Page 4 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

I can’t believe I agreed to this , I think as I step onto the cruise ship that will be home for the next ten days. It has the vibe of a Las Vegas casino crossed with a very posh care home for the elderly.

“We’re on the penthouse level,” my younger sister, Pear, says as we all pile into the lift to the staterooms. “Thank you, parents.”

“If ever there was a time to splurge, it’s now,” Mum says. “Daddy and I will only have one fortieth anniversary.”

“And God knows if we’ll make it to fifty,” my father says.

“Stop killing us off, Charles,” Mum says fondly.

Mum and Dad are only sixty-eight, but Dad’s been threatening their imminent demise for at least the last decade.

The lift stops and we emerge onto a plushly carpeted corridor lined with gilded watercolor paintings of the sea.

“We’re this one,” my older sister, Prue, says to Pear, pointing at the second door on the left. The two of them elected to share a room as their respective romantic partners, Eliza and Matty, were “too busy” to join us on holiday.

Clever Eliza and Matty.

“Let’s all have a rest and meet for lunch at one, shall we?” Mum asks.

“See you then,” I say.

I walk farther down the hallway, searching for my room, when two women about my age emerge from around a corner ahead of me.

“Eleven fifty-one,” the taller of them—a willowy blonde with an exaggerated American twang—says. “Ah, here.”

The other girl—the one I accidentally made eye contact with at check-in—nods.

She’s petite with a curvy figure, creamy white skin, a riotous mass of dark curls, and a sweet, heart-shaped face.

I have a thing for curly hair and a thing for, well, curves.

I duck into my room before they see me so I don’t get caught looking at her again.

I enter a suite so palatial it borders on pornographic. There’s a lounge opening onto an oceanfront terrace, a king-sized bedroom with a walk-in closet, and a huge marble bathroom. Everything is in tasteful shades of greige.

I’m accustomed to my parents’ taste for luxury vacations—we grew up on first-class flights to the Maldives and Kenyan safaris—but this might top them all.

Someone knocks at the door.

I open it to find a smiling man in a dark suit holding a silver tray of fresh fruit.

“Mr. Segrave,” he says warmly. “Welcome to the Romance of the Sea . I am Crisanto, and I’ll be looking after you on your voyage as your personal butler. May I come in?”

“Of course,” I say, moving aside. He sweeps in and places the fruit on my dining table.

“You are from London,” he says. “A long journey.”

“It was,” I agree. He must have memorized the guest profile I filled out online. Impressive.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“The Philippines, sir.”

“Oh, please call me Felix,” I say. I’ve never been particularly comfortable with the trappings of my parents’ wealth. Making a butler address me as “sir” is more Little Lord Fauntleroy than I like.

“Very well, Mr. Felix,” Crisanto says. “May I show you around your suite?”

“Sure.”

He points out a phone where I can reach him and his colleagues twenty- four hours a day, then leads me to the minifridge and wet bar that’s been stocked with beer, champagne, and wine.

I can only imagine how quickly my two-years-ago self would have obliterated it.

“A liquor menu is here if you desire—I am happy to bring you whatever you like,” Crisanto says.

“No hard stuff, and actually, would you mind removing the wine?” I ask. “I’m more of a Coke Zero man.”

Caffeine and nicotine gum are the two vices I’ve replaced booze and cigarettes with since getting sober.

I consume them both with inadvisable voracity.

I should probably give them up, given I’m constantly abuzz and have TMJ from all the chewing, but I’m nervous to shake any of the habits upon which I built my sobriety.

It took me too long to get here to risk it, and I’ve put my family and friends through too much.

A chime rings—the doorbell.

“Ah,” says Crisanto, “that must be your room attendant. I’ll introduce you.”

He opens the door for a smiling young woman in a prim gray dress with a white apron.

“Mr. Felix, this is Belhina.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

“A pleasure,” she says.

“Belhina will clean your room twice a day and see that you’re comfortable,” says Crisanto.

“How do you prefer your pillows, Mr. Felix?” she asks. “I’ll bring you whatever you like—firm, goose down—”

“Oh, no worries,” I say. “The ones on the bed are just the thing. But thank you.”

“Very well, sir. But please let me know if you would like help unpacking your luggage.”

“Thank you so much.”

“We will leave you to get comfortable,” Crisanto says. “Don’t hesitate to let us know if there’s anything we can assist you with.”

“Will do, will do.”

They show themselves out and I throw myself down on the bed, which is among the more comfortable surfaces on which I’ve ever rested my body. I groan in pleasure, then wonder if the neighbors will hear me through the wall and think I’m having a wank.

Probably not. This ship is too grand for thin walls. It’s so hushed I can hear myself breathe.

I pull out my phone to check my messages—specifically to see if there’s anything from Sophie, my operations manager, concerning my pubs. Like, for instance, that they’ve burned down in the first eighteen hours without me.

There isn’t.

I’m a bit disappointed. I helicopter over my businesses, and fancy myself indispensable to their daily runnings. This is the first time I’ve left them unattended for more than two days in years.

I didn’t want to. My mother coerced me, saying this anniversary trip might be our last chance to holiday as a family before everyone pairs off and has kids of their own.

I owe her too much to disappoint her, but breaking my routine for two weeks is the most frightening thing I’ve done since entering detox.

I decide to shower before lunch. I’m taken aback by the showerhead, which does an obscene swivel jet maneuver I’m sure several of my ex-girlfriends would have been intimately fond of.

It certainly takes my mind off my pubs.

I slather myself in sun cream and head upstairs to the Lido Deck, where a crowd of waiters in white are serving a handful of guests who have already set themselves up by the pool. (All of them are quite bronze already—it seems the elderly don’t believe in SPF.)

I follow the signs to the restaurant, where I’m greeted by a buffet so epic its array of stations requires three rooms. I pass cheeses, a raw bar, salad, pasta à la minute, a lamb roast, and all manner of hot things I don’t pause to identify, dished out by men in white chef’s coats.

The restaurateur in me shudders at the idea of buffet food. All that labor and waste just to serve mediocre cuisine. But I force myself to withhold judgment. This is, at least, a very opulent spread.

“We’re over here,” one of my sisters calls. (They have the same voice, the way they have the same hair and figure and capacity for profiting from distressed debt.)

I notice they’re sitting a few tables away from the two girls I saw in the hallway.

As I pass them, I hear the curly-haired one mutter “I hate buffets” to her friend.

Clearly, the woman has good taste.