Page 38 of Hold On to Me
I want to make things that outlast me too. For now, I make people feel better for an hour. It isn't the same. But it's what I have, and standing on this ship with these floors under my feet and that glass ceiling behind me and this gallery in front of me, what I have feels like it might be the start of something.
DECK 3. THE CASINO.
Ace Royale, the plaque reads, gold on black, flanked by an insignia I don't recognise: crossed swords behind the ace of spades. Through the dark glass doors I can see the floor, even at midday, lit and populated. Black marble reflecting crystal light. Dealers in dark waistcoats behind curved tables. A bar running the length of the far wall, bottles backlit in amber. And everywhere, on the frosted glass partitions, the leather chairs, the coasters, a crest. A diamond. Wreathed in flames.
"Almazov operation," Mr. Green informs me. His tone has the careful neutrality of a man who works for people he's decided not to have opinions about.
"Almazov," I repeat, because I've never heard the name and it sits strangely in my mouth, all consonants and authority.
"The family that owns the ship. Four brothers. You'll almost certainly never interact with any of them, but in the unlikely event that you do: be polite, be professional, don't initiate conversation, don't stare."
"Do they stare?"
He levels me with the managerial equivalent ofthat was a stupid question, Thornton.
"They own the ship," he points out. "They can do what they like."
Right. Action item: don't stare at the people who own everything. Should be easy. I don't stare at people. I'm a professional. Professionals don't stare.
THE REST OF THE TOURpasses in a blur of regulations and prohibited areas. Staff dining on Deck 2, staggered meals, no eating in uniform. Laundry service on Deck 1. Emergency protocols. The medical bay.
"Dr. Hernandez. She's good. Don't bother her unless you're bleeding."
And then, finally, my treatment rooms. Two of them, adjoining, with adjustable tables, heated floors, and a sound system built into the walls that's currently murmuring something with rain and piano and no discernible melody.
I run my palm across the leather of the treatment table. Cool. Smooth. High quality. I can feel it in the give, the density, the way the surface accepts pressure without crinkling. The tables atmy training studio in Nice were vinyl over foam, and you could feel the metal frame through the padding if you pressed hard enough. This table is the Rolls-Royce of massage tables. This table has probably never met a vinyl cover in its life. And the leather is warm under my palm, and the heated floor is warm under my feet, and I want to stand here forever just touching this, just being in this room that's mine, that I earned.
My hands. Four hundred euros an hour.
The thought is so absurd I almost laugh out loud. Four hundred euros. Per hour. That's nine and a half bus tickets from Nice-Ville per hour. That's almost ten entire Stars'-monthly-account-balances per hour. My brain is trying to do the maths and also trying to accept that the maths is real and also slightly failing at both.
Mr. Green, who's been patiently allowing me to fondle his furniture, clears his throat. "Your schedule's loaded on the staff portal. First clients begin tomorrow. Supplies are in the cabinet. Questions?"
"No, Mr. Green."
"Good." He turns to leave. Pauses. "One more thing, Thornton."
"Sir... Mr. Green."
"You're the youngest therapist on this ship. The other three have a decade on you, minimum. I hired you because your practical scores were the highest I've seen in nine years of staffing this spa, and because Madame Gilles's recommendation was specific enough that I suspect she'd have flown here herself if I'd turned you down."
I don't know what to say to that. My throat does something tight and warm and I blink fast and say nothing.
"Don't make me regret it."
"I won't," I promise, and I mean it with every cell in my body, with every tendon in my overtrained, cocoa-buttered, bus-fare-counting hands.
He nods once. Leaves.
I stand in the empty treatment room. Press both palms to the leather and close my eyes. The ship hums, a low vibration I can feel through the soles of my shoes, through the table, through the floor and walls. The engines, warming up. Monaco is still outside. Still glittering. Still the most expensive postcard I've ever stood inside.
I'm here. I earned this. My hands earned this.
Deep breath. Open eyes. Get to work.
THE SHIP SAILS AT SIX.
I feel it before the announcement. A deepening of the hum, a change in the floor beneath my feet, and then through the porthole at the end of the staff corridor, Monaco begins to slide. The white buildings and the packed harbour and the casino district separating from us like a scene being pulled gently offstage. The water widens. The coast recedes. And the Mediterranean opens up, enormous and darkening, and the ship turns its bow toward open sea, and the horizon is nothing but water and the first colours of sunset bleeding into it, peach and copper and a violet so deep it aches.
