The Abigail Affair (4 page)

Weird, or what?

Toby went behind the bar and checked his materials. Everything was there and easy to find. He cut up two lemons, put olives in a dish, and found a tray of canapés in the fridge.

Easy peasy.

Then he heard shouts and laughter from outside the stateroom. Julia hurried to the door and held it open. Moments later, two men and two girls burst in, all talking at once.

Toby saw straight away that they were already well drunk. Clearly the champagne or the vodka had flowed on the private jet that brought Krigov and his entourage into St Helen’s from wherever the man had been hanging out before. St Martin? Miami? Toby couldn’t remember, even if he had been told.

The man who was obviously Krigov, the owner, walked straight past Julia without acknowledging her and swaggered over to the bar. He was short, bulky and balding, and wore a white long-sleeved shirt with several buttons undone, exposing a hairy chest and a gold medallion on a heavy, braided chain. He plonked his fat bottom on one of the bar stools and patted the empty ones on either side. In good English, he said, “Irina, Natasha, meet our new steward. He is British, like Hugh Grant.” Over Krigov’s shoulder, Toby saw the other male guest standing and chatting to Julia. He was physically the exact opposite of Krigov: rather stiff and upright, medium height and skinny build, with round horn-rimmed John Lennon-style spectacles, wearing an anonymous navy blue suit and polished black shoes. The fellow looked a bit like an accountant.

No need to worry about him. Impress the Boss!

“Good evening, sir. Good evening, ladies,” Toby said brightly. He flashed his trademark smile.

The girls both sported lots of piled-up blonde hair and were expertly made up. They were identikit Russian beauties, leggy and pouting. Both wore dresses with plunging necklines and lots of bling. They could almost have been sisters. Perhaps they were. One girl had a tattoo way down in her cleavage. It looked like a little bird or something.

Krigov leaned very suddenly over the bar, grabbed the lobe of Toby’s right ear, and gave it a sharp yank. “You speak when you’re spoken to, steward. And don’t look down ladies’ dresses. It’s rude.” The girls squealed with laughter, and the one with the tattoo said something in Russian. Krigov answered her in Russian. He kept hold of Toby’s ear and forced his head down so his hot cheek was just above the wooden bar.

“Good evening, Mr New Steward,” said the tattoo girl Irina, solemnly, in heavily accented English.

“
Now
it’s your turn,” whispered Krigov. The other girl, Natasha, howled with new laughter.

“Good evening, madam,” Toby said, embarrassed to hear that his voice quavered.

“This young lady is no madam,” Krigov said, and released Toby’s ear. “Irina and Natasha are models and actresses, well known in their homeland. Irina for many years played a troublesome teen in Tsazakhstan’s version of your
EastEnders—Kuko
l’nyĭ dom
. The Doll’s House
.”

Toby straightened up and tried to regain his dignity. He opened his mouth, but Krigov put up his thumb and forefinger in a pinching motion, pursed his lips and shook his head from side to side.

“I’ll have a White Russian,” said Natasha, also in thickly accented English. She put her arm on Krigov’s shoulder. He beamed with pleasure.

“And I’ll have a Screw … driver,” said Irina, heavily emphasising the “screw.” Krigov and Natasha laughed heartily at this wit. Irina pouted a moment, then joined in.

Toby’s heart pounded.

What a circus!

He should have taken Scott’s advice. He wasn’t going to suffer days or weeks of this sort of humiliation just for the dosh. And no way was any thousand-dollar tip likely at this rate. If only he could get to a phone, he could book a flight back to England and be home in twenty-four hours, and behind the bar at the Snooty Goose in forty-eight, where the middle-aged ladies vied to give him their orders.

His parents would just have to deal with it.

However, there was nothing he could do immediately. He served the drinks without further mishap. The trio raised their glasses. “Cheers, dears!” Krigov said in a passable English toff accent. They drank greedily as if it was their first of the evening, which it definitely wasn’t.

The other man now joined the group at the bar. Natasha said, “Walther, we have been training the new steward. Don’t you think he is gorgeous?”

Walther didn’t seem to want a drink. He peered at Toby through his John Lennon specs. “You have such nice-looking cabin crew, Ivan
Nikolaevich
,” he said. “And you’re well paid, too, I’ll wager, young man?” His English was the best of the group, with the trace of an American accent.

“Yes, sir,” Toby said.

“You’re learning, Hugh Grant,” Krigov said. He leaned forward again and this time grabbed Toby’s cheek between his thumb and forefinger and shook it, as a British uncle might have done with a favourite nephew back in the 1960s.

Julia came across and stood a few paces from the group at the bar.

“Yes, Julia?” Krigov said, apparently noticing her for the first time.

“Any time you are ready to dine, sir, everything is ready, sir,” she said.

Krigov wiggled his bottom and slid off his stool. He stood a little unsteadily and said something in Russian, presumably “Let’s eat”, because the party made their way across the stateroom towards the dining table and took their seats. Julia went over and started the waitress bit. Toby puffed out his cheeks. He took a serviette, dipped it into an ice bucket and, when he was sure no one was paying him any further attention, dabbed his brow and the back of his neck. He checked his hair in the front panel of a stainless steel fridge and pushed a wayward lock back into place.

After a minute, Julia came across from the table. There was a piece of paper on her silver tray with a new drinks order. Underneath she had written,
I’ll serve the starters, you help with the silver service on the entrées. It’s going to be a long evening. Whatever happens, don’t react.

Toby looked up questioningly, but Julia turned her head away. He reached for fresh glasses.

Don’t react
? Toby pondered this strange order all through the lengthy meal. He had plenty of time to do so. The owner and his guests could certainly put away both food and drink, but in between his bar duties and serving the veg, Toby could gather his thoughts.

His concept of working on a mega yacht had been based on the movie
Titanic
. He had imagined rich lords and ladies, men with monocles exclaiming “I say!” and an air of quiet elegance, not a bunch of gangsters and their molls.

The jet lag was starting to kick in. He had flown straight from London to Antilla, then on with the island hopper service, with scarcely any sleep for twenty-four hours now.

He continued his duties, feeling more like a zombie with every passing minute. He might as well have worn an invisibility cloak for all the attention he got. After the first unpleasant exchange at the bar, he had been left well alone.

Time went by more and more slowly. He stole a glance at his watch. Midnight. The party was in full flow, with laughter from all sides of the table. They spoke loudly and apparently all at the same time in Russian. Toby had no idea what they were saying, but he was alert to the nuances of people in groups and suddenly he noticed that the tone of Krigov’s voice had dropped, as if the man was losing interest in the proceedings, or was dissatisfied in some way.

Just then Krigov stood up and pushed his chair back. It caught on the thick pile carpet and toppled over backwards. Julia was there in an instant. She retrieved the chair and set it back on its legs. The man growled something, grabbed Julia’s arm, and seemed to pinch or twist it. The stewardess cried out with a little yelp. Toby wanted to rush to her aid, but he stood stock-still.

Then the accountant-like Walther spoke up from the table. “Behave yourself, Ivan,” he said in English. His voice was measured and there was no smile on his face. “You’re going to need your crew.”

Krigov muttered something and gave a little half-wave to Julia, whether in apology or dismissal, Toby could not tell. Julia backed off and said, “Sir, if you will excuse me, I must consult with Chef for tomorrow’s menu.”

“Thank you, Julia,” Walther said. “We have kept you up too late already, you must get some beauty sleep. Hugh Grant over there will take care of anything else we need tonight.” He looked pointedly in Toby’s direction.

Toby picked up a glass and pretended to polish it. Krigov shouted out, “Hugh Grant! Stolichnaya Gold!” and made his way unsteadily towards the door leading to the cloakroom. It was the third time he had been out that way.

Toby found the spirits in the stainless steel bar freezer and quickly set up four frosted shot glasses of the vodka. Thank God for his bar training! He longed to pour a fifth glass for himself and vowed he would do just that the moment this interminable evening was over. He placed the drinks on a round silver tray and took them over to the table, then set each glass down carefully on one of the personalised
Amelia
drip mats. He turned to head back to his post behind the bar.

The girl Irina called out, “Hugh Grant, I need something else.”

He turned back. “Yes, madam?”

The girl got up unsteadily from the table. She managed to extricate herself without knocking over her chair and swayed towards Toby. “Are you really related to Hugh Grant? I loved
Notting Hill
.”

“No, madam, I don’t believe I even resemble him. For a start, his hair is dark, while mine is …”

“Blond,” said Irina. “Like mine.”

Walther piped up with what sounded like a warning in Russian, but the girl paid no heed. Instead she came up intimately close to Toby, reached out a hand, put it behind Toby’s head, and stroked his hair. Toby smelt a pungent blend of perfume and stale alcohol.

“The real Hugh Grant had a little problem with a hooker, I believe,” said Irina. “Do you like hookers, Mr Steward?”

Toby realised just a little too late that he was being set up. The words “No, madam,” had already escaped from his lips.

The girl withdrew her hand, looking disappointed. She hung her head for a moment, then raised her chin defiantly.

“Irina, stop tormenting the boy,” Walther said. The other girl sat trance-like at the table beside him.

“You work for Ivan, you must show respect for me!” Irina cried out suddenly. Then things started to happen all at once. Without warning, so Toby had no chance of evasion, Irina drew back her left arm and slapped him with the back of her hand. He dropped his silver tray, which bounced twice with a gong-like sound. He put his hand to his cheek. The girl had caught him with a large ring, and when his hand came down, there was blood. Then the door from the cloakroom opened and Krigov appeared.

“
Na huy
...?” The Russian let out a roar of anger and galloped towards Toby and Irina like a charging elephant. He reached them, grabbed the girl by the arm and twisted it, as he had done with Julia, but much harder. The girl squealed with pain. Now it was Krigov’s turn to slap the girl with the flat of his hand, putting the full weight of his arm behind it. The girl fell to the carpet. Krigov bent down and pulled her to her feet. She refused to stand up, like a disobedient toddler, or perhaps she was just too dazed.

Walther was now on his feet with an anxious look on his face and moving towards the fracas. He shouted in Russian. Krigov shouted back. The girl screamed in English, “It was just a little fun! Help me, Hugh Grant! Don’t let him hurt me!”

Walther held up the palm of his hand towards Toby. “You are excused for the evening,” he said.

“No, he is not!” Krigov shouted. “I tell the crew when to leave. This is my ship. What was he doing? Was he flirting with Irina? Irina, what is your excuse for striking my crew member?”

The girl Irina struggled to her feet. “Yes, he was flirting. He was very cheeky,” she said, looking sidelong at Toby.

“Please, I am just trying to do my job!” Toby said, raising his voice to be heard above the mêlée.

“Nobody asked you,” Krigov bellowed.

“It was nothing,” Walther said. “Irina was just asking about
Notting Hill
and there was a misunderstanding.”

Over at the table, Toby noticed that the remaining girl, Natasha, was taking no interest in the proceedings, but was instead busy examining a little gilt container that looked like an old-fashioned snuffbox. She opened it and took a small scoop from inside. She piled a salt-spoon’s worth of white powder on to the tabletop.

The reference to
Notting Hill
seemed to confuse Krigov. “I thought Hugh Grant was better in
Four Weddings and a Funeral
,” he said.

“Me too, sir,” Toby said. “And he wasn’t bad in
Bridget Jones’s Diary
. But most commentators find his best performance to be
About a Boy.”
Getting no response, he added “2002,” for good measure.

The Russian glowered at Toby with watery eyes. “You are dismissed,” he said. “At the end of this voyage, you will leave the ship. Now go and find a plaster before you drip any more blood on my carpet. No more duties tonight. 2002. If only that had been the last year of my life, I would have died a happy man.” He then addressed Irina in Russian, something to the effect of “I’ll deal with you later,” judging by his tone and her sulky response.

None of this was a problem to Toby, who said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Very good, sir,” with great relief. He backed off, bowed slightly in a caricature of waiterly servitude, then turned on his heel and was outside the stateroom on deck in the open air in seconds. He still had the damp serviette in his trouser pocket from earlier, and used this to dab his stinging cheek. Only a little blood. The night air was warm and the lights of St Helen’s town sparkled across the harbour. His head swam from the threatening atmosphere, the long hours, the jet lag, the blow on the cheek and general fatigue. He decided he would get off the ship immediately, even if it meant sleeping in a doorway. He was suddenly so tired, he felt he would drop asleep on his feet.