Page 10 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

“You like that girl,” Prue announces as we leave the dance class. “You should ask her out.”

“Out where?” I ask, not bothering to deny it.

“You could take her to the fancy Italian place for dinner,” Prue says.

“Invite her on an excursion,” Pear suggests, elbowing into the conversation.

“It doesn’t really matter what you do, does it?” Prue says. “You just have to let her know you fancy her.”

I know she’s right. I haven’t so much as invited someone on a coffee date since getting sober. Nor wanted to.

But maybe this is a good chance to try something casual. After all, the remaining eight days of this cruise is too small an interval to risk a dalliance disrupting my life and sending me back to the edge.

And I’m drawn to Hope in a way I haven’t experienced in a long time.

Which leaves the question of how to approach her.

The previous version of me would have downed a few drinks first. Liquid courage.

I suppose the current version will just have to white-knuckle it and express interest.

I resolve to do this the next time I see her.

This happens earlier than I expect, because when we arrive at the dining room, she’s seated alone at a two-top a few feet from our table, playing Wordle on her phone.

Surely I am a better dining companion than Wordle.

“Mind if I ask Hope to join us?” I ask my family in a low voice.

“Please!” Mum says. She’s the kind of gracious hostess that believes any table that doesn’t have at least six people around it is depressing. She also thinks I spend too much time alone, and should start seeking out female company.

My father, by contrast, worries that I’m better off by myself. That my previous girlfriends were partiers who enabled me at best and at worst pushed me closer to the brink of destruction.

But he doesn’t object.

I walk over to Hope, praying I seem confident and casual even though I feel like I’m a six-year-old telling a girl I like her on the playground.

“Not dining solo?” I ask.

She looks up from her phone and smiles at me. “My dinner date ditched me for her cha cha cha partner.”

“Well, what if you dined with your cha cha cha partner? And…” I gesture at my table, “his annoying immediate family.”

“You’re really selling it.”

“No worries if you don’t want company.”

“No, I’d love to. Thank you.”

I try not to look as inordinately pleased as I feel as I escort her over to our table.

“You all remember Hope,” I say to my family, as though we weren’t just discussing her. “She’ll be joining us.”

“Only if you don’t mind,” Hope says.

“Of course not,” Dad says in a jolly voice. “Our children don’t bicker as much in front of company. We’d be grateful.”

“We actually do bicker just as much,” Prue says to Hope. “We all have dreadful manners.”

“Weren’t raised properly,” I agree.

“Sit down, sit down,” Pear says, gesturing at the lone empty chair.

Which, conveniently, is directly next to mine.

“So, Hope,” Mum says, “are you enjoying the cruise so far?”

“I am,” she says, in a tone that rings surprised to me. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it’s fun.”

I didn’t expect to enjoy it either. But then I met her.

The sommelier comes by with “tonight’s featured wines”—a bottle of red and a bottle of white—and asks us which we’d like. I decline a glass. I notice Hope does too.

I wonder if she drinks. And if she does, how much.

The waiter takes our orders. Hope goes for yellowtail crudo and the filet of sole. I was going to order the same thing but on the spot I pivot to French onion soup and a ribeye to seem… I don’t know… more manly?

Christ, I’m out of practice.

When the orders have been taken, Hope asks us if we have any plans for tomorrow when we stop in Antigua.

“We girls are riding horses on the beach,” Pear says.

“We’re hopelessly horsey,” Prue adds. “Mum keeps a stable in Hampshire. Do you ride?”

Hope sucks her teeth. “No. When I look at a horse all I can think about is falling off it.”

“They’ve fallen hundreds of times,” I say. “It explains a lot about them. Head injuries, you know.”

“Oh, you should talk,” Pear says. “You rattle your brains head-butting the football so often I’m shocked you can function.”

“His ability to function is debatable,” Prue says.

“Try to be polite, children,” Mum says. “Hope, what are you doing tomorrow?”

“The Caribbean cooking class,” she says.

“So are Felix and Charles,” Mum says. “How nice.”

I take a sip of water to hide how pleased I am.

Hope turns to me. “A chef taking a cooking class?”

“Never hurts.”

“He never went to culinary school, so he needs the help,” Pear says.

“What she means is he’s self-taught,” Mum says, because Mum is an angel unlike her demonic daughters. “Worked his way up from a dishwasher, didn’t you, love?”

“He’s actually quite brilliant,” Pear says, probably because she can tell she’s annoyed me. “He’s always being written up in the papers.”

“We keep trying to convince him to let us invest, so he can expand,” Prue adds. “But he insists on doing it all himself.”

“What kind of food is it?” Hope asks me.

“New British, mostly,” I say. “All locally sourced, seasonal.”

“Sublime,” Mum says. “If you’re ever in London, you must try it.”

“What are they called?” Hope asks. “Your pubs.”

“The Smoke and Gun, in Canonbury. And the Fatted Calf in Stoke Newington.”

“We grew up in West London but he’s abandoned us for the North,” Pear says. “He’s much too edgy for Notting Hill.”

“I’ve only been to London once, during grad school, but I actually stayed with friends in Canonbury. It’s so beautiful. I wonder if we passed by your restaurant.”

“Well, if they’d ever like to go, send them my way. I’d be happy to look after them,” I say.

“Take him up on it, dear,” Mum says. “It’s impossible to get a booking.”

“Give him your contacts now, so you don’t forget,” Pear says.

Hope rummages in her bag for her phone. “Do you mind?” she asks, handing it to me.

Mind? I have never been so thankful for my sister’s interference.

“Not at all,” I say. I take it from her and enter my number, and then my email for good measure. She immediately sends me a text:

Unknown: Hi! It’s Hope Lanover, your new friend from the cruise ship.

Her full contact details, down to her home address, are attached.

I save them and send a text back.

Felix: Enchanted x.

She shoots me a smile. “Me too,” she says.

“So, Hope,” my father says, “not to be a bore, but what do you do for work?”

“I’m a publicist,” she says. Her face takes on the same sheepish expression she had when she mentioned her job this morning.

“Is that what you went to grad school for?” I ask.

“God no.” She laughs. “You definitely don’t need a master’s to write press releases. I did an MFA in fiction. I actually had hoped to go to Cambridge to study English literature, but it didn’t work out.”

“We went to Cambridge!” Pear exclaims. “Daddy made us go to business school before he would let us take over his company.”

“We do private equity,” Prue adds. “Consumer brands. Have you heard of Maquille? That’s our latest. We’re expanding globally. We just opened a flagship in New York.”

“I’ve been there!” Hope exclaims. “Bought an eye cream I really shouldn’t have splurged on, but my God is it good.”

“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” Pear says. “We’re obsessed. I’ll send you a box with the whole line.”

“Why didn’t you make it to Cambridge?” Dad asks. “I’m an alum myself. Could speak to someone for you, put in a good word.”

“Daddy’s famous in the UK,” Prue whispers theatrically. “ Very good connections.”

I want to die of shame at this pronouncement, but Hope seems unfazed.

“Oh, thank you,” she says. “But I was accepted to the program. I just had so many student loans already that moving overseas didn’t make sense in the end.”

“The American education system is ghastly,” my mother says. “Not to mention the healthcare.”

The conversation turns to the wonders of the NHS, which leads Dad to itemize his health problems, which leads Prue and Pear to gag, which leads Mum to say her life’s work was raising them and look what happened, what a waste.

Hope seems highly amused by all this. I like watching her laugh—she really does have the best laugh—and I’m relieved she finds my family’s antics funny rather than alienating.

When our mains are taken away, Hope rises to her feet.

“I hate to run,” she says, “but I promised to meet my friend for the dance show in the theater.”

“Oh Felix!” Pear cries. “Are you performing?”

I glare at her.

“Thank you for putting up with us, Hope,” Mum says.

“Heroic,” says my father.

“It was a pleasure,” Hope says. She touches my arm. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yep,” I say. “Have fun tonight.”

I’m a bit disappointed that she doesn’t ask me along to the show, but I don’t want to invite myself and elbow into her girls’ night.

I spend the evening at the piano lounge with my family, watching my sisters dance to Billie Holiday and Cole Porter with cruise ship ambassadors.

Prue’s is a seventy-one-year-old retired firefighter from Calgary.

Pear’s sold used cars in Manchester and decided to join the cruise circuit when his wife died.

My mother gets jealous that her daughters are enjoying such scintillating life stories and abandons my dad for a former wrestling coach from Minnetonka, Minnesota.

My phone pings with a new message from Hope.

Hope: Thanks for letting me crash your dinner.

Hope: Your family is a riot.

Felix: Is that American for “disaster”?

Hope: No! They’re lovely.

Hope: I’m a bit jealous. Only child. No one to spar with.

Felix: My dream.

Hope: Speaking of, I’m going to bed.

Hope: See you tomorrow. Hope you can handle the cooking class without a degree from Le Cordon Bleu.

Felix: It will be desperate but I’ll give it a go.

She doesn’t reply, so I add:

Felix: Sleep well x.