The Abigail Affair (3 page)

Toby sat with his mouth open in horror.

“Didn’t they tell you, no cell phones?”

“Yes, but I assumed it meant you couldn’t use them, not that you couldn’t have one.”

“If they said ‘no guns allowed,’ I guess you’d think it was all right to pack a revolver and ammo as long as you didn’t pull it out and shoot your employer?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I understand. I apologise. But really—”

“Shut it. Never assume anything on this vessel except that you’re in the wrong and in the shit, which will be most of the time. You’ve certainly started badly.”

Toby willed himself not to react. This was clearly some sort of initiation, a strutting officer asserting his authority, upset by the promise and eagerness of Toby’s youth, jealous of his good looks, probably a man with a string of failed relationships behind him. Such men often ended up at sea. But his new phone! Trashed within minutes! It had cost hundreds.

Triple mega bummer.

“OK, so you can’t follow simple written instructions. Let’s find out what you can do. If you see two white lights, one directly above the other, and below them a green on the left and a red on the right, what’s happening?”

Hell!
COLREGS!
Toby grappled with his memory.
Two whites … anchor lights? No, not with the red and green. They must be steaming lights. Why two? Oh yes …

“Time’s up and you’ve been run down by the
Aurora
or some other bloody large thing headed point-blank straight towards you. So I can’t put you on watch even for ten minutes and go take a shit. There must be some use I can put you to.” The officer shuffled through Toby’s papers. “Unimpressive CV. Three months at Sainsbury’s on the meat counter. ‘Work experience’ of two weeks at an insurance company as renewals documentation clerk. Don’t tell me, you got the sack.”

“It wasn’t quite my forte, documentation. But I did OK at the Snooty Goose. And check out my diving record.”

The man scanned down the page. “We won’t need you to scuba dive. Let’s stick to the bar. Can you mix a Screwdriver?”

Toby breathed a sigh of relief. “Highball glass, cubed ice, one shot of vodka, three of orange juice, decorate.”

“Hallelujah. What’s in a Tom Collins?”

“Gin, lemon juice, sugar, club soda, decorate.”

“OK, we’re on a roll. What’s a White Russian?”

“Vodka, Tia Maria, cream, ice.”

“No.”

“But surely … I mean I’ve always made it that way …”

“Son, a White Russian on this ship is not a drink, it’s a miserable 250 pounds of mega yacht owner called Ivan
Nikolaevich
Krigov who will personally break your finger off if you put a foot wrong when he’s in that frame of mind, because he lost a billion on some oil scam, or because his haemorrhoids are itching, or he didn’t get laid for twenty minutes. Alternatively he will bump you a thousand US tip just for mixing his cocktail nicely. Do you have any idea of what an oligarch”—he pronounced it “oily-garch”—“is like on his own yacht? Think of the Emperor Caligula crossed with Attila the Hun with a hangover. You should study the Roman emperors. I do. The madder the better. It will teach you how to survive this sorry business.”

“I like history. I studied the Cold War for A-level. I got a ‘C,’ too. And surely Mr Krigov can’t be that bad.”

“He’s certainly as mad as Mussolini. Robinson, are you sure you can handle this? I’m Scott, by the way. First Officer, Mate, whatever.” He picked up his cigarette and dropped it into a plastic mug half-full of water.

Toby was really itching for a cigarette himself now. However, he felt his pulse slow. He seemed to have passed at least this first test, if only with his knowledge of cocktails, gleaned in regular stints at the posh Snooty Goose hotel where a group of wealthy and heavily Botoxed women would gather for lunch every Monday. “I’m there,” he said.

“You see, Robinson, let me lay it out for you. We have just five crew on board at this moment. Not counting you, because I can’t count on you. That’s not really enough to go to sea. Even in this thing, which practically flies itself. The captain and the chief engineer are in Miami taking delivery of a new generator because it was quicker to buy a new one and fly it down here than get the parts from Japan to fix the old one. So once we leave the dock, we’re running on the No. 2 genny only. If that goes, all I have is the emergency generator to power the boat systems, and that won’t run the air-conditioning. So far, so bad. But that’s not all. My second steward has appendicitis and is at the mercy of St Helen’s General Hospital. He’ll be there a week, unless they kill him in the meantime, and even if they don’t, he won’t be fit for another three weeks. Even so, no problem—Krigov assured me he wouldn’t want the yacht until the end of January, so everyone is cool. Then this very morning he phones in to say get the old tub ready for tonight and the New Year’s holiday. Twelve hours’ notice of arrival! I tell him, sir, no captain, no chief engineer, no second steward, one generator, and he goes, ‘Scotty, don’t give me your problems, I pay you to have my yacht ready at all times to go anywhere.’
And
he’s certain to bring girls because his wife is in New York. He’ll drink like a fish and get evil.
And
he won’t want to sit on the dock. So you see, I need crew, not trainees.”

Toby said, “I’m your man. Anyone who has served behind the bar in a Surrey golf club knows how to deal with that sort of behaviour.”

“Don’t kid yourself. If someone throws a punch landside, they call the cops, and by the time they come, everything’s quieted down. A yacht like this is detached from civilisation. The owner is the dictator of his own floating country. He can get away with anything, and those like our esteemed owner soon realise that. And you can’t quit the job unless Krigov says so.”

“Who do I report to, sir? I’m ready. I can be respectful under duress, and I’m sure I can take care of any guests, including any lady guests.”

Scott snorted. “If you want to leave, go now. If you’re ready to ditch your principles and your pride, be treated like a white kaffir boy, on call 24/7, watch all kinds of stuff going on that you don’t understand and don’t want to, all just for a load of tax-free US dollars, a pair of tailored shorts and a polo shirt with an embroidered logo, then stay.”

Toby felt his head start to spin a little. Perhaps he was in over his head here. He didn’t want his finger broken.

Then he thought about the tailored shorts and the polo shirt. And the promise of a thousand-dollar tip. That all sounded cool.

He took a deep breath. “I’m in,” he said. “I’ll prove myself to you on this voyage. Throw it at me and I’ll catch it. I’ve just got one question.”

“Yes?” Scott looked Toby in the eyes. In those slightly watery eyes, Toby saw resignation, disillusionment, even pain. He started to feel a bit sorry for poor old Scotty.

He said it anyway. “Why did you destroy my cell phone, sir?”

Scott sighed again. “You asked who you would report to. The answer, of course, is the bosun. Except we don’t have one of those either, because Krigov damn near killed him not two weeks ago when he found him on deck at two in the morning texting his wife in New Zealand. He punched him so hard, he laid him out and ruptured the man’s spleen. Poor old Davis lay there for at least half an hour until I found him. We got him lifted off and helicoptered over to the
Queen Mary II
which thank God was steaming down the Anegada Passage with us, and he lived—minus the spleen, of course. Krigov hauled the captain in the next day and threatened to stop his wages for a month for organising the rescue. Said he should have left the man to die and thrown him overboard. Captain thought he meant it.”

“No kidding,” Toby said.

“There’s no kidding on this vessel when the owner is aboard, and not much any other time. So you see, I did you a service by removing that little object of temptation from your sticky fingers. If all goes well, and God knows that’s unlikely, you’ll get enough tips to buy a shed-load of new phones. Come on, let’s take you down to Julia, who is our chief stewardess and will take you off my hands, which will be a merciful release.”

Toby’s mind whirled. He picked up his SIM card from the desk and put it carefully in a pocket of his backpack. He reversed out of the tiny office, waited for Scott and followed him. Scott’s leather-soled shoes rang on the metal deck. Toby’s trainers made no sound.
That’s the way to go
, he thought—
others
can make all kinds of noise; I’ll pad around like a cat and keep in the shadows and be invisible until I’ve learned the ropes
.

He wondered how much of this wayward briefing had been true, and how much had been embellished for his benefit. Toby had heard tales of a similar nature from foremen on building sites about tyrant bosses who would tear out your throat for cracking a tile. It had always been a wind-up. However Scott certainly looked and sounded like a man under duress. Maybe he was not quite up to his job, and was panicking because the captain and chief engineer were away?

Whatever,
Toby thought.
I’m going to be polishing stainless steel and serving cocktails. I can do those things. But forewarned is forearmed—I’ll keep my head down and speak only when addressed. And Krigov will know I’m a British subject with a well-off family and a First World legal system behind me. He won’t pick a serious fight with me.

And if he does, I’m out of here!

His sense of unease lifted a little when Scott introduced him to the chief stewardess, Julia Simons. They’d found her counting silverware in a storeroom near the galley. She looked a good few years older than Toby. With her small but curvy physique, blonde hair tied back and minimal makeup, she exuded an air of quiet control. The way she moved and the way she spoke—with a faint American accent, or maybe Canadian—suggested professionalism, self-discipline, and an even temperament—the exact opposite of Scott, the first officer.

Plus she was a looker.

Toby was disappointed to note the wedding ring on her left hand, but cheered himself up with the thought that many attractive single women wore one simply for deterrent effect. He would soon find out either way and looked forward to getting to know his immediate superior better, and impressing her in any way he could.

She took him to another storeroom and heaved out a pile of brand-new uniform shirts, shorts and the latest Nike trainers. “There you go, Toby. Find your size. Try them on. You’ll need three of everything to start. Plus a steward’s kit for tonight, on that rack there.” She eyed him up and down. “Tall, slim fit, I should say. I’ll be in the stillroom. When you’re ready, change back into mufti. I’ll show you your cabin and you’ll have fifteen minutes to shower and trim those fingernails down to a sensible length so the Boss doesn’t mistake you for a girl and try to screw you on your first night aboard. Well, don’t just stand there! Get with it!”

“Aye aye, ma’am!” Toby said.

Chapter 2

Twenty minutes later, Toby was in his cabin fighting with a starched collared white shirt and a clip-on black bow tie when there was a rap on the door. It opened immediately and Julia poked her head in. “Come on, the Boss has landed and he’ll be here in twenty minutes tops. They’re saying he has a party of three with him. You’re on the bar, so let’s get going. You gotta keep moving, Toby.”

“I’m there,” Toby said, who wasn’t. He got the bow tie and collar in the right order, pulled his shirtfront down, took the hanger with the pristine white jacket, lifted off the cellophane cover and put on the jacket. He checked himself out in the full-length mirror on the back of the cabin door. Not bad. Not bad at all—in fact, pretty damn handsome, he decided. The shirt collar was a fraction large. But the jacket was a good fit. He took a moment to compose himself, and breathed in and out slowly three times. He was ready. He decided he was going to enjoy this experience, come what may.

Bar duty he could handle.

He exited the cabin and hurried after Julia, who was already some way down the corridor. She moved nicely and her bottom looked good in her uniform pencil skirt. She appeared fit; her calves were well defined.

Toby caught up with her and they clattered up a flight of metal stairs to a service corridor. The soles of Toby’s new leather steward’s shoes felt distinctly slippery. He’d have to watch that and not go arse-over-tit with a tray. All the way, Julia barked instructions at him over her shoulder. “Don’t approach the Boss or speak to him or any of the guests. Stand behind the bar. I’ll take the orders and pass them to you. I won’t repeat myself, so concentrate and listen up. Don’t forget anything. Put the drinks on a round silver tray. One of us always stays in the room. Chef will buzz you when the first course is ready. It will be just outside in this corridor. On a trolley. Don’t turn your back, ever...”

Julia opened a door and suddenly they were in the stateroom, which occupied the whole of the middle deck as far as Toby could tell. It was cavernous and opulent, but in a rather anonymous hotel lobby-style. Everything seemed slightly oversized. There were tinted windows all round, angled so as not to throw reflections. The orange ball of the low evening sun cast shadows across the carpet. A grand piano with a mirror-like glazed black finish stood on a slightly raised wooden dais, illuminated by multiple down lighters. He took in groups of sofas, oversized porcelain table lamps, a dining area with a long, glossy table in some sort of expensive, reddish wood, and a big bar, sporting bulbous wooden columns and round, rubbery-looking bar stools with buttoned seats in the yacht’s trademark crimson colour. Again, it was all rather reminiscent of a Hilton. In a lit alcove stood six golden statuettes of peasant women wielding primitive agricultural implements.