Day Four (2 page)

‘That’s what I’m getting,’ Celine nodded. ‘Know this, she’s stepping forward right this second. Hey . . . Why can I smell turkey?’ She chuckled. ‘And sweet potato pie. Good pie at that.’

Jacob gasped and wiped at his eyes. ‘She disappeared in the late seventies, round about Thanksgiving. Is she . . . is she at peace?’

‘Yes. Know this. She has left the physical world and has gone into the light. She wants you to know that every time you think of her, her soul is with you.’

Jacob waited for more, but Celine just smiled blandly back at him and he nodded and sat down.

Celine touched her chest again. ‘I’m getting . . . It’s getting harder to breathe. There’s someone here who’s . . . they passed before their time. I’m talking about a suicide. Yes.’

Leila Nelson, a bony woman with mild hair loss, squealed and jumped out of her chair. ‘Oh my
Lord
! My husband killed himself two years ago.’

‘I want you to know he’s stepping forward, my darling. What’s with the breathing? I’m thinking . . . did he asphyxiate? Does this make sense to you? I’m tasting carbon monoxide here.’

‘Oh my
Lord
. That’s how he did it! In the garage, in his Chevy.’

‘In his Chevy.’ Celine paused to ram this home to the Friends. ‘What’s the significance of April?’

‘His birthday was in April.’

‘So April’s his birthday. Yeah, that’s what I’m getting from him. A tall man, does that make sense?’

Leila hesitated. ‘John was five eight.’

‘That’s tall if you’re me, my darling,’ Celine rallied. ‘I’m getting that . . . Was John unhappy at work? Does that make sense to you?’

‘Yes! He lost his job. He was never the same after that.’

‘What’s with the shoes?’

‘Oh my
Lord
, he was always particular about his shoes. Always polishing them, been like that since he left the marines.’

‘That’s what I’m getting. A feeling like he was a very particular, precise sort of person. Know this, he wants you to know that what happened to him, the way he died, it was nothing you did. He needs you to move on with your life.’

‘So he doesn’t mind that I’m getting remarried?’

Shit.
That was one detail Leila hadn’t mentioned during last night’s Friends of Celine cocktail event, but Celine didn’t skip a beat. ‘Know this, he’s proud that you’re doing so well.’

‘He was such a jealous man, though. What I need to know is if he—’

‘My darling, I’ll have to interrupt you there, as Archie is coming through.’ Celine pressed a hand to her throat. ‘I can feel the weight of him. He’s coming through strongly now.’ Maddie suppressed a shudder. Fake or not, Archie, Celine’s primary spirit guide – an urchin who’d supposedly died of consumption in late nineteenth-century London – gave her the screaming heebies. There weren’t many mediums who channelled the voices of their guides these days, and secretly Maddie thought Celine sounded like Dick van Dyke gargling caustic soda whenever Archie’s voice ‘came through’.

Celine paused for dramatic effect. ‘There’s a bloke ’ere who wants a word with Juney,’ Archie’s voice rattled from Celine’s throat.

Juanita, the Friend who’d shushed Ray, sprang to her feet. ‘That’s me! Juney is my nickname!’

Celine reverted to her normal voice: ‘Juney, don’t feel bad about leaving the insulin out of the fridge. He knows you didn’t mean it.’

Goosebumps popped on Maddie’s arms. Juanita hadn’t said anything about insulin last night. Celine was adept at cold reading, but that was an unusually precise detail. She tended to stick to generalities.

Juanita’s face creased. ‘Jeffrey? Jeffrey, is that you?’

A blade of light sliced through the gloom as a man slipped through the doors on the far side of the lounge. He was two decades younger than Celine’s core demographic, his legs clad in skinny jeans and boots, his arms scrawled with tattoos. Ray hadn’t noticed the intruder; he was slumped on a bar stool, his back to the doors.

‘Celine del Ray!’ the guy shouted, striding towards the stage and pointing a camera phone in Celine’s direction. ‘Celine del Ray!’

Shit
. The week after Celine had signed up as the cruise’s guest celebrity, Maddie had heard via Twitter that there might be a blogger on board, and it looked like he’d finally decided to pitch up.

‘Who is that?’ Celine called, squinting into the audience.

‘Any comment about the fact that Lillian Small is planning to sue you?’

A collective gasp. There were too many obstacles for Maddie to get to the guy easily, and she couldn’t count on the wait staff to intervene. Thankfully Ray had realised what was going on and was hustling towards him.

‘You know the story, right?’ the man crowed to the Friends gaping at him. ‘This so called
medium
, this
predator
, bombarded Mrs Small with messages saying that her daughter and grandson were alive in Florida, when DNA proves that . . .’ he faltered. ‘Proves that . . .’ he clamped a hand to his mouth. ‘Oh
fuck
.’ With that, he whirled, shoved past Ray and ran out, the doors hissing closed behind him.

Ray glanced at Maddie and she gestured at him to follow.

Celine chuckled again, but it sounded forced. ‘Uh. I tell you, that was . . . Give me a minute here.’ She took a slug of Evian from the bottle in her wheelchair pocket. The room settled into an uneasy silence. ‘You know, there are always gonna be doubters. But I can only repeat what Spirit tells me. That situation . . . you know . . . Wait . . . I’m getting something else here. You know, sometimes the spirits come through so strong that I can taste what they’re tasting, feel what they’re feeling. I’m getting . . . Smoke. I can smell smoke . . . I’m hearing . . . Someone here lose a loved one in a fire? Does that make sense to anyone?’

No one spoke up. Maddie squirmed.

‘It could be . . . yeah, you know, I’m smelling gas, think it might be a car accident. I’m getting . . . What is the significance of the I-90?’

A Friend called out that his second cousin had been killed in a head-on collision on that highway years earlier. Maddie allowed herself to breathe again. Ray crept back into the room and gave Maddie the A-okay sign. She checked her phone. Five minutes to go. She edged towards Celine, signalling that it was time to wrap it up. Ray had better do his bloody job and usher everyone out as fast as possible. The Friends were booked to eat at the second sitting, so they’d have to leave straight away if they didn’t want a rubbery lobster tail.

Celine wished the Friends a Happy New Year and ran through her usual schtick about visiting her website where there were links to purchase her eleven books. Maddie leapt onto the stage before her boss could be engulfed in a tsunami of well-wishers. Celine’s wheelchair wasn’t strictly necessary (although she could propel it with the skill of a Paralympian if an over-zealous fan threatened to approach), but Maddie was glad of it this evening. Close up, Celine was really showing her age; her waxy skin had the look of an apple left too long in cold storage, her lips were the colour of old deli meat.

Maddie unplugged the mic and handed it to the tech before Celine recovered and lambasted him for the PA system screw-up.

‘You okay, Celine?’ she murmured.

‘Get me the fuck outta here now.’

‘Celine?’ Leila bustled up to them before Maddie could intervene, waving a copy of part two of Celine’s autobiography,
Medium to the Stars and Beyond
. ‘I meant to ask you last night at the cocktail evening, but you were there so briefly . . . could you sign this?’

Celine smiled icily. ‘It’d be a pleasure, my darling.’

‘Can you put, “To Leila, my biggest fan”? I’ve got all your books. E-editions and audio as well.’

Maddie handed Celine a pen, glancing at Leila to see if she’d noticed Celine’s shaking hands; fortunately she was far too busy staring rapturously at her face. ‘You’ve helped me so much, Celine. You and Archie of course.’ Leila pressed the book to her chest. ‘You’ve really brought me peace. John . . . he wasn’t the easiest and . . . I don’t know how you do it.’

‘It’s a God-given gift, my darling. Know this, your faith and support means a lot to me.’

‘And you mean a lot to me. That awful man who burst in here doesn’t have a—’

‘Celine is very tired,’ Maddie interrupted. ‘Connecting with Spirit takes a lot out of her. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Oh, I do, I do,’ Leila said, bobbing and bowing and scurrying off to join the other Friends bottlenecking the exit.

Ray approached. ‘Sorry about that, Celine.’

Celine’s eyes – already unnaturally hooded from a screwed-up eyelift in the eighties – narrowed. ‘Yeah? What the hell, Ray? I pay you for
that
?’

‘How was I supposed to know he was gonna show up? I checked out everyone else.’

‘You should have been at the goddamned door, Ray.’

‘Celine, like I say, I fucked up. Won’t happen again.’

Celine snorted. ‘Damn right it won’t. Where’d he go anyway?’

‘Ran into the restroom. Looked like he was gonna puke.’

Maddie’s stomach rolled over. After stupidly reading a
Huff Post
exposé about ship-borne viruses, she’d only been able to cope by washing her hands at every opportunity and popping probiotics like an addict. Still, that explained why they hadn’t been hounded by the blogger before. He must have been holed up in his cabin praying to the porcelain god for the duration of the cruise.

‘You want me to escort you back to your cabin?’ Ray asked.

‘It’s a suite,’ Celine snapped. ‘And no. Get out of my sight. Madeleine can do it.’

Ray nodded miserably and slunk away. Maddie knew very little about his personal life, but he’d mentioned something about having to pay child support to one of his exes. He may be a letch and a bullshitter, but she almost pitied him – he’d be lucky if he still had a job when they reached Miami. Celine’s bodyguards never lasted long.

‘Goddamned bloggers and undercover journalists,’ Celine griped, twirling a hand in the air to indicate they should get going. ‘Forty years I’ve been doing this. It’s my God-given gift . . .’

Maddie let Celine ramble on as she manoeuvred the wheelchair out via the stage door exit, blinking as her eyes were blasted by the pink and gold neon signage splayed all over the Promenade Dreamz deck. Passengers streamed towards the staircase for the second dinner sitting, and twenty-somethings in tight white shorts and ‘Foveros = Fun! Fun! Fun!’ T-shirts flitted around, rumba-ing to the calypso music in the background and hawking plastic angel wings and devil horns for tonight’s Heaven ’n’ Hell themed New Year’s Eve party. Maddie had no intention of going anywhere near the festivities. She planned on putting Celine to bed, ordering a grilled cheese sandwich from room service (her gut clenched at the thought of eating the mass-produced slop in the dining room and buffets) then heading up to the jogging track above the Lido deck. She hadn’t yet found a gap to do her five miles today.

A trio of meaty men with fluorescent halos attached to their shaven heads made way for them as Maddie inched Celine into the elevator, which, as usual, smelled faintly of vomit. She pressed the button for the Verandah deck with her elbow and wheeled Celine as far away from the damp patch on the carpet as she could get. A reggae rendition of ‘Rehab’ plinked as they were propelled upwards through the atrium, the glass sides gradually revealing the lobby and cocktail bars below.

‘Christ, I need a drink,’ Celine said.

‘Nearly there.’

Maddie dragged the wheelchair out of the elevator and headed in the direction of the VIP staterooms. A couple of giggly elderly women squeezed themselves against the corridor wall to allow them to pass. Maddie smiled brightly at them to make up for Celine’s surly ‘whatever’ response to their Happy New Year wishes, and waved at Althea, the deck’s cabin steward, who was exiting a neighbouring suite, a bunch of towels tucked under an arm.

‘Good evening, Mrs del Ray and Maddie!’ Althea called. ‘Do you need any help?’

Celine ignored her, but Althea’s smile didn’t falter. Maddie had no clue how Althea remained so cheerful while mopping up after arseholes like Celine. Most of the staff exuded an exhausting (obviously fake) joviality, but Maddie was certain Althea’s constant good mood wasn’t a front.

After swiping the room card several times until the lock finally flashed green, Maddie hefted the wheelchair into the narrow entrance area and pushed Celine towards the balcony and her collection of booze.

Celine jabbed a talon at the TV. ‘For Christ’s sake change the goddamned channel. How many times have I told that goddamned woman not to touch it?’

On screen, Damien, the cruise director – an Australian with the fixed gaze of someone dangerously bipolar – was once again running through his tour of the ship. Maddie flicked past a
Saturday Night Live
parody of failed Republican nominee Mitch Reynard, and a shopping channel, where two middle-aged women were gushing over a reversible jacket, before settling on footage of the run-up to the Times Square ball drop. Without being asked, she scooped ice into a glass and poured Celine a double J&B.