Page 3 of Something Beyond Fame

She was cut off again as guests began to enter the ship. There was low-key chatter, wide eyes, and soft awws, and then their eyes fixed on me.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, it’s Raven!!!”

“Told you,” sighed Urduja.

2

Waking up for an early start is what port days are all about, when your eyes are sleepy but your mind feels wide awake because you’re just so excited to see something new. Today’s port was a fresh addition to the British Isles itinerary, meaning it was my very first visit—the channel island of Guernsey. Most of my knowledge about it comes from The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. I’m not sure it’s the most reliable source of information, but I felt excited nonetheless. I felt the tingles of anticipation at having my toes find new places to roam.

Taking the tender to St Peter's Port was an experience. Lots of bobbing, water splashing, and a feeling of very much being on the sea. But being one of the first to arrive on the island made the sleepy yawns worth it. The tender only had a couple of people on it, and everyone appeared to be as excited as me except for one woman. She was striking, and I couldn’t stop my gaze from drifting to her. She was the only woman on the tender who hadn’t greeted me by name and didn’t seem remotely interested in me.

She didn’t appear sleepy, it was as though 6:30 a.m. starts were her everyday normal, but she looked extremely bored. She checked her cell phone every few seconds as we bobbed closer and closer to shore, letting out a little sigh when she didn’t get the magic bar she was hoping for. She huffed a little louder, and my gaze ran over her body.

Mmmm, I thought to myself. I’ve always had a bit of a thing for expensive-looking blondes, and she fit the bill exactly.

If I were being honest, she didn’t look as if she was on vacation at all. If anything, she seemed more suited to a big office in the city with her immaculate power suit, briefcase, and look of unadulterated disdain, but she left my thoughts the moment I stepped onto dry land.

For around 30 minutes, the sun forced its way through the clouds and lit up the port and quaint English streets in a dusky morning glow. Then, just as the mass of cruisers invaded the clouds knotted together to fill the air with a misty drizzle.

I hopped on the local bus. It took around 30 minutes to complete a round trip of the east side of the island, and at $1.50, I felt it was worth the money to see the tiny filter now streets, the way the bus straddled the pavement and road to make way for cars, and how we stopped at old ladies’ houses to pick up the locals because who needs a bus stop when you know everyone?

Tea houses, village shops, and local produce filled High Street. The paths were cobbled, the steps well worn and the town sprawled outward from the church center. In the oddest of ways, it felt homey, a community, and I felt lucky to see it, even if just for a few hours.

I was never truly alone on these jaunts. Even with my sunglasses on, I was recognised by some of the cruise guests on the streets, and I even occasionally got knowing looks from some of the locals.

I noticed the expensive blonde woman on High Street. She didn’t belong here either. She was strikingly beautiful and moved with grace. I couldn’t take my eyes off the sway of her hips.

She didn’t notice me.

I had to head back to the ship pretty early. The Captain's dinner night was always accompanied by a big show. The theater would be packed with guests, all of them expecting a spectacular performance, and I would give nothing less.

Checks, checks, and more checks. Outfits, sound, lighting, cues, and timing. All of the normal things that ensured we gave a memorable night at sea. Many people on board this ship might only ever take one cruise, and they may have saved for years to be able to come and experience something like this. That was always on my mind when I performed.

I might be fed up with my top three hits. I might be on autopilot. But for some in the audience, they would never forget the night they heard me sing the lyrics live that they related to so well.

I made sure I looked at the part. My short hair was styled just like my posters used to be, that dark kohl liner, the smudges of smokey black.

The theater stage was stark, the musicians hidden from sight, and each note was played beautifully, ringing out with perfect clarity as a hushed silence fell across the space. The spotlight shone unwaveringly on the center of the stage, illuminating the silvery steel microphone. I took a deep breath, still feeling the same nerves that I always had, just for that second before I stepped forward into the light.

My boots were black and heeled, and they clicked softly against the floor with each step. My fingers reached forward, caressing the steel pole, bringing the microphone to my lips. My dress was a simple black that hugged my figure, with thin straps that brushed over my shoulders, soft fabric kissing the swell of my breasts before following the dip of my waist, caressing my hips and finishing mid-thigh. My long legs were on show.

My lips parted and each word slipped from them meant and felt. “And my baby you got me like oh." I let go of the steel stand, my fingers slowly trailing up my sides, my hips swaying softly.

My hand returned to the microphone, and I unclipped it from the stand. I sung soulfully, my lips kissing the microphone, every word sung from deep inside. Walking forward, I knew my skin shone pearly under the light, and my short dark hair looked messy like I’d just been fucked, and I felt sexy.

I looked up, my eyes searching the crowd, and I saw them all, saw them singing back, singing with me, and I felt on top of the world again.

Then I saw her—the expensive blonde woman from the tender that morning, her phone still in her hand, but I this time I had her attention. Her focus. Her gaze was fixed on me as I sang, and even though we were strangers and I knew nothing at all about her, I felt the spark of a connection and the desire to know more.

My set played through the hits. Some were mine, some were covers, but they all made their mark. The audience was happy. I even saw a short smile from Fernanda, which meant it must have been better than perfection.

Three outfit changes, 12 songs, two dance routines, and a full piano solo, and I fell off the stage and into the greenroom exhausted.

“I think I’m too old for this,” I half-joked as I collapsed onto the sofa.

Urduja rolled her eyes and tossed me a bottle of water before she returned to bark at some poor soul through her headset.

“It just isn’t that fucking difficult! Do I need to come up to the Rivera deck myself and show you? No, I didn’t think so. Just do your fucking job, Sasha.” She cut the call with a sigh, and I couldn't help but laugh.

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