"So how do you all know each other?" Marina asks.
"Actually we know Victor's father," Stephen says.
"Yes, I've never met these people before in my life."
"Oh really?" Marina asks, turning to me. "Who's your father?"
"I really don't want to get into that right now," I say. "I'm on vacation and I'd like to keep it that way."
"Were you in Berlin recently?" Lorrie suddenly asks Marina.
"No." Marina smiles but freezes up slightly before answering again. "No."
"I think it was Berlin, but your hair's different," Lorrie murmurs, implying something. "Yes, it was in Berlin."
"Darling, please," Stephen says. "Let's move on."
"I haven't been to Berlin in years," Marina,says, frowning.
Lorrie's squinting at her. "This is driving me mad, but I know we've met."
"She's a model," I say, tugging at a waiter for more champagne. "That's why, baby."
The sommelier has opened both bottles of wine and after Stephen tastes each the sommelier decants them into carafes and the four of us concentrate on that. Gold-rimmed plates are placed in front of us as a tin of Beluga is wheeled toward the table. While the maitre d'arranges the caviar on our respective plates and I'm babbling on about the new design-not the old design but the new design-of Raygun magazine, a photographer who has been combing the room interrupts us by askng if we'd like our picture taken.
Great idea," I say too loudly, clapping my hands together.
"No, no," the Wallaces insist, shaking their heads.
"Perhaps after dinner," Lorrie says.
"Oh come on," I say, turning to Marina. "It'll be like a souvenir."
"Victor, no," Marina says. "Not right now."
"Yes, Victor," Stephen says. "Perhaps later."
The photographer crouches at the table, waiting for a decision.
"Well, damnit," I say. "Come on, guys. Oh, just take it," I tell the photographer. "Just do it."
"Victor, please," the Wallaces say in unison.
"I'm not feeling very photogenic right now," Marina adds improbably.
"Well, I'm camera-ready, babies," I exclaim. "Go for it, dude."
Just as the flash goes off I try to lean into Marina, who backs slightly away toward the maitre d', who has stepped aside, waiting patiently to continue serving the caviar.
The Wallaces glare at me sternly while I give the photographer my name and cabin number and ask for four copies. As he walks away, the captain announces over the intercom that the QE2 will be stopping in a matter of minutes and to please stay seated, that there's really no need to get up since the fog will probably obliterate the view and we'll be moving again shortly. But most of the hoi polloi in the Queen's Grill ignore the captain's suggestion and drift from their tables to the starboard side, including-thankfully-the Wallaces, though it just seems like an excuse to confer with the director. The maitre d' finishes serving the caviar and moves away. I'm pouring myself a glass of white wine from one of the carafes when Marina touches my shoulder.
"Victor," she says.
"I think they're mad at me," I say. "I don't think they liked having their picture taken. The f**king English, y'know? Jesus Christ. I mean, I know that you and I are used to it, but-"
"Victor," she says again.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry," I say. "But baby, you look gorgeous."
"Victor, you're drunk," she says.
"And you're gorgeous-"
"Victor, I have to talk to you."
"And I have to talk to you, baby." I grab her hand beneath the table.
"No, I'm serious," she says, pulling away.
"And so am I," I say, leaning toward her.
"Victor, stop it," she says. "You have got to sober up."
"Baby, you're-"
"I have to leave," she says, glancing over at the Wallaces. "Call me when you're through with dinner."
"No-no-no-no," I say, immediately sobering up. "No way, baby. You've got to stay. Don't leave me with-"
"I'm leaving and you're calling me in my cabin when you're through with dinner," Marina explains patiently.
"Why can't I come with you?" I ask. "What's the story? What's wrong?"