Ship of Fools

by Sophia Soames

  “I’ll babysit, I told you so. And Andreas, he does fancy me, even when he’s sober. He offered, remember?” I shouldn’t remind her of my oversharing mishaps or those ill-advised slip of the tongues. I should never have told her about Andreas in the first place.

  “He does, and you are being an idiot.” She huffs, scrolling through the channels before settling on another silly Christmas sitcom special. We have watched them all, and this one is particularly annoying.

  “I hate this one, do we have to watch it?” I bicker as she huffs.

  “You are just deflecting because you are too chicken to text your crush. Pathetic, Luca.”

  “Says the woman who won’t tell us who the father of her baby is.”

  “Ohhh, that’s below the belt.” She sits up and stares at me. We are both masters of the evil stares. We are the Germanos after all.

  “I’m not chicken. I just don’t want my heart broken by a guy who drinks like a fish, sleeps around and parties like it’s the end of the world.”

  “That’s being a chicken, Luca. You can’t run away from people thinking it’s a good thing to avoid getting your heart broken. You can’t live your life being scared of getting hurt. You might get hurt, but also, you never know where it might lead. Maybe this guy is the one?”

  “Life is not a fairy tale, Bea. There is never...” I do quotation marks with my fingers, right up in Bea’s face. “The One.” I smirk. “Anyway, The One, that’s a myth. Totally.”

  “Mum and Dad were totally each other’s The One.” She says.

  “Mum took pity on Dad because he was pathetic. Then Mum was pathetic too and they both figured out that together, they were less pathetic.”

  “God, you are so romantic. No wonder you haven’t met The One.”

  “Says the woman who is up the duff with the mystery sperm donor’s baby.” I might sound mean, but we have bickered about the fact that Bea won’t give up who the father is, for the last five months… She knows my views, and I know her reasons.

  “This is my baby.” She says sternly.

  “He needs to know who his dad is. At some point he will have questions.”

  “The mystery sperm donor has made his views very clear. There will be no contact, no support and no money. Period.”

  “He’s an arse, whoever he is.”

  “That, we can agree on.” Bea smiles. “You should still text Andreas. Wish him a Merry Christmas. Where is your phone?”

  “You should own up to Mum and Dad about knowing who the sperm donor is, and that the sperm donor dude is an idiot.”

  “Don’t you dare tell them. Dad will go mad.”

  “It’s someone Dad knows, isn’t it? Is it the guy at the petrol station?”

  “Oh, fuck off, Luca. As if.” She fiddles with something behind her back, and looks suspiciously pleased with herself.

  “Gimme my phone back.” I shriek, diving for her. Of course, making Bea giggle as she triumphantly runs off waving my phone in her hand. She may be heavily pregnant, but has still made it into the downstairs toilet and locked the door before I have even managed to get up off the sofa. It’s like we are seven and eight again, arguing over toys and locking ourselves in the toilet, screaming for our mother. I briefly consider doing my old trick of lifting the door off its hinges with a screwdriver and a well-placed kick, as well as screaming for my mother, but. I’m not a kid anymore. And Bea giggles from inside the toilet as I slide down onto the floor with a resigned sigh.

  “Bea” I plead. “Please.”

  “This is what I have sent him.” She starts as I whimper. Something that only makes her laugh evilly as the toilet flushes. “Hi Andreas... I should have written Dear Andreas... or maybe not. Anyway... Hi, Andreas, hope you are having a lovely Christmas.”

  “And?” I say. “Please stop texting.” She’s brutal, and has no sense of decency when it comes to other people's personal possessions, and she definitely has no shame with other people’s phones. At least, not with mine.

  “You had this planned all along.” I whimper.

  “Yup, and he has replied. He wants to go for a walk.”

  “A walk?” I shriek? “What have you told him?”

  “I wrote, I have had too much Christmas food and ate a whole Christmas Semifreddo dessert almost on my own. My poor sisters barely got a teaspoon each. Since the gym is closed, I will have to go for a long walk to burn all those calories.”

  “You didn’t…” I warn.

  “I did, and now he wants to join you. I’ll tell him to meet you in fifteen minutes by the church. It’s midnight mass tonight, so it will be all festive and romantic down there. You know, candles and stuff.”

  “You did what?”

  “Too late, bro,” she giggles, as she opens the toilet door. “I guess you have a Christmas Eve date.”

  “I hate you so much right now,” I spit out, as I snatch the phone from Bea’s outstretched hand.

  “No, you don’t.” She says softly. “You love me, because I always fix things. That’s my speciality.”

  She smiles and I raise my eyebrow in mock anger. There is some real anger in there as well, because I have never known anyone who creates as much drama as Bea. Nor have I ever known anyone who has gotten me out of as much trouble as Bea has. She even took the blame when I broke the fence, despite it being my idea to re-enact a scene from Kill Bill to impress her boyfriend at the time. In my defence I was sixteen, and stupid and fancied the boyfriend even more than Bea did. But that’s another story, and another mistake.

  “What am I going to do?” I whisper, panic brewing in my veins as I read the text exchange on the screen. She’s not kidding, she has actually texted him, and he is still responding, with little Santas and snowflakes, and three little dots jumping around in the corner. He’s writing something and my heart is beating out of my chest.

  “I’m NOT going.” I say defiantly, yet my feet are stepping into my trainers.

  “You are an idiot if you don’t. You will be snogging like teenagers and it will be like, wildly romantic. Just think, in half an hour he could be naked in your bed.”

  “BEA!” I howl. “Shut the fuck... up!!” I don’t want to risk my parents walking in on me cussing my pregnant sister, but right now? She may have just overstepped the line.

  “You are going to go for a walk.” She says calmly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t bring him back here, just take him home and have fantastic Christmas sex, and then you can just love him forever.”

  “It doesn’t work like that.” I say, as Andreas’ text comes through. “Leaving now, I should be at the church in ten minutes. It’s raining, bring an umbrella.”

  “I hate you.” I say to Bea. “I hate you so much.”

  “You don’t. Go for a walk. Talk to the guy, he has promised me he is stone-cold sober.”

  “What? What the hell did you say to him?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out, as you walk. Now go.”

  “I’m not going nowhere, and anyway... no. Just no.” I try to take my shoes off, then I put them on again.

  “I saved his number on your phone, like a normal person would. I can’t believe you didn’t even have his number in there.”

  “He’s a business contact, not someone I would need to randomly text.”

  “Put Dad’s raincoat on, it’s bloody belting down outside.”

  “He’ll need it for later when they go to Midnight Mass.” I’m grasping at straws here, trying to avoid a meltdown and a disaster of epic proportions. I can’t go meet Andreas Mitchell. It’s Christmas Eve. It’s… it’s going to go so, so, badly. What was I thinking? What was Bea thinking?

  “Mum and Dad will drive to Mass. Take the coat. Go!”

  I go. The rain is already leaking into my trainers, as I pull the hood over my head, and my heart is beating in my throat. It’s cold and I am not dressed for some long late-night walk. I should be wearing knitted festive jumpers and hats and gloves, not an oil-stained r
aincoat and soaking trainers. It’s barely ten at night anyway, and I have no clue what to say once I get there. Once I see him? I’ll panic and hide and run back home and kill Bea with a spoon. Not really, but fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

  Oh, God, help me. What have I done?

  Nothing. What has Bea done?

  Andreas

  My Christmas has been saved by someone called Bea Germano. Which is the most surprising quirky detail of my entire life, I think.

  I got the first text this morning, from an unknown number asking Are you Andreas the hot salesman from the car place on the hill?

  I was going to ignore it and block whomever it was, suspecting it being an old hookup trying to get back in my pants for a cringeworthy Christmas round of bad sex and bad choices. It was Christmas Eve though, so I hedged my bets and tentatively replied with a smiley.

  I should have known whomever it was would be trouble. Because Bea Germano is obviously as stubbornly fierce as her brother, and started our new friendship with a seemingly never-ending rant about her brother being an idiot, and me being a total slut, and finishing off with a threat of murder for hire by someone called Geoff, should I ever break her brother’s heart.

  I had had about five hours sleep before reading that text, and I admit it took me longer than might have been polite to respond. Time that Bea used wisely to further hurl abuse at me and demand my heart and soul on a platter, so she could get her brother sorted out with a nice boyfriend.

  I politely reminded her that, A, I would never make a nice boyfriend, for anyone. B, her brother had repeatedly rejected me, and C, I was a shameless slut—her words not mine.

  She laughed. Well, her emojis did, and then she asked me a million questions, and sent me a picture of her breakfast.

  I think I fell in love with her then, or well, as much as a gay man can fall in love with a girl who was obviously bonkers and wonderfully protective of her family. She is superbly funny too, and has no shame. Neither have I and we virtually high fived via text at our newfound similarities and friendship. There are emojis for that as well, she taught me. Hands and smileys and fist bumps and clinking champagne glasses to seal the deal.

  I have had a good Christmas Eve, despite everything I dreaded would happen, not happening at all. Instead, I have been happily watching crap on TV, alongside Bea’s running commentary of things she and Luca were watching, what Luca thought, what Luca said. What Luca ate. At one point, Luca farted, and I cried with laughter in my self-imposed solitude. I almost felt part of the family come afternoon, as she spouted random crap about swollen feet, pregnancy hormones, Italian sweets and relatives with issues.

  He’s of Italian heritage, something I could have found out if I had bothered to google his name. His dad, is Don Germano, which again, is something I could have linked together had I actually bothered to do my homework, instead of just trusting Mike the Performance Mechanic when he said Luca Germano was the man for any job, should we need a spare pair of hands.

  I also look up his sisters on social media, and giggle as Bea accepts my friend request and switches to Messenger to continue our conversation. I beg her to make me the Godfather of her unborn boychild, citing he might one day need a fabulous gay uncle to guide him through his blossoming teenage years. She laughs and says I will have to get in line behind her other fabulous gay friends, and perhaps I could send her a five-page essay outlining my experience and suitability for the role? I snigger. She says it’s like a job interview, followed by a million laughing and crying emojis. I think I hate her brother again, because he obviously tells her everything, and now I have barely any secrets left. Me and my big mouth.

  I don’t dare to ask the questions I really want to ask. I want to know what Luca is, why he is so hellbent on rejecting me. Why he has so much anger and fear? And why... fucking why does he…? Bea says he’s in love with me. I doubt that. He probably wants a quick fuck and get me out of his system. Or, he has some crazy idea that I’m a helpless twink who wants to roleplay in bed, so he can live out all his dirty fantasies.

  I’m not averse to a bit of roleplay, but it has to be on my terms too, and most of the stuff people have wanted to do with me? No. Just no. And the things I want them to do to me? Most people just stare at me in shock and then I feel like a loon and turn it into a joke. It’s not just that I may be slutty, as Bea would insist, but I have things that turn me on. Within limits, and thinking about it?

  I don’t really want to think about it, because most of those limits have been crossed in the past, and left memories I don’t want to remember. I never say no, even when I should. I let people take advantage, and here I am walking straight into another Christmas clusterfuck, that will no doubt mess with my head for weeks.

  I wouldn’t mind just hanging out with Bea, who at this point seems like a safer option. Instead, I have willingly agreed to what I assume will be a hookup with Luca, the guy who scares me shitless.

  He’s creepy, and big and strong, and bloody sex on legs when he turns on the charm. He’s also as terrified of me as I am of him. What the hell am I doing?

  I’m still walking towards Chistleworth church, at a brisk pace with my head held high and my umbrella flopping in the breeze. The weather is typical Christmas slush, cold and icy with water belting down like it wants to snow, but the clouds up in the sky just can’t get their shit together.

  A bit like me.

  I get to the church gates, and forget to stop, I just keep walking, rounding the corner to the back of the church, like I know where I’m going, before promptly turning around hoping nobody has noticed. I may be the saddest person on the planet, but I don’t want to stand here looking like my date has stood me up. I keep circling the church fence, hoping someone will rescue me from this cringeworthy experience. This is why I don’t date. This is why club hookups work for me—snog, agree to leave, go home, shag, leave. Easy.

  He hasn’t stood me up, and I half sigh with relief, half freeze with dread, as I spot him almost stumbling down the hill from the estate up the north side of town. He’s tugging a raincoat around him, trying to keep the hood over his head, when the wind is fighting him at every angle.

  He’s cold. Wet. Miserable, no doubt, even though I can’t see his face in the dull yellow light from the streetlamps. At least he’s here, because now I see him, I would recognise him anywhere. The way he holds himself up. The broad shoulders. His long legs and giant feet.

  I snigger to myself. You know what people say about big feet. But then I have already studied what he packs down below, and he does look like he has a substantial package, which makes me shudder again, because although I love to bottom, when and if guys know what they are doing, I kind of dread the ones with giant dicks. It’s never fun at the start, never easy to get all that dick in your mouth, and if they are dicks? I mean of the human kind? A big dick can hurt, and right now? I don’t think I could do hurt. Not like that. Not with him.

  “Hi.” He mumbles as he approaches. I stop. He stops. We stand there in the rain, and everything. And I mean, everything, is suddenly awkward as fuck.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. What else can I say? I have played along with all this, all day, and it did seem like a good idea when Bea and I were chatting earlier. Now though?

  “Not your fault. My sister texted you, not me.”

  He can barely speak, with the constant rubbing of his face and holding on to his hood and trying to get his face out of the rain.

  “I know,” I say softly. “Your sister is a hoot. I think I love her. I mean, as much as I could love a girl. As a friend.”

  The fuck? I am spitting out crap and smiling at him, and short of batting my eyelashes, I am right back to my old tricks. I promised myself I wouldn’t. Well, who am I kidding? I’m me and… whatever.

  “Can I just talk to you for a bit?” I say instead, hoping he will calm down and stop shaking. It could be from the cold, but I suspect he’s nervous. “We could just walk around for a bit.”

  “In this
weather? Are you mad?” He’s smiling, I can hear it in his voice.

  But am I mad? Crazy? Me? Absolutely. I can’t stand still, rocking on my heels as the wind tries to destroy my umbrella.

  “Or we can just stand here and freeze to death. And talk.”

  “This is shit place to die, and a shit place to talk.” He says, and I smile too, I can’t help it.

  “I fully agree. Worst date ever.”

  “It was your bloody idea.” He mutters.

  “No, it was your sister’s idea. I am just going along with it.” I let a little giggle slip, and hope he doesn’t take it seriously, because I think I want to be here. Anything but sitting in my hovel of a flat, eating chocolate for another day.

  “My sister…” he says softly, and shrugs his shoulders.

  “She’s hilarious. And she is having a baby? Tomorrow?”

  “She’s due tomorrow, but she is adamant that she’ll give birth on Christmas Day. I have tried to explain. Well, my whole family has tried to explain the science of due dates, and the unreliability of them, but she just won’t listen. She’s having a baby Jesus on Christmas Day and that’s the end of it.”

  I don’t think I have heard him talk that much, ever. But I laugh out loud. Because he’s a mess.

  “Wanna come home with me?” I say. Then I cringe, because I should just shut up.

  “I live just up the hill. Five minutes’ walk, tops.” He says softly. “I don’t have much food in the fridge, but I can make us a nice cup of tea.”

  “How civil of you.” I tease in a posh silly voice.” So... you are inviting me home for a cup of Christmas tea?”

  “I’m a gentleman.” He snorts. “Boring as fuck.”

  “I like tea.” I reply, rubbing my nose. “Have you got biscuits?”

  “I’ve got some amaretto fingers, and some chocolate, I think.”

  “That will do.” I say softly, because right now? This is going well. I can cope with tea and biscuits.