"Damned fools," complained Sir Peregrine.
The banquet had been arranged for eight-thirty, half an hour after the Arcadia left Dublin Bay. In the first-class staterooms, men were already standing with pained expressions on their faces, their arms rigidly by their sides, while stewards with their tongues clenched between their teeth tried to tie their bow-ties for them. Enough hot water had been expended on bathing the first-class passengers alone to float a small fishing-boat with a draft of seven feet. The air was dense with Isabey perfume and Klida face powder and Petrole Hahn for those ladies who wanted l'ondulation in their hair. There was a feeling of excitement on every level of the entire nine-storey liner, a warmly muted hubbub as more than two thousand people prepared to celebrate their first night at sea together on the world's largest and most lavish ship. Now, it would be real sea, too, not just the narrow confines of the Irish Sea and St George's Channel. When the sun woke them tomorrow morning, after their night of dancing and eating and celebrating, they would be well out into the Atlantic, and the Arcadia would be cleaving through the waves at full speed on her way to New York.
Julius Fields, the celebrated American travel writer and bon viveur, wrote in the red alligator-skin notepad which Keys Shipping had supplied gratis to all first-class passengers that "the sibilant sound of 150 wealthy ladies simultaneously slipping their pate and perfumed thighs into 150 pairs of pure silk step-ins by Jeanne Lanvin must have been enough to set a mate grasshopper's teeth on edge."
In the Grand Lounge, the stewards were giving the tables a last polish, setting out clean chromium-plated ashtrays, and making sure that everyone would have fresh dishes of cashews, pecans, and pistachios. In the kitchens it was like Hades—noisier and steamier than ever, with Monsieur Vincent close to total explosion, and his chefs clattering away at their ovens with a sound like three hundred suits of armour being thrown down a flight of stairs. In the first-class dining saloon, fresh orchids, trembling with moisture, were being arrayed in silver art-deco vases on every table.
The dinners that were being arranged in the second- and third-class saloons were almost as elaborate. In second, there were sprays of summer flowers from English gardens, and the passengers would feed on oxtail soup, salad, ices, and a choice of roasted sucking-pig or beef Wellington. A small jazz band, called for the occasion the Arcadia Syncopated Jass Quintet, would play the latest hits while the second-class passengers dined, and then they would be entertained into the night by the Ted Bagtey Sextet. In third, there would be chicken, and roast beef, and, oddly, Christmas crackers. Business suits and day dresses would, of course, be acceptable in third class. The menu said "Dress, Informal'.
White Sir Peregrine fretted on the bridge, Catriona was in her stateroom getting ready. At seven o'clock on the very dot, Trimmer came in with a silver tray, on which were laid a selection of tiny appetisers, red and black caviar, macadamia nuts, and crisply-fried balls of breadcrumbs filled with chilled French cheeses. Trimmer then mixed Catriona a very cold shaker of gin-and-bitters, which he left on the sideboard for Alice to pour out. "I don't want to hoffend by dodging hin and hout," he explained. Catriona said, "That's hall right," and giggled. Trimmer seemed to take her teasing in good humour.
Catriona felt fizzy with anticipation, and couldn't stop talking. Tonight, she was going to wear a silver lace evening dress by Beer, scooped right down to the belt at the front and under the arms, and worn over a silver slip. The dress was sewn with hundreds of rhinestones, and fell to just above the ankles. She would wear silver lace-trimmed suppers with it, huge pearl and diamond hoop earrings, and a headdress of opals, diamonds, and pearls.
She had tried to pretend to herself that she wasn't interested in attracting Mark Beeney tonight—that she was doing nothing more than playing a glamorous and spectacular charade, for the benefit of the family and the Keys Shipping Line. But after two gin-and-bitters the pretence seemed silly. She had always been the most outspoken girl in her class, hadn't she? And her vitriolic directness had been the prime cause of most of her arguments with her father, not to mention those Sunday morning rows she used to have with Nigel, when (hung over, tired, and sexually satiated) she had told him exactly how effete he was, and how hopeless, and how he would never amount to anything in the West End, and especially not on Broadway. Surely she could be just as direct with herself, and admit that Mark Beeney was the most alluring and alarming man she had ever come across. His absurdly good looks were like a whirlpool, drawing her closer and closer, despite every sensible objection she could raise. Yes, he was dangerous. Yes, he was already accompanied by a pretty lady companion. Yes, he was rich, and probably a playboy of the worst kind. Yes, he was a show-off. But, my God, didn't he have presence! He gave off the scent of Dangerous Male as if it were a cologne. And no matter how much she protested to herself while she sat in front of her dressing-table and touched up the mascara on her eyelashes, she knew that it was not her sensible Little Miss Muffet intellect that was going to decide what she did tonight; it was her incendiary sense of romance, and her steeple-chasing pulse. Mark had excited her so much simply by kissing her that she had gone back to her stateroom after she had left him and urinated in fits and starts, thinking of nothing but him. She hated him already for making her feel so giddy and so uncontrolled, and that was the very best start that any affair could have.
Early diners were already promenading on the first-class deck and peering tentatively around the Grand Lounge for cocktails when Sir Peregrine, in the wheelhouse, received a message from the harbourmaster at Dublin that he could now depart. He was advised, however, to proceed at no more than four knots until he was three miles out from Dun Laoghaire, on account of the large numbers of sightseeing boats and small fishing smacks which were crowding the coastal waters. The harbourmaster added—in Morse code, of course—that he wished the Arcadia a calm sea, a glorious trip, and the protection of King Neptune. Sir Peregrine crumpled up the telegraph message and slapped it back into the hand of the wireless operator. "What the devil do they think this is?" he snapped. "Some kind of damned mythical Odyssey? The next thing we know, they'll be telling us to watch out for sirens, and to lash ourselves to the funnels with cotton-wool in our ears."
Rudyard Philips could see his own face reflected in the dark glass of the wheelhouse window, like a Shakespearian ghost. "Yes, sir," he could watch himself mouthing. He felt as if he wasn't himself at all.
"Well, then, weigh the anchors, and let's get going," said Sir Peregrine tetchily. "Slow ahead for one mile, Mr Philips, then full ahead. Let's show these Irish barbarians what a modern express liner can do."
"There is a small vessels warning, sir."
"Of course there is. But there won't be anything further than a mile out; and, besides, with all these damned lights on, they'll have to be stone blind not to see us coming. The sooner we get clear of Ireland and out into the open channel the better."
"But, with all respect, sir—"
"Don't argue, Mr Philips. I won't be argued with. On your own ship, you can make whatever mistakes you want. On this ship, you're my first officer, and I don't expect you to argue."
"Very good, sir."
"Very good yourself, Mr Philips. Now, carry on. I have to finish getting ready for dinner."
The wind was freckled with rain as the Arcadia's immense anchors were lifted from the seabed and hauled on board by electric winches. Slowly, with three majestic blasts on her foghorns, she moved away from her mooring, and began to sail south-eastwards into the metallic darkness, a sheer-sided palace of lights.