I felt bereft when I lost Sal. We both knew it would happen one day of course -- I'd been nursing her through MS for several years -- but somehow you never expect the dread day to actually come. Our friends rallied round wonderfully, and the girls at the bookshop we own were great covering while I got myself together. But it felt as though half of me had gone; we'd been together since I was 19 and she was 31, but now after 19 years it was over, just like that.
I simply drifted through a dreadful couple of lost weeks, with hardly a conscious thought in my head, forgetting to eat for days at a time (Sal was the kitchen whiz, she joked that I could burn water), going through my days on autopilot. Finally I gave myself a shake and a good talking-to, telling myself Sal would be disgusted at my maudlin self-pity. I decided I needed a break from normal life, to do something totally different. I seriously considered selling up and moving to Ireland, or even abroad, but our flat in Purley and the shop were really all I had left of my darling.
It was Sal's sister-in-law, Debs, who suggested a vacation (she's American). In the old days Sal used to love going to Ibiza, Corfu and so on, sunning herself while I explored monasteries, castles and the like. But since her diagnosis we hadn't really done much holidaying. We'd often talked about visiting the Caribbean, and on a whim, passing a travel agents, I went in and asked what was available. First thing they said was that Jaak Karlson Cruise Lines still had a few vacancies on an upcoming cruise around several islands, and I snapped it up there and then.
My flight out to Barbados, where the cruise started, was only two weeks away so it was all a bit hectic, getting inoculations I should have had a month or more before the voyage, buying some new outfits, checking my swimsuit still fitted, reading up on the destination islands...I felt I had to grovel to our duty manager at the shop, Bella, taking another three weeks off At such short notice, but she was great about it. On the evening before my flight I had dinner with Debs and Sal's brother Tom, and I felt a bit melancholy, guilty that Sal and I had never done this together. Tom told me, "Rubbish, Sal would love that you're doing this Mel." He's always had a wicked sense of humour, and added with a grin, "It's exactly what you need, you'll probably pull some dusky maiden at every port you visit." I smiled weakly; right then, sex with anyone by Sal was the last thing on my mind.
I'm Melanie Stuart, and as you may have gathered Sal was my lesbian partner. I'd only been with one woman before her, a fumbled one-night stand, and I wasn't really sure of my sexuality that night when she chatted me up in the pub, but by the next morning she'd convinced me, and we barely spent a day apart after that. I'm five-feet-five, 36C (but generally slim), with shoulder-length hair slightly closer to blonde than red, and people say I've got elfin looks: thin blonde brows, almond-shaped cornflower blue eyes, a button nose, a small mouth with thin lips and a tapered cleft chin. People who don't know me well think I'm quite reserved, but that's only because Sal was such an extrovert. She was five inches taller than me, with wide shoulders and much bigger boobs, and she was the life and soul of any party -- if I needed to locate her I just listened for her burst of hyena laughter. I'm not much of a drinker and I lost count of the times I half-carried, half-dragged her home at night.
My flight was a Jaak Karlson charter, and in the departure lounge, I have to admit, I wondered whether I'd accidentally entered a geriatric ward. I reckoned I was the youngest there by at least 20 years, and some of them looked twice my age. I had a window seat (just as well with the number of loo visit by those next to me), and my first Transatlantic flight seemed interminable, but finally we touched down in Bridgetown and were transferred to the ship, the MS Strathclyde. I found my cabin easily enough -- small, a porthole that opened, two single beds, a tiny dressing table and a shower that seemed to offer only two temperatures, freezing of scalding.
I soon found that one advantage of Jaak Karlson ships is that they are quite small, only about 900 passengers compared to the 2 or 3,000 on the floating cities that often towered over us when we docked. The first couple of days involved some interesting island tours, although I missed Sal dreadfully, wanting to tell her things and point sights out to her. The next day we were at sea all day, which was pretty dull. A popular exercise aboard is walking laps of the deck, but as it was a bit squally that day I decided to use a fitness room treadmill instead. There were only two other people there: a 60-ish man who seemed to be trying to running himself to a coronary as he pounded a treadmill; and a girl on a weights machine who immediately caught my eye.
She was mid-20s, clearly not a passenger, and from her no-nonsense short blonde hair, big biceps and six-pack I assumed she was a ship's engineer or somesuch. I've always had a thing about muscular women -- Sal used to tease me about it mercilessly -- and I could hardly take my eyes off her as she pumped weights with arms and legs, her pink skin glistening with sweat. As she left the room I gave her a warm smile but was rewarded with just a nod and a grunt.
Mid-morning there was a meeting for people making the cruise alone. I was quite happy with my own company but I drifted along for want of anything better to do. I was wearing a flowery summer dress which fell to halfway between thighs and knees. We'd only been there a few minutes when my skin started prickling, my gaydar telling me someone was eyeing me up. I knew one or two of the men were, but they were irrelevant as far as I was concerned. I glanced across the circle of seats and dead opposite me was an elderly woman who I'd nicknamed the Memsahib because on a visit to a tropical garden she'd been showing off her botanical knowledge "from my years in India." Subtle observation confirmed that her eyes were tracing up and down my body, lingering on my shapely bare legs.
A wicked thought flashed into my mind, and I pressed the soles of my sandals together and casually opened my legs wide, making my dress ride up. Sure enough, she wriggled down a little in her seat and stared fixedly between my thighs at my pink panties. I had trouble keeping a straight face, thinking how Sal would be peeing herself laughing at me winding up this old biddy. She finally realised that I'd noticed, blushed and, flustered, pretended to pay rapt attention to the conversation taking place.
After the meeting I decided to go to the coffee bar. As I was waiting for my cappuccino to be brewed Memsahib glided up beside me. She was a little taller than me, deeply tanned and lightly lined face, slim with shot reddish-brown, presumably dyed, hair. I felt slightly guilty about my meanness as it was, and without looking at me she muttered in an upper-class English accent, "You know my dear, it's not very nice to advertise your goods if you're not willing to offer them up for sampling."
