Come Away With Me: The hilarious feel-good romantic comedy you need to read in 2018. Maddie Please

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      ‘You’re right!’ I said and took a slurp of my drink. I couldn’t remember the last time India and I had had so much fun together. I shouldn’t wish it away. ‘Oooh, this isn’t bad actually.’

      On the stage the male dancers, who were sporting an impressive display of eyeliner as they gamely tried to do Joel Grey impersonations to ‘Willkommen’, joined the girls, who were busy straddling chairs and tipping their bowler hats.

      ‘I saw this on Broadway in 1998,’ Marty said as the routine came to an end and we all applauded. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes and I’ve been in the Army. It was a bit racy.’

      ‘I don’t remember you asking to leave early though,’ Marion said, tapping the table in front of him.

      Marty wagged his head and laughed.

      Beside me India had started doing that thing with her head where she was jerking backwards and forwards as she fell asleep. I nudged her with my knee and when that didn’t work finished her drink off. Strange. It was usually me having to leave and have an early night.

      In the end it was a fun evening. There was no sign of Marnie Miller or Gabriel Frost that I could see. Perhaps this wasn’t their sort of thing? Maybe they were otherwise occupied? I steered my tired brain away from that scenario and watched as a sharp-looking man in a DJ came on and introduced himself as Francois Du Pont, our compere for the evening. I think by his accent he was more Paris-Texas than Paris-France but Marty and Ike laughed at his jokes while Marion and Caron discussed whether this was the same man they had encountered on the Destiny of the Seas two years previously.

      Then a singer came on with a selection of songs in tribute to Dean Martin, where he very convincingly almost fell off his stool.

      India was properly asleep by that point, resting her head back on the red velvet seat, her mouth open. I just hoped ‘Dean’ couldn’t see her.

      The show ended with a rousing dance routine to a selection of Chuck Berry hits, ending with ‘Johnny B Goode’; there was air-guitar playing on the part of the boys and some choreographed hand jiving by the girls. It was really jolly good.

      As the other guests headed off to the bars and casino, I nudged India awake and we tottered off to our cabin and made half-hearted attempts to get our make-up off. I looked out at the dark sea and the glitter of far-off lights on the coast that was slipping past us and smiled as my head span. Then we both fell into bed. What a day!

      *

      It felt like I’d had ten minutes of sleep when I woke up. Daylight was streaming through the windows and occasionally I heard people chattering as they walked down the corridor past our room. I lay in bed wondering if the room was indeed rocking or if I had a worse hangover than expected. Then I remembered I was on a ship, which explained it. The tenders were due to take us off the ship and into Newport, Rhode Island, from nine o’clock, and it was now eight-thirty.

      I wondered for a few moments if I really needed to see Newport, and then I remembered Marion’s comment the night before. Apparently, Newport was ‘a darling town’, very exclusive and good for shopping and dining, with ‘the best handbag shop’ she had ever been in.

      ‘India! Get up! It’s time to move. Breakfast!’ I shouted, chucking one of my pillows at her.

      India made a few horrified noises and rolled away from me, but I chucked another pillow that caught her smack on the head and then I went into the bathroom to shower and steal all the complimentary toiletries, which were Jo Malone and absolutely gorgeous. By the time I came out she was sitting up on the side of her bed.

      ‘Breakfast!’ I said. ‘Hurry up. We can go to the food court self-service. It’ll be quicker.’

      I threw open the doors to the balcony and let in a fresh gust of salty air, feeling much better after my shower. India fell backwards on to her bed and whimpered.

      ‘Oh God, why do you always have to be so bloody enthusiastic in the mornings?’

      ‘Come on! Remember what you said? Would you rather be in work?’

      ‘No,’ she said rather pathetically.

      ‘Well then, come on. We could go and see The Breakers; a dream come true for a couple of half-arsed estate agents like us.’

      To give India her due, she surprised me. In twenty minutes we were in the food court with trays and India was trying to decide what to eat in order to get rid of her hangover.

      All the time, food trolleys laden with new breakfast choices were hurtling through the kitchen doors and out into the food court at frightening speed. There was a group of travellers dithering and fretting to such an extent that I swear we had finished our food and were on our way back to our cabin to collect our passports and ship’s identity cards before they had eaten anything.

      Newport was indeed glorious, with pretty artisan shops and cafés clustered around the quayside. As we passed a beautiful shop full of handbags, we saw Marion inside with a forlorn-looking Marty. Still feeling a bit fragile, we had decided not to join the tour around The Breakers, the house built for the Vanderbilt family, who evidently had more money than was good for them from the look of the photographs.

      Instead we wandered in and out of the immaculate little alleyways around the quay, admiring the jaunty yachting clothes on sale. There was a whole raft of incredibly expensive, impossibly chic, home-style shops filled with every type of throw, vase, candleholder and hand-carved bird necessary to make one’s weekend cottage perfect.

      Everywhere there were tourists plodding about, pretending they had a boat, and the occasional genuine boat owner who could be distinguished by their good looks, expensive clothes and – in the case of the young girls, at least – constant laughing and glossy blonde hair that needed a lot of flicking.

      I looked at them from the weary heights of my twenty-nine years and felt unexpectedly sad. Were they as happy as they seemed? Or had they just not been alive long enough to be disappointed? Would they too one day find their boyfriend, half-naked, sprawled over another woman and then listen to his preposterous explanations about CPR and the Heimlich manoeuvre? I wouldn’t go through that again. I’d made up my mind.

      Philosophical thoughts put firmly to one side, we went to sit at an achingly stylish wine bar overlooking the sea with the intention of ordering a glass of water and an elegant sandwich. One of Newport’s prettiest, blondest, happiest girls came across and introduced herself to us.

      ‘I’m Callie – happy to be your server.’

      We thanked her for handing over the menus.

      ‘You’re welcome,’ she said with a dazzling smile. ‘Can I bring you something while you’re waiting?’

      In the manner of all American restaurants she had already brought us some iced water, which took care of India’s dehydration.

      ‘No, thank you.’

      ‘You’re welcome. Would you like the parasol adjusted? The sun’s really hot today.’

      ‘No, it’s fine, thanks.’

      ‘You’re welcome.’

      Callie skipped away СКАЧАТЬ