Ship of Fools

by Sophia Soames

  I knew I was gay once we started sex education at school. The girls got weird. The boys got even weirder. I just felt lost in the middle, until I watched two boys kissing on TV and sported an instant boner that just would not go down.

  Being a weird kid, I asked my dad what to do. He told me to find myself a boyfriend, and live a happy life. That was about it. Apart from my mum’s obsession with Harry Styles. And weird TV shows. And trying to learn to cook. You get the picture.

  “You got a boyfriend yet?” Bea laughs, as she kisses my cheek. She’s massive, her rounded tummy barely covered by one of Dad’s old shirts.

  “You got one yourself?” I tease back.

  “He’s got a crush.” Mum fills in, sitting herself down and wiping her eyes on a tea towel.

  “Ohh!” Bea laughs, “Do tell, Luca. We need some good gossip. Well, did Mum tell you about Mrs Cavanaugh? “

  “What about Mrs Cavanaugh?” I fill in quickly. Trying to change the subject, because there is nothing really to tell. What am I supposed to say? I think Andreas Mitchell is seriously hot, and he’s probably the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and he’s funny and crazy and also drinks too much and shags anything that moves. From what I have seen, that is. He’s probably the least suitable guy for boyfriend material, and anyway, he is totally out of my league. A fantasy of imperfect perfection.

  “Mrs Cavanaugh has a new lover, and Mr Cavanaugh is as clueless as always. It’s rather funny to watch, this new guy sits in his car until Mr Cavanaugh sets off for work, and as soon as he leaves, Mr Loverboy runs up to the back door. Anyway, Luca fancies that boy working at Lambert and Gloss.” Mum says, pouring herself a glass of water. “Not the old one, the young boy. I didn’t know he was gay.”

  “The mechanic? Mike? He’s going out with Laura from the Co-op. Hardly gay. Probably not a good choice, Luca.”

  “Bea…” I sigh.

  Yes. Meet my family. None of them ever shut up. And they take a tiny piece of information and turn it into a docusoap. It’s constant, and to be honest? Exhausting.

  “Not Mike, or James. I fancy the Sales Manager, he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and he’s also completely out of my league, so just leave me to nurse my impossible crush in peace, and then perhaps I will mend my broken heart and find myself a nice boyfriend.” My mouth says, pulling off the sarcasm with ease.

  “Sales Manager. Fancy!” Mum says, and opens her laptop, sitting herself down with a sigh. “What’s his name and I will look him up on Facebook. We need to know if he is in a relationship.”

  “Mum, nobody our age does Facebook.” I mutter, trying to figure out where to start drying the dangerously high stack of plates Dad has somehow managed to wash up.

  “What’s his handle on Insta?” Bea now has her phone out and I stare at Dad. Begging.

  “Good luck, son.” He laughs, placing his home-made aubergine bake into the oven, wafting another puff of smoke into the kitchen.

  “What’s his name again?” Mum says, taking a sip of her water. “Barry Gloss?”

  I tell you, my family. Gossipmongers all of them.

  Andreas

  December is always mayhem at work, with Christmas orders and retrofits, and the most ridiculous demands from some of our most-valued clients. Seems like personalised number plates are no longer the go-to present. Instead, it’s personalised interiors, because people watch crazy series on TV and think anything can be achieved, if you just bring in your dodgy old BMW and flash enough cash.

  Some of the younger clients make me laugh. They have obviously gone to those posh schools where they have had every whim and demand catered to. Someone like me is just a servant to them, and they sit down and demand champagne for their giggling girlfriends, because that’s what they think they deserve.

  I go to clubs and demand shots. Another clear piece of evidence to prove that I am a fool. I should find myself some rich dude who would take me to expensive places and feed me oysters and champagne. Not that I like oysters. I’m allergic to shellfish to the point I have to carry an EpiPen. Story of my life. I would meet a nice rich man who would take me out on his nice yacht, and I would have an anaphylactic reaction just sniffing the bloody Marys on offer. My parents never take me out in Spain, because, well, everything has seafood in it, one way or the other. I have to stick to steak, and even then, they try to sneak a bloody prawn in as garnish.

  At least it’s the 23rd December, and the weather is freezing, the whole world down the valley covered in a layer of sparkling frost. We might not get much snow, but we get cold, and the frost is beautiful from my glass office. Trees and rooftops as far as the eye can see, all covered in frozen ice, and the smoke from the chimneys painting a picture-perfect view. Even the sun is out, covering everything in a faint golden glow.

  I look around my office and sigh. I love working here. I’ve always loved cars, since the day my Dad’s driver let me help him service the Mercedes Benz he drove. I must have been around 10 years old, covered in oil and wielding a spanner, but I loved the complexity of it all, the mechanics and the electronics, and then I discovered performance cars, and dreamed of one day driving one. I still don’t, but here, I get to mess around with cars most people would only ever dream of sitting in, yet alone owning. If a client wants a certain car? An out-of-date vintage model? In shocking pink? I will locate it, buy it, and arrange any detailing he asks for. I have found sought-after models for collectors, and made impossible dreams come true. Well, I also sourced a car that was converted into an exact replica of Peppa Pig’s car, for a client's Nanny to drive. The poor woman was too embarrassed to even look at me when she collected it, complete with Peppa Pig themed interiors.

  We have delivered on most orders this month, and those we haven’t? I have just signed off to have those customers generously compensated with hampers full of Christmas port and stilton, with handwritten notes of apology. Mr Lambert just shrugged when I spoke to him earlier, and at least I have delivered on everything else which should earn me a nice little bonus. I don’t feel bad. There is nothing more I can do right now, and the upcoming week's holiday is something I both long for and dread.

  I need to sleep for a week. I don’t want to do it on my own though. In my head, I could imagine sleeping in my bed, long lie-ins, with someone by my side. A bit of sex, and messy breakfasts in bed. Then back to sleep for a few hours. That’s what my ideal Christmas would look like. The only problem is that my bed is empty, and my fridge is bare, something that no gift card or box of stilton could ever compensate for.

  I should have ordered a food delivery. Instead, I now have to go and brave the queues at Booths supermarket with the rest of the town, where I will be frustrated and bored before I even get to the tills.

  I don’t want to cook myself a festive meal. I don’t even want food, just maybe enough chocolate and wine to see me through a few days. And a couple of bottles of Vodka, perhaps.

  I barely finish that thought, before my office door opens. He doesn’t even knock, Luca Germano, before entering and walking up to me with determination in his steps.

  “We are ready to deliver. I was just wondering if you would like to come down and look her over before I go home.” He grunts.

  He’s wearing skinny jeans today, and a torn knitted hoodie, a speck of oil still lingering on his hand, and a polishing rag stuck in his back pocket.

  “I trust you.” I say, taking the glasses off my nose, and placing them on the table in front of me. “The crew downstairs speak very highly of you. Thank you for helping us deliver on this one. I’m sure the car will be much appreciated by its new owner.”

  I’m talking a load of shite, in a voice that belongs to someone like Mr Lambert. I do that, sometimes, when I speak with older clients. Try to make myself more mature, more sophisticated, and less of the twinkly brat I really am.

  “Ahm…” He grunts, again. He’s a man of few words, Luca Germano. He still scares me, because he’s unpredictable. I can’t read him, n
ot really. Sometimes he comes across as happy and carefree, at other times he seems almost terrified of me.

  “Let me guess…” I tease. “Tonight, you are working out, then you are going to go and have a nice glass of water at Club Eden. Am I right?”

  “What?” he huffs.

  “Yeah? That’s what you do, most weekends.” I giggle. I’ve immediately lost the stupid fake maturity. It doesn’t take much. Told you, I’m an idiot, and clearly a fool, because now Luca Germano is blushing and squirming, and looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  “Why would you say that?” He huffs out, suddenly back to being annoyed with me. Then he looks scared, breathing too heavily, running his greased hand through his cropped hair. He’s had it cut again. I bet it’s soft against his fingers.

  I’m clearly losing my touch here, and I need a break. Luca Germano turned me down for a simple reason. He’s probably gay, because most people frequenting Club Eden, are… gay. Since it’s a gay club. Yet, I’m feeling less confident by the second here, sat behind my desk being... frankly, both rude and stupid with one of our freelance tech crew. Because I know what I am doing, I’m flirting, and why the hell am I flirting with him, of all people? I don’t understand myself anymore. Well, I do. He’s handsome, in a rugged way. A little bit scary, because the man clearly works out and is both tall, fit and muscular. The kind of man with big hands that would toss me around a bed with ease and completely dominate in the bedroom. He’s also staring at me like I have two heads.

  Note to self, also the kind of man I should avoid, because I usually end up in a state like last weekend. Do I take any notice? No. Here I go again.

  “You usually spend the evening stalking me around the club and staring at me.” It’s a little bit of a lie, but I’m smiling and batting my eyelashes. I’m giving the guy a chance here. I wouldn’t mind a hookup with him. I would totally let him do me, like a little good pick-me-up.

  “Look, mate.” He says again, with surprising strength, as he walks up to my desk and leans on his knuckles on the top. Leaning over me and staring at me with an intensity that scares me. I actually shuffle my chair an inch backwards, because... Yeah. Intense.

  “Don’t mess around with me, I’m not into all that.” He’s serious too, enough for me to feel intimidated.

  “Mate, it’s an invitation to fuck, not a bloody job interview.” I nip back, trying to blow my chest up like a bloody baboon. I’m not impressive, I realise that, as he smirks at me.

  “Just leave it. Not interested.” He huffs. I just laugh, because as he stands back, he turns around far too quickly for a man not interested. He’s also sporting a semi in his jeans, unless he’s hung like a horse. He’s probably hung, but that bulge...?

  “Look, Luke.” I try, but he cuts me off.

  “Luca. Not Luke.”

  “Luca, my bad.” I try a smile, but he doesn’t take the bait. Just stares, like he does. Maybe it’s just his thing, and perhaps I have read all this wrong from the start.

  “I go to Eden for a drink at the weekend, because my best mate from school mans the bar. That’s why I go there. I hang out and shoot the shit with a guy who I have known since I was three. Is that clear?” He’s pissed off, and now he’s frightening me. Just a little. In a good way.

  “Crystal.” I nip back.

  “I’m not interested in being one of your fuckbuddies, okay? So, leave it. I’m very happy to work for you, and you have a great team downstairs, so if you have a project you need me for? Ring me. If not? Then I hope you have a great Christmas... and all that.”

  He’s lost his steam at the end, clearly not holding a planned-out speech. He would never make a salesman, because now he is twirling around in a circle again, almost tripping over his own feet as he walks out of my office, leaving the door wide open behind him.

  I don’t go down and check out the car. I probably should, before the handover to the new owner this afternoon. I should probably be there to sign it off. Instead I lean back in my chair and let my eyes close. Just for a second to calm myself down.

  What on earth am I doing? That? That display of complete and sheer unprofessionalism was... staggeringly stupid. I could lose my job. It could be seen as harassment, on a grand scale. I need to stop whatever it is I think I am doing.

  In any case, I need to go home, grow up and grow a bloody brain, because the one I have at the moment? It’s fried.

  Luca

  “Where is my phone?” I ask for the hundredth time in the day. I rarely use it, but as always, have left it somewhere in the house, and as usual, it has somehow sunk and disappeared into the endless clutter in my family’s home. The house is warm, messy, dusty and lived-in. Old, faded school photos are stacked against the dresser, with family heirlooms and old wedding photos as a dusty sidekick for the peeling wallpaper. Christmas presents are neatly stacked under the worn-out old plastic tree that we manhandle out of the loft year after year, adorned with festive lights and cracked old baubles from our childhood Christmases. The coffee table in front of me is covered in open packets of festive sweets and cakes… next to an overflowing laundry basket and a random pot plant still in its cellophane wrapper.

  I’m sprawled on our sofa with Bea’s head on my lap, after an overgenerous helping of Dad’s special Christmas Eve calamari, with a round of family tombola on the side, where we all argued and fought until Mum called a truce and made us eat a bucket of Semifreddo. Italian style, with one tub and five spoons. Now, hours later, after too many video calls to relatives in Italy, I am exhausted and wrung out, nursing a sugar rush and stomach ache.

  As kids we had to spend hours speaking nicely to relatives on Christmas Eve, thanking everyone for our generous gifts. We still have to sit on Skype and say polite niceties to people we barely know, and smile at near strangers who blow kisses and wish us well for the festive season. Our cousins laugh and show off their kids, chats that are kind of stilted and slightly cringy, but I don’t mind too much, it’s part of the Germano family Christmas and it somehow makes me feel warm on the inside. We leave Nonna until last, because we all love speaking to her and right now she is nattering away in the background as she tells me all about her soaps, the latest films to watch and is all up to date on my love life thanks to Mum and Dad and Facebook.

  She’s knitting as she chats to us on Bea’s laptop, laughing as she freely mixes the languages, depending on what we are talking about. She asks about my boy crush, and I don’t even have to tell her his name, Nonna already knows and has checked up on both his Facebook, Instagram and TikTok account. You think your Granny should be just that, a granny, yet Nonna Germano is more tech savvy than me, and I actually went to college to learn that stuff. Nonna just picks it up from the TV, and then lectures me on the new iPhone features, Microsoft updates and the dangers of social media.

  She, apparently, approves of Andreas Mitchell, even though she says he looks a little young for me. He is twenty-eight she tells me. She googled him, and to her great annoyance none of his family are of Italian origin, and none of her friends have ever heard of a Mitchell family in Chistleworth.

  I promise to ask around and get answers to all her questions, so I can tell her everything she needs to know next time we speak, and Bea snorts in the background as I blow kisses to the woman who birthed my dad. Bea is about to birth another Germano boy, yet Nonna just laughs when I curse our crazy genes, and tell her I hope her kid doesn’t inherit all of our traits and silliness. I hang up and tell Bea she looks exhausted. She sticks her tongue out.

  “I’m having a baby, and I am going to enjoy my last night as a free woman.” She mutters and pops another chocolate into her mouth. We are surrounded by Italian sweets and foods, gifted in numerous care parcels that those insane Italians insist on shipping to us, despite Chistleworth high street having a well-stocked European deli. We don’t mind though, and I unwrap another chocolate Baci from its silvery foil, letting the sharp flavour hit my tongue.

  Granny Nonna used to pity the
English for having to celebrate Christmas surrounded by dry mince pies and revolting fruit cakes. Now she curses the Italian supermarkets for not stocking those things for her to binge on, and demands year-round deliveries of delicacies from the British Isles. Dad and I ship it all on the company account, big boxes of junk food that keep us in Nonna’s good books for weeks. In return we are spoilt with parcels with exotic sounding brands and delicious treats with questionable calorie contents.

  “There are no calories in these.” Bea sighs and crams a slice of Panforte into her mouth, throwing the wrapper carelessly on the floor.

  “That mini Panettone was better than Dad’s big homemade Panettone.” I sigh and pat her head. I’ve eaten too much. Again.

  “Dad’s Panettone is the best. Don’t let him hear you say things like that.”

  “Is there more in the tin?” I try to get up, but Bea is heavy against my chest, and to be honest, I am enjoying the warmth of hanging out with my little sister. A little cuddle on a cold winter's evening. It’s Christmas, after all. Mum and Dad are out delivering food parcels to Mum’s clients, and our big sister Anna has gone out with friends. It’s just Bea and me, and for once the house is delightfully calm and quiet.

  “Have you heard from your pretty boy?” Bea says all casually, when I know full well, she’s probably scheming again.

  “He’s not my pretty boy.” I say, peeling another chocolate, trying to look unbothered.

  “You should text him and say Merry Christmas,” Bea replies, rubbing her tummy with one hand and flicking the TV channels with the other.

  “He’s probably out partying. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s flat drunk somewhere.”

  “Flat drunk might be good, because if he is, he’ll reply. I always text people when I’m drunk, you know like... drunk texting. He might even fancy you when he’s drunk.” She laughs. “I miss being young and stupid and going out drinking. I won’t be doing that for a while.”