The Importance of Being Alice Page 3

  “Atta girl.”

  “He used me.”

  “Like a wet paper towel!”

  I shoved aside some books until I dug out a small laptop. I would start the diary right then and there. “He charmed me and swept me off my feet and made me quit my nice job with the library to become his private secretary, and then he seduced me into moving in with him!”

  “Man deserves to be hung up by his balls for that.”

  I stood up, shaking the laptop at nothing. “He made me think we were going to get married at the end of this trip! He had me look up the laws for Americans getting married in Budapest!”

  “Ball-hanging is too good for him. He deserves something worse. Off with his head!”

  “I will take that trip!” I yelled at the small living room filled with boxes that I had yet to unpack. “And I will enjoy myself! A lot! So much that he’ll gnash his teeth and tear out that lovely black hair, and will crawl back begging me to forgive him.”

  “Which you won’t do because you are a smart woman and won’t throw yourself into yet another disastrous relationship without first thinking about whether the man is the one for you, right?”

  Helen’s voice was filled with caution, but my spirits were soaring, and I wasn’t going to let anyone ground them again. I looked at the clock on the laptop, and made the decision. “Oh, how I will enjoy his crawling. Gotta run, babe. The plane leaves tomorrow morning, and I have no idea where my clothes are.”

  “You’re not naked, are you?”

  I smiled and put the laptop on the mound of books. “No, but I’ve been wearing the same pair of sweatpants and tee since I moved three days ago, and I think they could be technically classified as a new life-form. Love to the kiddo. I’ll post pictures of the boat and things.”

  “Enjoy yourself, lovey. Have fun with cathartic writing and suchlike. But be careful, OK?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I said with another smile, touched by Helen’s concern. She was always telling me to stop being quite so heedless when it came to life, but hard experience had proved more than once that you have to grab what you can because you never know when it will be taken away from you.

  Like Patrick.

  I shoved down that thought and allowed the burst of adrenaline to carry me through the next twenty-four hours, from the hassle of digging out appropriate clothing to wear, to borrowing a suitcase to stuff said clothing into, getting myself and my gigantic bag onto an airplane to Amsterdam, and, finally, starting this diary.

  “My boat cruise goes through Holland, Germany, Austria, Slovakia, and Hungary,” I told my seatmate as the occupants of the plane settled down to the long ten-hour trip from Portland, Oregon, to Amsterdam. “On three different rivers. See? Castles!”

  The woman next to me, obviously on summer break from college, admired the glossy brochure. “Manny van Bris: Tour Guide to the Nearly Famous. Well, now. That looks like a lot of fun.”

  “The staterooms,” I read to her from the brochure, “are equipped with every modern convenience, and are designed to delight the traveler in a home-away-from home atmosphere. And I’ll have a cabin all to myself since . . . since my friend can’t make it.”

  “It sounds lovely,” the woman said, giving me a look that told me I was on the verge of becoming That Person on a plane, the one you didn’t want to get stuck sitting next to. I gave her a big smile, and settled back into my seat, my fingers sliding over the glossy paper.

  Helen was right—I was due a vacation after the dramafest my life had suddenly become. I just hoped Patrick would realize that I had taken the trip after all. I had contemplated leaving him a message in case he was unaware of how easily I had moved on, but decided that a policy of pretending he didn’t exist was better.

  Besides, if I posted lots of pictures on Facebook of all the fabulous fun I was having on my glamorous boat trip, mutual friends would be sure to point them out to him. I smiled at the thought and made a mental note to include lots of photos of whatever handsome men came within the range of my camera.

  Those were my thoughts as I dragged my by now jet-lagged self through the Amsterdam airport, found a cab, and made my way out to where the river cruise boats were lined up, waiting to take that day’s flock of passengers on board. The ships—long and sleek and elegant—were stacked two and three deep, with long lines of people streaming on board. I hauled my wheeled bag past a couple of especially elegant ships, mentally hugging myself with delight. I’d made the right choice to come on this trip. It would definitely show Patrick that I was so over him.

  The delight of that thought faded to nothing the second I spotted my boat.

  “Excuse me,” I said, staring in horror as I snagged a uniformed person bearing a clipboard. “I’m looking for the Manny van Bris River Tours section of the pier. Can you tell me where that is?”

  The man turned and pointed at the boat that I was still staring at. “That would be your ship, madam.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “It can’t be. See, I have a brochure. It shows the ship right here, and this is clearly not the same boat as that . . . that . . . heap.”

  The man gave me a sympathetic look, murmured something about hoping I enjoyed my holiday, and hurried off to tend his shiny new ship.

  My gaze drifted along the narrow boat moored alongside the dock. A small gangway stretched across the few feet of water to the dockside, rusted chains hanging morosely off the flimsy walkway. The ship itself had once been painted red and white, but now was mostly rust and white, with large bare patches where the paint had peeled off. At the front of the upper deck—there were three decks on the ship, according to the brochure, although I now viewed that source of information with much skepticism—a handful of plastic white lawn chairs sat.

  “This is not the same ship,” I said, looking at the brochure one more time. “This can’t be right. I can’t have spent four grand on that. It looks like it would sink if I so much as sneezed on it!”

  “Alice Wood?” I looked up at the person who had called my name. A shiny-faced woman of indeterminate years, but with poufy blond hair that bespoke someone in her sixties, bustled carefully across the gangway and over to me. In a voice with a BBC America sort of English accent, she said, “You are Alice Wood of Portland, Oregon, United States?”

  “Yes, I’m Alice, but that is not the same ship as shown here.” I held out the brochure and tapped it.

  “The ship pictured in the advertisement is just a depiction, as is noted in the fine print,” she said dismissively, grabbing the handle of my suitcase and wheeling it away from me, toward the gangway. “This is our flagship, the Manny B. It needs a few cosmetic touches, but I assure you that once you’re on board, you’ll find it very comfortable, very comfortable indeed. I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I’m Tiffany Jones, the cruise concierge, and your friend away from home. Call on me for whatever you need. Come along, now, you are the last of our guests to arrive, and Captain Manny is most adamant about leaving before the other ships.”

  “Really?” I said, looking upward at the rusted side of the ship as I carefully walked across the gangway. The latter didn’t feel any too sturdy underfoot, but at least I made it across without falling into the water, or chunks of the ship hurling themselves onto my head. “Why is that?”

  “He likes to get the best position on shore, of course.”

  I looked at the ship. “Position? Aren’t they all along the banks?”

  “If you look behind you, you’ll see that the latecomers have to anchor alongside other ships rather than the shore. Captain Manny prefers to claim the premium spot since the other captains are such beasts about our company. Petty, quite petty, and so very cutting with their comments about our fleet. Now, this is my concierge desk. Do you have your passport? I’ll just hold on to it for you so you won’t be bothered by all the trivialities of border crossings. Here is your room key.” She h
anded a small key to me as she continued rushing ahead. “Through here is the lower lounge. It’s a bar, really, and although it’s empty now, you’ll find it’s quite the jumping nightspot, as you Americans like to say. Your cabin is just up the stairs here, and down the corridor. Mind your step. To the left is the upper lounge, and a wee little library to the right, just there. Around the corner we go. You have the veranda cabin, so you’ll be able to enjoy the pleasure of a firsthand view from your own deck chair while cruising down the rivers. We just ask that you not sit outside when the wind is from the north due to noxious fumes from the engines. Carbon monoxide poisoning can be so unpleasant, can it not? And here we are! Your deluxe veranda cabin awaits you. Do take your time unpacking. There will be an informal drinks and nibblies party promptly at four p.m. in the upper lounge. Dinner is at seven. You needn’t dress for the first night out. Do feel free to tell me if you need anything.”

  * * *

  My head was spinning by the time she hustled off down the narrow hallway.

  “Alice, my dear,” I said softly. “You are in Wonderland, which means that has to be the White Rabbit.”

  I watched until she disappeared, feeling like I’d been deposited in a whirlwind. I turned to consider the doors before me. There were three cabins on this level of the ship, but the blank doors told me nothing about what the next two weeks held for me.

  “It may be Wonderland, but it’s also on a river,” I said to myself under my breath, using the key in the door, “so even if the ship does sink, you can swim to shore. Just relax and enjoy two blissful weeks of Europe unblighted by the presence of any egotistical, narcissistic, backstabbing men.”

  I entered the cabin, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of a chestnut-haired man who was seated at a minuscule table, hunched over a laptop. The man looked up with a start and stared at me with an expression of surprise that was probably identical to the one plastered all over my face.

  “Um . . . ,” I said.

  “Um?” he asked, a little frown pulling down his eyebrows. “Really? That’s how you greet people? The laxity of customer service these days. Well, it’s of no matter; as I told that chatty concierge, I do not need anything, and don’t wish to be disturbed. I have a book to write, and I need quiet to do so.”

  What on earth was this arrogant man doing in my cabin? Judging by his comments, he had probably snuck in thinking it was empty and thus available to be used as his personal office.

  He had one of those rich British accents that made me think of Stephen Fry at his most pompous, and although he certainly wasn’t hard at all on the eyes, he was most definitely not what I wanted in the form of cabin accoutrements. “You can blame the ‘um’ on jet lag. I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours, and frankly, I don’t give a damn whether or not you wish to be disturbed. You’re in my cabin, and I would appreciate you writing your book elsewhere.”

  “Your cabin?” he said, frowning even more.

  I went out to the hallway and pulled my suitcase in, noticing then that there were two small bags stacked against the wall next to one of the two twin beds that dominated the small room.

  “I beg to differ,” the man said, observing me with what might have been alarm. “This is my cabin.”

  I held up my key. “Beta deck, room four. That’s what it says on the door, and it’s where Tiffany left me, so would you please mind finding yourself another place to write?”

  He stood up slowly, his eyes—which I noticed were a particularly clear gray—roaming over me in a speculative, wholly impersonal way. I will admit that the woman in me was a bit annoyed about that. I might not be seeking male attention or appreciation, but dammit, he didn’t have to look me over like I was a particularly uninspiring view. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Anise, would it?”

  “Alice,” I corrected. “Who are you?”

  He started to answer, checked himself, then said hesitantly, “Elliott Ainslie.” I was about to tell him that I was tired and would appreciate him vamoosing when he added, “You’re Patrick’s ex.”

  A chill ran down my back, curled around my side, and settled in my stomach with a sick feeling. “You know Patrick?”

  He nodded. “We were at school together. It would appear that there has been a gross miscommunication. Patrick gave me his travel tickets saying that his ex-girlfriend had decided not to take the trip, and since he had more important things to do, he’d let me have his cabin.”

  “Our cabin,” I said, righteously indignant about many things, but mostly that Patrick felt so little about a vacation that I had long anticipated that he had tossed it away on a pal. “We went in halfsies on the cabin.”

  “I see. No doubt you will wish to take that matter up with Patrick. I’m sure he will see the justice in having to reimburse you for the cost of a different cabin.”

  “Different cabin?” I plopped down on one of the beds, the one nearest the tiny bathroom. “I have a cabin. There’s no reason for me to get another one.”

  “But I am already in possession of this one—”

  “Yeah, and you didn’t pay for it, did you? You said Patrick gave you the tickets. Well, I did pay, a lot of money, four grand to be exact, so if anyone is finding a new cabin, it’s you, not me.”

  Oh, he didn’t like that. “Now, see here, Miss . . . Miss . . .”

  “Alice Wood.”

  “See here, Miss Wood.” He strode the three steps over to where I sat like a limp bit of broccoli on the bed. “I recognize that the situation is not of your making—although Patrick was quite adamant that you had made clear your intention to not take the trip as planned—but neither is it of mine, and since I was in possession of the cabin first, it only makes sense for you to be the one to relocate. You haven’t even unpacked.”

  I lay down on the bed, wincing a little at both the mattress’s lumpiness and the fact that it was inclined at a slight angle. “My cabin. I paid for it, I’m staying. Besides, if you were a gentleman, you’d offer to find a new room.”

  He swore under his breath for a moment, stomped up and down the cabin (all five steps’ worth of it), then marched out of the cabin muttering things that I felt it better not to strain to overhear.

  I sat up, glancing over at his laptop, but before I could do more than wonder if he was in contact with Patrick, he reappeared, snatched up his laptop, and exited again, trailing dark looks at me.

  At that point, exhaustion claimed me, making it hard to get my body moving. But my curiosity trumped jet lag, and had me opening the drawers of the low dresser that lined one wall. Shirts, pants, and assorted undergarments were folded with precision.

  “The man who folded those socks,” I said aloud, kneeling to pull open the bottom drawer, “is borderline anal. I’ve never seen clothing so tidy. Good lord, he even has a travel iron.”

  Voices outside the door heralded the return of the gray-eyed intruder. I knee-walked the two steps over to the door and opened it to find him arguing with Tiffany.

  “—very sorry, sir, but as I’ve told you three times now, there simply are no other free cabins. We are sailing at capacity, and I should like to point out that Manny van Bris Tours cannot be held responsible for errors of this sort. It is simply not feasible for us to maintain unoccupied cabins on the off chance that one of our customers should suddenly break up with his partner and require separate accommodations. Or in your case, give his ticket to you. Your friend purchased shared occupancy of this cabin, and I’m afraid that you will simply have to deal with the situation as best you can.”

  Tiffany’s head swiveled as she considered me for a brief moment. On my knees looking back at her, I felt every single minute of the twenty-four-plus hours I’d been traveling—wrinkled, unwashed, and so tired that most of my inhibitions had fallen asleep.

  “This ship isn’t at all like the pictures in the brochure,” I told her. “The mattress is lumpy, too
.”

  She was about to answer me, but Elliott interrupted. “There’s got to be somewhere else I can sleep on the ship. I don’t require much room, just somewhere to sit with my laptop, and a bed to stretch out on at night.”

  “You have a cabin, sir,” she said, with a hard glance at me. “There are no other options.”

  “You could go stay in a hotel,” I suggested.

  “If you wish to disembark, you will need to do so in the next three minutes,” Tiffany said curtly, snapping closed the portfolio she held in her hands. “We will be leaving immediately.”

  Elliott looked like he really wanted to let loose with a blue cloud of profanity, but I had to give it to him—he just flexed his jaw a couple of times, and swallowed his frustration down. He turned to me. “I don’t suppose you would consider a hotel—”

  “Nope. I don’t have enough money for one, even if I did want to consider it. What about you?” I gave him the once-over. He was dressed casually, in a pair of dark pants and a plain white shirt. He didn’t look like his financial status matched his upper-class accent.

  A quick grimace passed over his face. “I prefer not to spend my resources on something as trivial as a vacation.”

  “Broke, too, huh?” I gave a little half shrug. “I hear ya on that. Had to max out my credit card in order to have some spending money, not that I have a lot of that, but you can’t go to Europe without buying at least a few postcards and stuff, right? So, what are you going to do? Sleep in the lounge at night? I suppose I could let you use this room during the day when I’m not here, if you wanted to write—”

  He brushed past me into the cabin. “Such thoughtfulness isn’t necessary. As you heard, I am the rightful possessor of a ticket that entitles me to the use of one-half of this cabin, which means exactly one-half of the table, and one of the beds, are at my disposal. I opt to use them.”