Page 14 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

My family has supper at the Japanese restaurant, and my parents insist we do the full omakase experience. I’ve never been so impatient to finish a perfect filet of miso-glazed black cod in my life.

I must not be late to Elvis.

“I think we need to duck out before the green tea semifreddo,” I tell my sisters.

“Why?” Pear asks. “It sounds delicious.”

“Elvis is on in ten minutes.”

Prue snorts. “This morning you were complaining it’s too camp for your delicate sensibilities. Now you want to be early?”

I hesitate before confessing my motivation, as I know my entire family will either mock me (my sisters), worry about me (my dad), or fawn over me (my mum) for inviting a girl somewhere.

“I told Hope I’d meet her there,” I confess.

Cue the mocking and fawning from the ladies, and the grimace from my father.

“Hope,” Mum says. “How nice. Isn’t she a lovely thing.”

“Far too lovely for Felix,” Prue says.

Meanwhile, Pear is singing, “When the boat is a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’,” in a very poor imitation of Elvis’s voice.

“That’s not an Elvis song,” I tell her.

“Just be careful,” Dad says. “Don’t… you know.”

“Oh, let him have his little cruise flirtation, Father,” Prue says. “It might make him nicer.”

“I agree,” Pear says. “I haven’t seen him this bubbly in months.”

“I am not bubbly ,” I protest.

Prue stands up. “Well, come on then,” she says. “We can’t be late. Poor Felix may never have another date again, with his looks and attitude.”

We dash out of the restaurant but are confronted with a scrum on the way to the lifts, as the corridors are congested with fellow cruisers strolling about in evening finery—many a bow tie, many a sparkly frock.

The ladies also seem fond of a heavy spritz of perfume.

The lift smells like the cosmetics department at Selfridges.

Our pace is not helped by the fact that the ship is listing a bit, and people are moving more gingerly than usual. Which is good, as there will be a bottleneck if someone falls over and breaks a hip, and then we’ll certainly be late to meet Hope.

By the time we navigate to the theater, we only have three minutes to spare. I’m worried Hope will have given up on me and gone inside. But Pear elbows me and stage whispers: “Ooh. She dressed up for you.”

I follow her gaze to the doors, where Hope’s waiting with Lauren.

She’s looking in the opposite direction, which gives me a moment to take her in.

She’s got on a fluttery green dress that swishes around her hourglass figure, her hair is smoothed out into waves that fall down past her shoulders, and she’s wearing bright lipstick that radiates old-school glamour.

It’s like someone asked me to imagine my dream girl, then plucked her straight out of my brain.

I walk ahead of my sisters and say her name. She doesn’t look up—it’s loud amidst the crowd milling into the theater and she’s chatting with Lauren—so I tap her shoulder.

She jumps.

“Sorry!” I say. “It’s just me.”

She smiles softly, not at all hiding that she’s pleased to see me. “Ah. Just you.”

“Well, and my sisters,” I say, because they are now hovering six inches away from me, grinning.

“Hi, Hope and Lauren!” they singsong in unison.

I wish they’d given me thirty-five seconds to tell this woman how smashing she looks before barging up.

It’s fine. I’ll be sure to tell her later.

“Hey!” Hope says, flashing Prue and Pear a warm smile. “How are you?”

“Ready for the King!” Pear says. She switches to her fake Elvis voice and sings: “We’re gonna rock around the clock tonight—”

“Also not an Elvis song,” I interrupt.

“It is!” she protests.

“Bill Haley and His Comets,” Hope says. “My dad has the album. But Elvis covered it. So you’re both right.”

“Wow, good intel,” Prue says. “Are you a music buff?”

“She’s the daughter of a man with a very extensive vinyl collection,” Lauren says. “She’s like a human jukebox, just wait.”

We make our way into the theater and find a group of seats together near the back. My sisters and Lauren graciously slide in first, allowing me to sit next to Hope on the aisle. The lights dim right away.

The band steps out on stage, dressed in tight, shiny black pants and white blazers. They’re followed by two backup singers in shimmering gold dresses who take their places behind microphones on the other side of the stage.

“I wasn’t aware Elvis impersonators traveled with a full entourage,” I say to Hope.

“We’re not in Reno anymore.”

“Do you spend much time in Reno?”

“Oh, sure. It’s the Monte Carlo of America. Can’t keep me away.”

“You’ll have to take me some time.”

“Only if you let me blow all your money on the slots.”

“Do you have a gambling addiction?”

“Yes.”

“I know a great rehab.”

A spotlight shines on the stage, and a heavily tanned middle-aged man with a mane of dyed-black hair steps into it. He’s wearing a bell-bottomed onesie with gold boots and a heavy gold chain.

“Oh my God ,” Hope whispers. “I think I’m in love.”

“I must say, I was hoping for rhinestones.”

“Maybe he does costume changes.”

We can’t talk further, because without preamble, he launches into “Hound Dog.”

“Whoa,” Hope whispers. “His voice is amazing.”

“Shockingly so. And he has the hip-swivel down.”

“Is it wrong that I’m attracted to him?”

“The heart wants what it wants.”

Elvis hits the bridge, and the backup singers encourage us to stand and clap along over our heads. The audience leaps to their feet. Despite the mature demographic, they’re surprisingly spry.

Hope grabs my hand to pull me up. “Listen, you’re not too cool for fake Elvis,” she shouts into my ear above the music.

“I’m actually not cool enough for him.”

But I get up, because I’ll do anything to keep holding her hand.

Elvis strikes up “You’re the Devil in Disguise,” and Hope bops along with the music, mouthing the words. I smell her perfume again, and the magnolias are much nicer than whatever the women were doused in on the lift. She bumps me with her hip.

“Dance with me,” she says.

“Glutton for punishment?”

She takes my hand and does a cute little twirl into my arms, rocking her hips toward mine.

This, I can get into without lessons.

I put my hand on the small of her back and she smiles approvingly.

Unfortunately, that’s when the song ends.

“How are you enjoying paradise, ladies and gentlemen?” Elvis asks in a very fake Southern drawl.

Everyone cheers.

“Well, since ya’ll love to cruise, I’m gonna take you sailing on this magical night to a pretty little place I like to call… Blue Hawaii.”

The band strikes back up and everyone starts swaying along as Elvis croons the ballad. I’m disappointed that we’ve transitioned to a down-tempo number, as I was looking forward for another excuse to press close to Hope.

One of the backup singers hands Elvis a heap of white and pink orchid leis. He steps into the crowd, stopping to put leis around the necks of several ladies as he sings to them about their dreams coming true.

The way they swoon, you would think he was the real deal.

And then he stops in front of Hope and drapes a lei over her head. She accepts it with pure delight. He throws an arm around her. “Sing it with me, pretty lady,” he says.

She joins him for the chorus, and I’m shocked by the loveliness of her voice—a clear soprano.

She hits every note, harmonizing off the cuff with Elvis’s baritone.

The whole room erupts in applause, and she laughs and curtsies.

I’m oddly proud, like I have something to do with the star turn of the woman I’m standing next to.

“Isn’t she amazing?” Lauren whispers into my ear.

“A marvel,” I whisper back.

Elvis walks back on stage and does a powerful cover of “Unchained Melody” that I’m pretty sure makes Hope tear up. And then he transitions to “Bridge Over Troubled Waters.”

“Is it bad luck to sing about troubled waters on a cruise ship?” Hope asks over the music.

“Almost certainly.”

“I hope he doesn’t do the theme from Titanic next.”

“No? Personally I’d love to hear an Elvis version of Celine Dion.”

A woman in front of us turns around and frowns, so we stop talking.

The next forty-five minutes is hit after hit.

“Blue Suede Shoes.” “All Shook Up.” “Heartbreak Hotel.” I had no idea I knew so many Elvis songs, and by the end I’m singing along to “Suspicious Minds” at the top of my lungs with the rest of the crowd.

Hope pulls me toward her and sings the lyrics directly to me, so I sing them back to her, both of us belting about how we love you too much, baby .

She collapses into me with laughter as the song ends, and I’m not sure if it’s because the ship is tossing or because she wants a hug.

I err on the side of wrapping an arm around her shoulders.