Day 357
Writing exercise
He didn’t mind his job; it was all the work that bothered him.
…
The view from the balcony took in a large slice of the Mediterranean, the cloudless sky blue, the near calm ocean blue and the breeze refreshing.
“Your five minutes are up,” the voice from inside the room broke my reverie, that idea that life would be amazing, right here, if I were a multi-millionaire without a care in the world.
The voice belonged to Sonya, one of the undersecretaries of the actual multi-millionaire that we both worked for.
“This event isn’t going to plan itself.”
I shrugged. She was right. She flew into Nice the previous afternoon, and I arrived this morning. The event was in two days on the yacht, which was arriving at Antibes sometime early tomorrow.
Neither of us was going to get any sleep tonight.
I poked my head in the door and looked at her. Ready to jump into the sea, except that was never going to happen. The closest either of us would see water was the hotel swimming pool.
If we were lucky.
“How can it possibly be that I have visited this place seven times, and this five minutes is the longest time I’ve had to stare at the water?”
“It’s the job. We didn’t sign up for Sun and fun, Harry. It will happen, one day. Maybe. Now, where did you say the Benjamins are?”
…
I knew when I took on the role of Events Manager, it was going to be hard work. Seven months after the boss fired the last manager over a missed detail, he simply pointed at me and said, “Do a better job of it, Masters, or else.”
I didn’t ask what the or else was.
And I hadn’t made a mess of it yet.
That was largely because of Sonya, and the truth was she was better at it than me, and she should have the job.
Heading to Antibes and the international dock for private yachts, we arrived just as it was tying up and about to lower the gangway. The yacht had just arrived from Marseilles, where some engine repairs were effected.
God help anyone if the engines failed while the party raged as we slowly moved through the Mediterranean waters, out and back over the course of four hours.
The boss’s daughter was having her 21st birthday party. It had to be perfect, and would be, if her current so-called boyfriend didn’t turn up. He was on the list and not expected. Skiing with his friends was more important.
“What’s the latest on Bozo?” Sonya refused to call him anything else, not after he tried to schmooze her. I wanted to hit him. She said not to make a scene.
It was, she said, just another day in paradise.
“Hopefully, he’ll stay in St Moritz. Mel extended an invitation, and he didn’t reply. She’s not happy.”
“That makes one of us.”
“I’ll sort him if you want me to.”
She shook her head. “He’s not worth it.”
The second officer came down the gangway to greet us.
“Giles.”
“Harry, Sonya. Shouldn’t you two be tucked up in bed?”
I’m not sure the inference was that we should be together. We had made sure at all times our relationship was purely business.
There was no time for anything else.
“We never sleep,” Sonya said. “I take it we are all shipshape and Bristol fashion, even if I don’t know what that means.”
“Scrubbed from top to bottom. The house staff have prepared the staterooms and your quarters. If you’d like a quick inspection…”
Silly question. If there was a problem, I wanted to know before it became a bigger problem.
…
People look at those super yachts, the yachts that look like small ocean liners and gasp in awesome, thinking how lovely it would be to travel on one.
Sorry, not all it’s cracked up to be, if you’re not the owner or a guest.
After two hours sleep, if it could be called that, I had to front the ship’s staff, dressed in their proper work clothes for an inspection, and then a run down of the program, starting with getting the guests aboard, attending to the selection few who would staying after the party, to the phases of the event, catering, drinks, speeches, dancing, and post party wind down.
Every minute for the 24 hours was planned, with contingencies for every conceivable disaster.
That took four hours. Then I was off to the airport to greet the boss, his third wife, and two daughters by his first wife on his private jet.
The same jet Sonya and I, and a half dozen personnel for the yacht arrived three days ago.
They could be called perks if we got to enjoy the moment. Well, maybe for a minute or two.
Three Rolls-Royce cars were waiting on the dock, having arrived from the mansion in Monaco, overlooking the sea with its own private beach.
Each of the houses in England, France, Austria and Monaco had its own staff and transport. I was still negotiating with the various governments to build landing strips for the jet. It wasn’t going well.
“You know that this is going to be like a three-ring circus.”
Jacob, the chauffeur, and a man with a warped sense of humour waited this time until I closed the door before driving off.
“You know something I don’t?”
“Henry said Mel exploded when Bozo said he wasn’t coming. She asked Daddy to put a fire under him, and he said she could do better and stop wasting her time.”
Henry was the English chauffeur. It was not secret Daddy was done with Bozo. He wanted her to make something of herself, she wanted to party and spend her allowance.
I felt sorry for the new wife, barely older than Mel, and having to put up with both daughters’ contempt for their father’s choice. And the tabloids that called her a gold digger.
Who would want to be rich and infamous?
“So, we’re expecting the sulks from Mel, sarcasm from Billie, tears from the wife, and bad temper from the boss.”
“And that will be a good day.” He looked at me with a wry grin. “Just like herding sheep, boyo. I’m glad I’m just the chauffeur.”
…
I was standing at the bottom of the steps waiting for the Chief Secretary, who always travelled with the boss. She would come put first and wait with me. I was there simply because the boss asked me.
Sometimes he summoned me aboard. Not today.
The main hostess, yes, he insisted on that title, appeared at the top of the stairs, then the wife, the two daughters, then the boss.
No one spoke.
The boss and the secretary took the first car, the wife and the eldest daughter Billie, took the second, I got Mel. The seating arrangements hit my cell phone before the jet’s door opened.
It left me wondering why I drew the short straw.
Mel stood by the car, not far from the driver, ready to open the door. The pilots came down and told me they were to wait until further orders. It explained the fourth car, which had just arrived.
They would be staying near Nice airport.
Mel was waiting for me, showing no inclination to be on her way or upset that she was stuck with me. It wasn’t the first time I had to make sure she did as she was told.
“How did you draw the short straw?”
“The age-old trick, all the straws were short. You are not happy, are you, Melanie?”
“You should be calling me Miss Albright, Harry.”
“Perhaps if you were a stuck-up bitch, Mel, but you’re not.”
“I could have you fired.”
“Please. Then I might actually get to sleep longer than two hours.” I nodded to the chauffeur and he opened the door. “Get in, and whinge away. I’m all ears.”
She glared at me, and I braced for an incoming salvo. She shrugged. “What’s the point, you’re just Daddy’s puppet.”
“Wow. And here me thinking the strings were invisible.”
A half smile. Good enough.
We drove for ten minutes. She stared out the window, reflecting back at me, a furrowed brow.
“Daddy is unreasonable.”
Was I supposed to agree, or say something deep and meaningful? Like any conversation with a woman, I couldn’t see the land mines I was about to step on.
“How?”
“He expects me to find a nice boy. There are none.”
“Change where you’re looking.”
She looked at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you look in a dumpster, all you will find is trash. Most, but not all, nightclubs are not the places to find a prospective boyfriend. So, putting that aside for the moment, my mother, whom I always considered the fountain of wisdom, once said that you had to find someone with whom you could be friends first, hang out, talk, do stuff, but no passion or sex, or worst of all, have expectations.”
“That’s impossible. You know what guys are like?”
“A lot of them, yes, but you’ll know when you find the right one. That’s all the advice I can give you.”
“Is that how it is with you and Sonya?”
My turn to glare at her. “No. We work together. You know as well as I do that type of relationship between employees is verboten.”
“But you like her.”
“I like everybody.”
“Even my sister?”
Now she was just playing games. “She is an acquired taste, but even her. Do you want me to throw Bozo overboard if he comes?”
Another half smile. It was a calculated risk calling him Bozo.
“No. I can do that. You just arrange for some sharks to be waiting for him when he hits the water.”
“As you wish, Miss Albright.”
…
Sonya was waiting for me in the small conference room, the table covered in paperwork. It was clear her superior had dumped everything on her and gone up for drinks with the boss.
I had just delivered the prodigal daughter.
“Mel’s onto us.”
“What?”
“She thinks we’re having a fling.”
“When? We barely have time to breathe.”
“That’s what I told her. Has anything changed?” Lots of paper meant trouble.
“A few more guests. Bozo’s coming. Wants to be picked up at the airport. He actually thought we’d send the jet for him. You want to tell Melanie?”
“Let it be a surprise. Should I go up, see what’s going on?”
“Not unless you’re a glutton for punishment.”
My cell phone buzzed. Message from the boss.
“Too late. I’ve been summoned. Please tell me everything is in order.”
“Until it isn’t, but as of now, it is.”
I took a deep breath and headed upstairs, through the main lounge and out onto the promenade deck, where a dozen people were gathered, wait staff mingling with drinks and canapes. Dinner would be served later.
The boss was talking to several friends, their wives ensconced, unwillingly with the new Mrs Albright, perhaps disappointed with his choice but making the best of it. Billie was with her current boyfriend, a tech billionaire, maybe; no one was sure what he did, and Mel was gazing out over the dock at the other, smaller boats.
Or not.
Mrs Albright excused herself and came over. I did not presume to move from the entrance to the deck until summoned.
“Harry.”
She was softly spoken and well-mannered. She knew she was in the middle of a minefield, not of her choosing, but always keeping her composure.
I had no idea how she managed.
“Mrs Albright.”
“Cecelia, Harry. We are past the formal stage now..”
I had given her the spiel on protocol expected from the employees, and such familiarity was frowned upon.
“If only. What can I do for you?”
“Melanie? She was upset coming over. Is she alright?”
We both looked at her, staring at nothing in particular.
“Just the usual rich girl blues. I’m sure she’ll grow out of it, eventually. How are you faring on the good ship lollipop?”
A frown, then a half smile. We had an understanding, or maybe that was I had an understanding, she only understood sometimes.
“I want to say it’s all new and exciting, but…”
“The old guard is making noises.”
“Not today mention our old friends in the press gallery.”
“Tomorrow the Royal Family will screw up, and bingo, you are no longer front page news. They’ll get over it. And you will too. The only two people who matter are you and the boss. Everything else is just while noise.”
“Stay for a drink?” A waiter hovered with a tray of champagne. The real stuff.
“I’d love to, but I have to solve the mystery of the missing beetroots before tomorrow comes and the salads are ruined.”
“The mystery of the missing beetroot, eh?”
“Never a dull moment down on the ordinary deck, Mrs Albright. Never a dull moment.”
…
I was wandering the decks at 2am after seeing the guests off the ship and into their cars, and the guests staying aboard safely to their cabins, then got a bite to eat in the crew dining room.
A ca4 pulled up at the end of the gangway, and a figure got out, and all but ran in the gangway, where on deck he came up against the bosun acting as guard.
I arrived just as he asked for ID. He had a list, and if you were not on the list, you were back on shore.
It was Bozo.
That was the fastest I’d ever seen anyone get from St Moritz to Antibes ever.
“Boris. You’re early.”
The bosun was still looking at his list.
“Harry. I assume Melanie is on board?”
“She is.”
The bosun sighed. Perhaps we were hoping Bozo’s name wasn’t on the list, and he could have the pleasure of throwing him overboard.
I know I wanted to.
“His name is on the list.”
“Good.” He started to head into the cabin when the bosun grabbed his arm.
“You ain’t going anywhere without an escort.”
“Good heavens, man, I’m not a spy. Harry?”
“I’ll take him.” Scruffy and entitled. I so wanted to throw him overboard. “Follow me.”
I took him up to the stateroom deck and to Melanie’s cabin. When I knocked on the door, I stood back and left Boris on the frame.
When she opened the door, she gasped, the slapped him across the face. It was hard enough to make me wince.
“What was that for?”
“Being an arse.” She stepped aside, and he went in and closed the door behind him.
Job done.
…
Of course, if only things ran smoothly. But the best laid plans of mice and men never did.
5:47 am, I woke to a scream. It took three minutes to reach the stateroom deck and the origin of the scream.
Mel’s stateroom.
The door was open, and Mel was outside. She was distraught.
As well as being covered in blood, and a rather nasty knife in one hand.
A glimpse inside her room. Bozo was equally covered in blood, and at a guess, dead. Mrs Albright was checking, looking out at us and shaking her head.
I looked at Mel. It was not the face of a murderer. She was ashen.
“I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything. He was alive when I went down to the galley to get some more champagne. When I got back, he was on the floor, the knife sticking out of his chest. I thought I pulled it out.”
The boss arrived. “Lawyers and police, in that order.”
I didn’t think it was the right time to ask if the birthday party was off.
Then, suddenly, Melanie fainted.
“Revise that order, Doctor, then lawyers, then police.” To me, he said, “Rouse everyone. I want to know where they were during the last half hour. And where was the guard at the gangway?”
So much for getting to bed.
At least now I would get to run my own murder investigation.
…
© Charles Heath 2025
Daily 10‑min “show, don’t tell” micro‑write.
Weekly 30‑min reading of narrative non‑fiction (e.g., The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks).
Joined a local critique group focused on voice.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 