Free The Hope by James Lovegrove Page A

with a fish’s tail. Angel studied it for several minutes, counting the scales. A large part of one wall was taken up by a mirror, in which she could see a small child engulfed in a huge bed. Someone had taken the trouble to comb the child’s hair and wash her face and hands so that she was almost pretty. An old grey cat on one of the chairs was washing itself painstakingly, glancing up now and then at her to make sure the young human fully appreciated the efforts being made on her behalf.
    Another wall was almost entirely window but the curtains were drawn across it to keep the cabin in twilight. Angel briefly wondered what the view was like from so high up and longed to see for herself, but exhaustion pulled her back down into the bed. As she fell asleep it occurred to her that there was no other bed in the cabin and that meant the woman had nowhere to sleep, but the thought lost itself in other softer thoughts.
     
    Dawn broke brilliant and blue and the woman drew the curtains. Angel woke with it, feeling as it she had slept for a hundred years. The woman was sitting in an armchair, her back straight, reading a book perched on the back of the cat on her lap. Angel lay on her side and watched through half-closed eyelids in the hope that she could go on looking for ever, undisturbed, but the woman glanced up, shut the book and smiled a smile brighter than that morning’s sun.
    “Feeling better?” she asked, and Angel remembered Gilette asking, “Are you OK?” and marvelled at how differently one question could be asked.
    “Yes. Thanks. How long have I been asleep?”
    “On and off, about four days.”
    “Four days!” Panic reared up – parties missed, appointments blown – but it subsided quickly. So what about parties and appointments?
    “Hungry?”
    “Starving.”
    The woman set about preparing breakfast in a small, immaculate galley kitchen and Angel followed her movements, the economy of her grace, like a dancer.
    “I saw you dancing the other night, before I … came here.”
    “No, you didn’t,” said the woman, trying to sound reproachful.
    “Yes, I did. You and lots of others, in a big room with a big light in the ceiling. You were there, weren’t you?”
    “Yes, Signor Bellini’s ballroom.”
    Bellini – that was Paolo’s surname, wasn’t it? But Angel did not want to think about Paolo or Eddy or Gilette or Riot or anyone.
    The woman continued: “I was there, but I wasn’t dancing. I don’t.”
    “Not at all?”
    “Not any more. I used to –” And she stopped, as if she had said too much. Angel wanted nothing less than to upset her saviour, so she tried a different tack.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Gabrielle. Call me Gabby.”
    “I don’t like Gabby. I think it sounds a bit silly. Can I call you Gabrielle?”
    “If you want.”
    “I’m Angel.”
    “Yes,” said Gabrielle. “This monster is Lucius.” She pointed at the cat, who was sitting expectantly on the counter. “He’s the last in a long line of distinguished cats.”
    “How many do you have?”
    “Only the one,” she said, tickling him behind the ears. “I measure my time spent on the Hope in cats. The first I had was Black Ferdinand. I took him on board with me, but he disappeared after a few months. Poor thing. I hope he had a happy life. Then there was Margot and Wilfred and – I do go on, don’t I? Ask me to talk about anything other than cats, because when I start there’s no stopping me.”
    “Oh,” said Angel, scared to say or ask anything more in case words broke the spell and she would suddenly be sent hurtling downwards back to the lower decks and the crowds of people who knew her and cared nothing for her. She contented herself with looking out of the window at the Hope and the sea glistening in the sunlight. She had left a life somewhere down there in the canyons of decks built high and stifling on top of each other and she wished that life would stay there for good. Here, surely, conversation