The best laid plans of mice and women part II

The first part can be found here





The Sicilian waiter re-emerged brandishing a fresh glass, oddly his petulant anger seemed to have mysteriously vanished. Fleetingly a flicker of a sly smile crossed his face. Katie spotted it too.

‘There’s no way I’m drinking out of that glass, he’s probably spat in it, or dipped his diseased todger in it,’ Katie boomed in my ear with all the verve and vibrato of a fog horn on the Clyde.

Anna and Maria looked at each other quizzically, but quickly fathomed the gist of Katie’s import and rose in unison, ‘we go our ship,’ added Anna tossing several euro notes on the table. Silvio Berlusconi’s cousin watched speechless as Maria produced an i-phone and began talking into it.

‘A ship?’ Katie repeated readjusting her fathomless cleavage.

‘Yes! Ship!’ Anna replied. ‘We have ship in harbour.’

Katie turned to me and shrugged. ‘Ok Blondie I’m up for it. Let’s find a supermarket and get a couple of bottles of electric soup,’ her voice tailed away as a large, gleaming Audi pulled up silently at the kerb. A tall, blonde, very Slavonic guy wearing neatly pressed black trousers and a bulging white T shirt leapt out to open the doors. He offered no greeting and his face remained impassive, a veritable tribute to weight lifting and steroids I mused. Anna and Maria slid into the car and beckoned us. Katie sat next to the driver and not without trepidation I slipped in alongside Anna in the back. Joining a ‘ship’ full of Russians in a Sicilian port somehow seemed to smack of the kind of imprudence my mother had warned me about. I had visions of waking from a drugged stupor in some seedy brothel in Novosibirsk, where I would be serially abused, beaten, made to eat Russian bread and never seen again. Worse still I could be shipped off in a crate to Baltimore for the American sex trade in the next episode of The Wire . In fact the more I thought about ending up in Baltimore the more nervous I became.

The Audi moved off smartly and headed towards the main port road. As I sank into the soft leather seats Katie turned and looked at me. She didn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. Mind you she was from Glasgow. ‘Nice Barca shirt by the way,’ she grinned. She was referring to my new Barcelona football shirt. ‘Xavi too,’ she added. ‘Nice touch! They are going to give Man U the spanking of a lifetime,’ she chortled. The Audi sped past the cargo ships and entered the marina gates. Navigating piles of rope and various chandler’s stores it pulled up alongside a very large, gleaming black yacht.

‘Holy fuck!’ Katie whispered in an ill-disguised theatrical aside. ‘Holy fuck’ I repeated to myself sotto-voce. The ex-Spetsnaz weightlifter leapt out and producing a small remote waited as a highly-chromed, gang-plank slid noiselessly from the back of the boat. A gleaming Yamaha jet ski lay on the little platform that formed the stern of the boat.

Without looking back Anna and Maria made their way up the gangplank with Katie moving surprisingly nimbly in pursuit, wiggling an arse it would have taken Michelangelo a life-time to paint. Meanwhile my feet felt as though they were strapped to the dockside. A handsome, immaculately-dressed man appeared and engaged Maria in lively conversation of which I couldn’t follow a word. The guy turned to stare quizzically down at me on the quayside. He and Maria laughed simultaneously.

‘This is my cousin Igor,’ Maria explained. ‘I’ve just told him you don’t want to fuck him and he says it’s a terrible shame.’

‘Igor gesticulated with his hand, towards the gangplank. Welcome young lady, hopefully you will find I speak excellent English.’ He paused for affect then added: ‘I read English at Gonville & Caius. I am quite housetrained you know.’ He bowed theatrically.

If he thought I was going to be impressed he was mistaken. Cambridge! This was getting worse by the moment.

‘This is Saffron,’ Anna added in Russian.

The Russians aren’t premier chess players for nothing and Igor quickly divined my demeanour.

‘Saffron unless I’m mistaken you look like a champagne girl. I would be exceedingly grateful if you would join me on board my humble vessel.’ With a flourish he gesticulated again with his hand. Before I could prevaricate further Katie bounded down the gangplank and grabbed my arm. Watching, Igor laughed. Suddenly I felt ridiculous and laughed too. I shook my head, we Yorkshire girls are bought so cheaply…

At that juncture I noticed the Red Duster that hung limply at the rear of the boat and the gilt letters that advised all and sundry that the vessel was registered in London. Somehow that seemed reassuring…… well at least the floating gin-place come knocking-shop was seaworthy

‘Ok on one condition,’ I shouted up. I only imbibe Veuve Cliquot or Pol Roger and it must be in a flute glass… before I could finish Katie hustled me onboard. There was no doubt she was incredibly strong. Somehow that also felt re-assuring.

Minutes later we were sat around an immaculate mahogany table under a sun awning with a delicious sea breeze wafting over us. Another Russian appeared with a tray and dispensed a bottle of Gewürztraminer for Anna and Maria, two bottles of Baltika beer for Katie plus a still corked bottle of Veuve Cliquot and a sparklingly elegant cut glass flute. Suddenly the day felt a whole lot better. I looked up and realised everyone was looking at me. I rarely blush but I sensed I must have gone scarlet.

‘If you want to call your mother and tell her where you are you can use our satellite phone, laughed Maria. I watched as the bottle was expertly opened for me and poured, the bottle was then lodged in what looked like an antique silver ice bucket. Katie dispensed with one of The Baltikas at alarming speed and burped. Seconds after she laid the empty bottle on the table it was replaced.

Returning to my champagne flute a small, silver and glass plate heaped with Beluga accompanied by two pieces of toast had joined it. Things were looking up.

Katie began…. ‘Have any of ewes been to Glasgie?’ She enquired.

‘Are you from Glasgow I enquired sagely if not innocently,’ while trying to look surprised. Katie nodded. ‘And there’s me thinking you were Teauchter,’ I added. She paused briefly then laughing slapped me on the back. If I’d had dentures they would have gone overboard.

It quickly turned into one of those magical summer evenings, warm with a delicious sea breeze, cold drinks and great craic with like minded people, a set of circumstances where you are rolling drunk long before you know about it.

For the first hour I was still alert for the first signs of the engines starting up, determined to jump overboard if that happened, but of course it didn’t. To begin with our discourse was measured and semi-serious where we endeavoured to put the world to rights, but after a while it degenerated into the frivolous, before plunging into the inane and laughter took over completely.

I recall Katie standing to give a rendition of ‘Flower of Scotland,’ which prompted Anna to introduce a karaoke machine into the proceedings. All throughout the waiter stood impassively by some twelve feet away patiently waiting to replenish the drink as we became increasingly ridiculous. Smoked salmon, salad and chicken drumsticks I recall appeared at one stage. Later a guitar was found and I recall playing ‘La Bamba, which of course drunkenly elided into Twist and Shout. By now Anna and Maria were up jiving and proving what the world already knows that Russians have the longest legs in the universe. Katie from where she sat had an even better view as she continued to take on The Baltika brewery single handed. No mean feat when you consider it’s the world’s second biggest brewery. However, when we embarked on ‘Stand by your Man’ I knew it was time to go home. I looked at my watch. I couldn’t believe it was nearly 2am and I’d a 6.40am flight. I was still sufficiently compos mentis to realise that within hours I was looking at the mother of all hangovers. The same driver took me back to my hotel, driving as gingerly as he could. I’m sure he expected me to pebble-dash the Connolly Leather.

The best laid plans of mice and women didn’t begin to seriously unwind though until I entered the foyer. The receptionist in a state of agitation greeted me with an envelope and pointed to a waiting taxi driver. I read and re-read the note with increasingly sinking dismay. There had been a change in plan. My client had been urgently called away and I was now to deliver our report to his customer on my own. There had been a further change in plan, the report was no longer to be delivered in Naples but at the customer’s home. This would require an additional flight… my plane was leaving at 4.15am………. meanwhile I had to pack and get to the airport.

I had sufficient wit to realise I was confronting perhaps one of the most important breaks of my career and I was totally mullahed. Rat-arsed! I returned to my room in a daze hurriedly scooping previously carefully folded and ironed clothes helter-skelter into my case. Tears were welling uncontrollably. I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid. Shouldering my camera bag and dragging my case I scurried drunkenly back through reception. The receptionist bless her thrust a large bottle of water and a small packet of ibuprofen into my hand as I bundled into the taxi. Later it was to prove a life-saver.

Meanwhile I was left contemplating Murphy’s Law the most unshakeable axiom in the universe.

(to be continued)