The laughter continues for a few moments more, then one more slamming door leaves us all without doubt.
“What was that?” a few mutters.
“One of the silly bitches in high heels falling overboard?” Smith offers with a dirty chuckle, making yet another unwanted remark.
“Shall we go up and check on them?” Sol asks, his eyes glancing upwards like he can see through three floors of a super-yacht.
“It must have been one of the staff getting heavy handed with a door. Maybe some kitchen equipment,” Blair’s dad offers. “The ladies,” he adds with a pointed glance at Smith, “sound absolutely fine.”
The table goes quiet, back to muttering about golf, jets and stock. But just as I go in for the kill with my pair of Kings into the pink-shirt wearing bastard, Sol shakes his head and mutters.
“Don’t
