In accordance with that unshakeable perversity which characterises almost every meal that is served at sea, the first course which was brought out at this storm-tilted luncheon was fresh asparagus soup. It would have been quite easy for the head chef to change the menu to pickled herrings, or smoked trout, or pressed chicken with brandy sauce, all of which would have been far more manageable in a precipitous sea. But that would have meant compromising the standards of a first-class restaurant for the sake of the weather; and Monsieur Vincent would never allow anything short of complete capsize to interfere with the quality and the variety of the food he offered. This, despite the fact that the kitchen floors were already awash with soup.
Pairs of stewards manhandled huge white china tureens from table to table as if they were clowns in a German circus. One of the stewards would attempt to ladle while the other did his best to keep the tureen level. Every now and then, the Arcadia would give an extra curtsey, and the soup stewards would all have to totter off sideways, helplessly following the weighty inertia of two gallons of fresh asparagus soup in a desperate attempt to prevent a catastrophic spillage.
At first, everybody was alarmed. But when their soup bowls had been quarter-filled with soup, and they had each managed to rescue a spoon from the sliding shoals of cutlery, their concern subsided and the absurdity of their predicament began to tickle them. Soup went everywhere. It poured off the ends of the tables; it splashed down the fronts of ladies' day dresses; it emptied itself out of one bowl into the bowl next to it. Mark Beeney even managed to pour a spoonful of soup over his left shoulder, which left both Marcia and Catriona helpless with laughter. Only Edgar wasn't amused. When he had tried for the fifth time to pursue the small pale green semicircle of soup in his plate and missed it, he slammed down his spoon and sat with his arms folded and his face like a pre-Columbian ritual mask. Catriona said, "Don't worry, Mr Deacon. I'll tell them not to serve you any gravy with the next course."
In accordance with that unshakeable perversity which characterises almost every meal that is served at sea, the first course which was brought out at this storm-tilted luncheon was fresh asparagus soup. It would have been quite easy for the head chef to change the menu to pickled herrings, or smoked trout, or pressed chicken with brandy sauce, all of which would have been far more manageable in a precipitous sea. But that would have meant compromising the standards of a first-class restaurant for the sake of the weather; and Monsieur Vincent would never allow anything short of complete capsize to interfere with the quality and the variety of the food he offered. This, despite the fact that the kitchen floors were already awash with soup.
Pairs of stewards manhandled huge white china tureens from table to table as if they were clowns in a German circus. One of the stewards would attempt to ladle while the other did his best to keep the tureen level. Every now and then, the Arcadia would give an extra curtsey, and the soup stewards would all have to totter off sideways, helplessly following the weighty inertia of two gallons of fresh asparagus soup in a desperate attempt to prevent a catastrophic spillage.
At first, everybody was alarmed. But when their soup bowls had been quarter-filled with soup, and they had each managed to rescue a spoon from the sliding shoals of cutlery, their concern subsided and the absurdity of their predicament began to tickle them. Soup went everywhere. It poured off the ends of the tables; it splashed down the fronts of ladies' day dresses; it emptied itself out of one bowl into the bowl next to it. Mark Beeney even managed to pour a spoonful of soup over his left shoulder, which left both Marcia and Catriona helpless with laughter. Only Edgar wasn't amused. When he had tried for the fifth time to pursue the small pale green semicircle of soup in his plate and missed it, he slammed down his spoon and sat with his arms folded and his face like a pre-Columbian ritual mask. Catriona said, "Don't worry, Mr Deacon. I'll tell them not to serve you any gravy with the next course."
After the soup, Marcia excused herself, and with the help of a steward, she tottered off to the ladies' room. Catriona stayed where she was, finishing her bread roll and trying not to look either at Mark or at George Welterman, who was sitting right down at the far end of the table with Dame Clara Butt. But Mark stared at her all the time, his arms folded on top of the fiddle, one of his shoulders slightly higher than the other where he had stuffed a linen napkin under his jacket to prevent the soup soaking through to his silk shirt.
"Catriona," he said, so quietly that at first she wasn't quite sure had actually spoken to her. She looked up, not at Mark but at George Welterman, who was also watching her. George must have possessed extra-sensitive ears, because he nodded, as if to say, it's okay, answer him.
She turned to Mark and managed a smile. "I'm not angry with you," she said.
Mary Pickford said, "Angry? Who's angry with whom? Catriona, are you angry with Mark? Is that it? Why, I just adore a quarrel. Douglas, do listen, they're quarrelling."
"I'm trying to drink this fucking soup," Douglas Fairbanks complained.
Mark said, "Can we meet later? Talk, maybe?"
Catriona shrugged. She knew that she had Mark exactly where she wanted him, and that the more offhand she was, the more enthusiastically he would chase her. But, actually, she didn't feel like being offhand with him. The anger she had felt last night, when she had thought that he was only wooing her for the sake of buying up the Arcadia, had largely subsided. He was a businessman, after all. And he was amazingly handsome. The kind of man who was more handsome in the flesh than he was in her imagination.
"What about Marcia?" asked Catriona. "Won't she be angry?"
"Oh, Douglas, do listen to this, this is marvellous," enthused Mary Pickford.
"For Christ's sake, it's none of your business," protested Douglas Fairbanks. "You don't have any right to listen."
"It's so romantic," Mary Pickford told him. "What other excuse do I need?"
"I don't know," Douglas Fairbanks told her. "Did you make an offer for the motion picture rights yet?"
"Marcia understands," Mark lied. "She knows the way I feel about you."
"She says she understands," said Catriona. "But does she?"
"Do you want to ask her?"
"No. I wouldn't be so cruel."
"Then believe me. And join me for dinner at eight o'clock this evening."
Catriona glanced at Edgar. On Edgar's face there was a positive No. She looked further, towards George Welterman. On George Welterman's face there was an odd, stony watchfulness.
"You must go to dinner with Marcia," she told Mark, in an imperative whisper. Mark could hardly hear her because the stewards were briskly clearing away the soup plates. "But you could meet me for supper at ten o'clock, after the theatre show. You know where my stateroom is."
"Boy, is that romantic," said Mary Pickford.
Douglas Fairbanks winced. "I wish you wouldn't say "boy". Do you know what it sounds like, when you say "boy"? It's nearly as bad as saying "gee"."
"Why shouldn't I say "gee", if I want to? I make more money than you do."
"You want to bet?"
Marcia returned from the ladies' room looking paler but steadier. She sat down next to Mark with a wan smile. Mark kissed her cheek and there wasn't a lady on the table who didn't think, Judas. Except for Catriona, of course, who knew that she desired him more than she had ever desired Nigel. Nigel had been a lover and a chum. Mark was too good-looking and too tempestuous to be anything but a lover and a competitor, and lovers who were competitors were the best kind. It was the men she had to fight for who always aroused her the most.