The Unsinkable Greta James(5)
“While it’s doubtful you’ll ever encounter a real emergency, it’s important to be prepared,” says a man who introduces himself as their station captain.
Behind him, Greta can see the tops of the orange-capped lifeboats fastened in a row along the edge of the ship like ornaments on a tree. The man’s voice is even-tempered as he lays out all the worst-case scenarios, the many calamities that could—unlikely though they may be—befall them on this floating city. It’s the same way the doctor had spoken after her mother’s aneurysm, when Greta—stuck at the airport in Berlin, where she’d just played a festival for tens of thousands of people—had insisted on talking to him. Her mom was in a coma by then, and the disconnect between the awful things he was saying and the calm way he was saying them was so jarring it made her want to throw her phone clear across the gate.
“If you should see anyone fall over the side,” the man says, his voice almost cheerful, “please throw them a life buoy, then shout ‘Man overboard’ and inform the nearest crew member.”
A ripple of laughter spreads across the assembled passengers as they make whispered guesses about which of them will be the first to go over. Davis grabs Mary’s shoulders so suddenly she lets out a yelp. Eleanor reaches for Todd’s hand as if to anchor herself, but he’s busy watching a small iridescent bird flit past what little sky is visible between decks.
“A purple martin,” he whispers excitedly, fumbling with his binoculars. But they get tangled in his life jacket, and by the time he lifts them, the bird is gone.
Greta tugs at the straps of her own vest and looks around. Down the row, she spots the guy she’d seen earlier with the typewriter. As she watches, he lifts his phone to take a picture of this, the safety briefing, of all things. When he lowers it again, she can see him typing and wonders who he’s sending the photos to. Then she wonders why she’s wondering this.
“You’re not listening,” her dad says under his breath, giving her a nudge, and when the guy glances in their direction, Greta feels like she’s about twelve years old. But he only smiles, and then they both turn their attention back to the station captain, who is still detailing all the ways they might possibly—but not probably—find themselves in peril over the next eight days.
Chapter Four
Despite all the talk of buffets, her dad made reservations for the group at the most formal restaurant for their first night, a dimly lit sea of white tablecloths surrounding a dance floor. Out the window, the light is soft and hazy. The sun doesn’t set until after nine here, and dusk takes its time, moving leisurely from orange to pink to gray.
“So, Greta,” Eleanor Bloom says as their drinks arrive. She’s wearing an elegant black pantsuit and has already had her hair done at the salon. It always seemed to Greta that Eleanor was a bit too glamorous for their little corner of Columbus, Ohio. She’d met Todd decades ago on a trip to New York City with her girlfriends from Dublin. He was there for an insurance conference, and she was sightseeing, and they got caught in a rainstorm in Times Square. Greta always wondered how a man like Todd—incredibly kind but extremely boring—had managed to inspire someone like Eleanor to move across an ocean for him. But apparently her first husband had been a nightmare, and in Todd, she found a steadiness that gave her the space to shine. Which she usually does. “How are things with that adorable boyfriend of yours?”
Greta takes a long sip of her wine, trying to decide how to answer. It’s been nearly three months since they broke up, just after her mother’s death, but even so, the boyfriend part throws her off-balance. As does the word adorable. There are a lot of ways to describe Luke—brilliant and edgy, sexy and infuriating—but adorable isn’t really one of them.
“We’re actually…” she begins, then stops and takes another quick sip of wine. “We sort of decided to…”
“They broke up,” Conrad says with forced joviality. “Didn’t you guys get the email?”
Greta feels the heat rise to her cheeks. She hadn’t realized he was upset about that. The split had happened shortly after the funeral, and neither of them had been in a state to talk about much of anything then. But she’d wanted him to know, and to hear it from her, before Asher mentioned it. So she’d sent him a quick email.
He hadn’t written her back, and neither of them had talked about it since.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mary says as she reaches for a dinner roll, her bracelets jangling. Greta has never met anyone who can say as much with her eyebrows as Mary Foster, and right now, they’re raised sky-high. “I know your mom really liked him.”
This is not remotely true, but Greta appreciates it all the same.
Her parents met Luke only twice. The first time, at the New York City launch party for her debut album, she’d chickened out and introduced him only as her producer, worried that if they knew he was more than that, they’d hate him for a thousand different reasons: the cigarette tucked behind his ear and the sleeve of tattoos on both arms, the drawling Australian accent and the way he sneered whenever someone talked about a band he considered inferior.
“We’ve heard so much about you,” her mom said that night, smiling gamely as she shook his hand. “And the album is wonderful. You two make beautiful music together.”