“Is your hair naturally curly?” Enid asked, pulling at her own as if she’d bought it from a shop.
“It is.”
“You don’t have to get a permanent?”
“I’ve never had a permanent. Would you like a hanger?”
“A what?”
“For your clothes?”
“I’ll just leave them on the floor. You’re so lucky with your hair. I have to do mine every week. Look how thin it is. And this color isn’t natural.”
“It isn’t?”
Sarcasm was lost on Enid because she laughed. “Oh, no, Marge. This comes from a bottle. Want me to do your makeup?”
“May I remind you, Mrs. Pretty, that the purpose of this expedition is to find a beetle?”
“No harm having fun, though.” Enid dabbed her face all over with orange powder and then sprayed herself in a scent that was so devastatingly powerful it made ethanol smell like a walk in the park.
“I assume your French is fluent?”
“Yup,” said Enid. “Bon shoor.”
“And on the subject of the beetle—”
“Oh, yes?”
“You need to stop telling people I’m from the Natural History Museum.”
“Why, Marge? You should be proud of your work.”
No time to put her straight. The ship’s bell sounded for dinner. Margery checked the ruffles were straight on her bodice and picked up her handbag. “Also, you need to stop talking about the beetle.”
But Enid’s attention was a dandelion clock. She had just spotted herself in the mirror and was now checking how she looked from an assortment of angles, mostly side-on. “Beg pardon?”
“We need it to keep it secret. There’s a black market.”
“In secrets?”
“In beetles, Enid. I’m talking about beetles.”
Enid shook her head. “People are nice on this ship. Trust me, I’ve met some types in my life and these are not like that. Don’t you worry, Marge. Your beetle’s safe.”
* * *
—
Margery wanted to question Enid about her passport over dinner, and practice some beginner’s French, but she hadn’t realized that tourist class meant sharing with other people. The dining room was low-ceilinged and vast, with shiny wooden paneling. It was lined with hundreds of tables that had bright yellow cloths and silver jugs of water; most seats were already taken, and the noise was deafening. At the sight of so many strangers, Margery seized up. She even wondered about going straight to bed. Meanwhile, Enid wiggled here, she wiggled there, greeting people as if she loved them dearly, until she found two free seats at a table of ten: “Over here, Marge! Over here!” There was no chance of a private conversation. Neither had Margery realized how much food would be served—after all the rationing, it was more than she’d eaten in years. She finished the oxtail soup, then the ham with pineapple, and when it came to trifle, she had to reach beneath her cardigan and loosen her zipper. Meanwhile, Enid spooned up every last scrap—she didn’t once use a fork, and neither did she close her mouth; she was the worst eater Margery had ever met—and laughed ecstatically when the waiters offered seconds.
Margery had begun to wonder if her assistant was an entirely stable person. Despite the clear warning, she told everyone that Margery was from the Natural History Museum, so now they were all asking questions. They were even asking what other expeditions she’d been on. There was a newlywed couple immigrating to Australia on ten-pound tickets, a widower traveling the world, a missionary whose English was not so good, and two sisters on their way to Naples. All wanted to know what it was like to be a famous explorer.
The widower inquired if Enid had done any other job except insect work, but she was sketchy about her previous profession. She said she’d had a job in catering, but as for where she’d catered, Enid was vague. She was also vague when he asked how you went about collecting beetles.
“Oh, you just pick ’em up.”
“With a net?”
“Or with a spoon. Or just your hands.”
“You’re not afraid?”
“Of a beetle? Not me.”
“And is it valuable?”
“Yeah. Very. Well, it’s gold, you see. Everyone wants to find it.”
“Your husband must be sorry to see you go?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Your husband?”
Enid stared for a moment, like a stunned marsupial. “My husband is a solicitor,” she said, which was nice to know, but not the answer to the question. Then she asked who had seen the film Mrs. Miniver. It was her favorite film in the whole wide world.
Margery was hinting it was time to retire when a man called Taylor joined their table. Taylor recognized Enid and Margery as the two hilarious women who had almost missed the boat. He was a short man with shoulders like structural beams and a solid mustache that looked as if it would fall off if he moved too fast. He said there was a ballroom next door with a proper band and he just wondered if anyone fancied a dance.
“No, thank you,” said Margery.
“Now, wouldn’t that be smashing?” said Enid, springing up like a jack-in-the-box.
Margery excused herself and said she would take an early night. It had been a long day, what with nearly missing two major forms of transport and enduring a quite traumatic police investigation.
* * *
—
It was a relief to be in the cabin. It was a relief to be alone. She would never call herself vain, but—despite her fears—it had been something to have all those people briefly treat her like an important person. It would be something, too, to come home with three pairs of specimens, male and female, correctly pinned. To present them to the Natural History Museum, along with all the other rare beetles she’d found. There might be an offer of a job. Her name in the newspapers…
Margery must have fallen into a deep sleep because when she woke she had no clue where she was. The bed was narrow, it was hard, and, now that she thought about it, it was going up and down. She was on the ship, she remembered. And the joy she felt was instantly replaced with panic as she realized someone else was in the cabin. Enid Pretty. The dreadful woman who couldn’t stop talking. Light from the porthole cast a thin blue pallor; Enid was kneeling on the floor and had a suitcase wide open. Margery’s skin went cold. Enid was going through her things.