always an opportunity to make an extra income on the side with the wealthy female passengers.

Dicky had self-published his book after failing to reach the lofty heights of success he’d envisioned on the professional circuit with the big names in comedy.

Unable to attract interest from a publishing house and take the traditional route, he forged his own path.

Still, the book was engaging, and if he had embellished a few chapters here and there, no one seemed to notice.

‘Coffee and a Scotch,’ Dicky said to the attendant serving drinks.

Sipping slowly, he reflected on his career and remembered the highlights of performing on the comedy circuits at some of the largest clubs in the country. The thrill of the perfect punchline, when his timing was impeccable, and Dicky felt like he’d had the world at his feet.

But Dicky knew that those days were gone.

Overshadowed by today’s successful comedians, who were international stars performing to vast audiences for unheard-of amounts of money, Dicky had a sense of frustration mixed with a sad acceptance.

Now, the best gigs Clive could find for him were on cruise ships or clubs on the Costas, where only the mature guests understood Dicky’s age-old jokes.

But despite the setbacks, Dicky clung to the belief that although he might be on the decline, he could still muster moments of brilliance that reminded him why he fell in love with comedy.

He might not be the headliner he was in the past, but Dicky felt sure his journey wasn’t over and that he could capitalise on the right situation.

‘Maybe The Cruise Club on the Diamond Star will be a new start,’ Dicky mused as he drained his drink.

Lowering the window blind, he closed his eyes. With the soft vibration of the aircraft engines his lullaby, in moments, Dicky was sound asleep.