Ship of Fools

by Sophia Soames

I didn’t complain, because I liked it.

  I liked it enough that I told him I loved him, because I do. He says he loves me back. It’s a sobering thing to hear.

  I know one day he might not love me anymore, and I know one day he might leave. But he tells me I am stupid even thinking those thoughts, which is usually followed by a long rant about how much better his life is now I’m in it.

  He has no idea what he has done to me, and neither do I. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, fuck, I don’t even know what will happen when we get home tonight. Life with him is a never-ending fantasy, and perhaps? Perhaps it’s one that will last forever.

  Luca – The following Christmas

  This didn’t turn out at all as I had expected. In my stupidness… no, scrap that.

  I work with my dad. Brilliant. Love my job. I have the most bonkers amazing family. Ticks all my boxes for a happy life. I have the love of my life snoozing in my arms. Heaven.

  Yet, his sleep is full of frets and his body is all tense, which means I can’t sleep, because in my complete and utter naïvety, I had expected Andreas’ family to be just like mine. And just like Andreas is my family, and god, he is absolutely everything to me, don’t get me wrong, I expected his family to slot right into the fantasy that now strangely is my life.

  They didn’t, and I shudder with unease.

  He gasps in his sleep, and turns around in my embrace, so I follow his movements with my body until he settles again, his neck warm and a little damp with sweat as I kiss the skin behind his ear.

  “Go to sleep, baby.” I shush and he just sighs.

  “Sorry.” He mutters.

  “Sorry for what? You don’t get to be sorry for anything. Nothing. I’m right here.”

  I wish it was my fault. I wish it was as simple as when I smacked him so hard that he lost his balance, and fell headfirst off the bed and got an almighty bruise on his forehead. That was fun to explain the next day. Actually, it wasn’t, because I made him stay off work, and took him to the emergency room to check for concussion. That wasn’t one of my brightest ideas, as Andreas of course told the nurse that he had tumbled off the bed in the midst of a wild rough sex session, and the nurse then called a domestic violence specialist of some sorts who came to sit with Andreas for the rest of the afternoon.

  That didn’t go down well with anyone, and I bet I’m now on some Police watchlist for abusers, or some shit I don’t want to even think about, and the chat I had to endure with my parents, is not something I ever want to experience again. But it was something we could fix, and laugh about afterwards.

  Even my family now laugh about it over dinner, and my dad doesn’t even blush. See? My secrets? I have none. They all get blurted out in a moment of madness, and I don’t just blame Andreas for that. I do it too, and then afterwards squirm with regret as my darling wonderful boyfriend just laughs.

  No this? This is worse, and it didn’t even involve spanking, or any acts of smoking hot sex. It just involved a trip to Spain that went straight to hell. And there is nothing I can do to ever fix it.

  The problem is that Andreas had planned it so well, and the full-blown disappointment that has now taken over his whole being, is what hurts to see the most. His sister was coming home, we would all be staying with their parents, there was talk of dinner, there was talk of a cocktail evening, and going out for drinks, all things that made me a little nervous to even imagine, but it was Andreas’ family and he would be there with me, glued to my side. He promised. He kissed me and promised it would all be fine.

  It wasn’t, not at all, and from the minute we walked through the front door to the Mitchells’ stone-clad imposing beachside villa, things were never going to be good.

  We arrived, and his mother stood nervously in the hallway blowing air kisses at the son she hadn’t laid eyes on in over a year. I remember just standing there with my jaw hanging slack. Then she hastily led us to what I can only describe as an office-type room, where Andreas’ father didn’t come to greet us, but instead half stood up from his chair, to shake his only son’s hand, before nodding and grunting something at me.

  I tried to be polite and offered my hand.

  He shook it, firmly, then returned to his coffee.

  It wasn’t anything like coming home, and I bled on the inside from that moment.

  Mrs Mitchell, who seemed happy when I called her that, took me aside and showed me to the guestroom in the basement, a nice enough room with a view of the gardens. A small single bed, made up with plush pillows and crisp sheets.

  “I hope you will be comfortable here, the lower floor gets cooler at night, so you should sleep well.”

  Then she left me there as I sat myself down on the bed, full of bewilderment.

  I went in search of Andreas, only to find him back where I’d left him, sitting opposite his father, stern voices and loud words filling the otherwise-quiet house.

  Talk about feeling like a spare wheel. I felt like a compass, spinning out of control. I was tired and weary from the long flight, the hustle of the airport and warmth in the air. I wanted a drink and a swim in the ocean. I wanted to see Andreas laugh, hear his excited chatter, as he dragged me around all the places he had told me about. He had spent all his childhood summers here, and this had been the main home for his teenaged self.

  “Are you… Des’… boyfriend?” A voice says behind me. A tall woman, with Andreas’ sharp features, and an easy smile. I sigh with relief as she gives me a gentle hug.

  “Lucas?” She says, and I swiftly correct her.

  “Luca. Italian.”

  “Oh, yes.” She sighs. “Mum gets all confused. She keeps mentioning Lucas.”

  “Okay…”

  I don’t know what to say. She shrugs her shoulders and leads me out into the gardens. Well, it’s a stone clad patio with a path leading to a pool area. Palm trees and plants that look almost plastic lining the sides in ornate tubs. It looks more like one of those holiday hotels that I’ve seen in the travel agent windows, than a home for a family. I should have guessed, because seeing what I see now? I should have read between the lines.

  And knowing what I know now? I should have sat Andreas down and talked this through, instead of letting him get thrown into what is obviously a lion’s den.

  There are shouts and arguing going on inside, the voices carrying through the open glass doors as I take a seat under an oversized umbrella, next to who I assume is Nina, Andreas’ sister. I realise I know nothing about her, well apart from that Andreas rarely speaks to her, and she travels a lot and probably has a job, but nothing that has been mentioned. I realise that I am as bad as them, knowing nothing about the people who have so graciously invited me into their home... I think.

  I get up, my heart beating too fast, after a particularly loud exchange of words, wanting to go and get Andreas out of there. Because this? This is not fun. This is awful and…

  “Don’t.” Nina says, tugging at my arm, until I sit myself back down next to her. “Let them shout it out. I told Mum to fucking leave it alone, but she is so bloody pig-headed, and Dad? God help him, bloody idiot.”

  “What’s going on?” I hiss. “What the hell are they doing to him?”

  “Oh, just the usual, you know. “You’re a disappointment, get a decent job, you wasted your education-gay-bashing-embarrassment-to-the-family-name kind of speech. I get them yearly too, minus the gay-bashing bit, obviously, but it takes a while, and then we don’t really speak for the rest of the festive season.”

  She does an eyeroll over the word festive.

  “You know you won’t be able to share a room, don’t you? You know you will be described as Des’ single colleague, and not his partner. They’ll turn it into a joke, saying they invited you as eye-candy for the ladies or some other chauvinistic crap like that. Just go with it, and for god’s sake don’t cause a scene, because Des will get the blame, and all hell will break lose. The Callens are arriving this evening, they are staying in the guest suite, a
nd the Broomwood-Carters are staying in the pool house. At least with a load of people here, Mum and Dad will play the gracious hosts, and anyway, Mum will be drunk by teatime and we can all sneak out and go partying. Welcome to the family.”

  She snorts as she waves to a woman wearing a white apron, who is clearing down a table by the pool below us, and then Nina swiftly shouts out orders for two glasses of sangria and a couple of Coronas, not even asking what I want. Well, I assume she ordered for us both, as I am too startled to speak.

  This? This is not the… I can’t even describe it.

  “You call him Des?” I question. Because I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “Desmond. I think he goes by his middle name now, but Mum and Dad, you know. It’s a family name.”

  Now it’s my turn to snort.

  “I can’t call him that... Ever. It’s…” Yeah. Now I’m being rude and judgemental. I didn’t know that, and I should have. Why the hell didn’t I know his full name? I laughed at his passport photo just this morning…

  “It’s a shite name. Wanna know mine?”

  “Nina?” I say.

  “Winnifred.” She laughs. “After my father’s grandmother. She was a fucking witch, apparently, but so bloody respected in the family. My parents and all their fucking ideas.”

  She doesn’t even thank the woman who sets down the drinks on the table next to us, a middle aged lady who is backing off quietly instead, as Nina hands me a Corona bottle, complete with a lime wedge in the neck.

  “I don’t drink, Nina.” I say, because what am I supposed to say?

  “Fuck off.” She snorts. “We will need to get Des drunk tonight. He’s fucking hilarious when he gets a few shots down his neck and starts chatting up the waiters down at the Beach club. Highlight of my night.”

  I think I liked her for a second there, but now?

  I wanted to go find Andreas and drag him out of here. I wanted to go home. I suddenly hated the sun and blue skies, and the now stifling heat that had started to fade into the afternoon, and I felt like an idiot.

  I should have been grateful, because Andreas had booked, paid and organised this whole adventure to introduce me to his family. And I had been looking forward to it, because he would finally let me in to this whole side of his life, that I frankly knew so little about.

  We’ve been together for almost a year, and suddenly I feel like I barely know him. Yet, I know every little freckle on his skin, and every way to make him laugh. I know how he likes his toast in the morning, and I know to make him orgasm in a few minutes flat. I know to read every label on every piece of food that we buy, and I keep his EpiPen in my pocket whenever we leave the house. I know how to love him, and soothe him, and I know how to edge him until he cries. I know his fears and hopes and dreams… Well, I hope I do, but I definitely didn’t know… about this.

  We have laughed, cried, loved and hurt, in so many different ways that I can’t start to describe it. For the first time in my entire life, I feel complete, and that, is a feeling I can only explain as bliss. I know who I am, I know what I want, and I have everything I could ever ask for.

  I have him, and he has me, and this?

  I should have just grabbed him, grabbed the stupid cases that were probably still sat by the door, and I should have just taken him away from whatever was causing him to shout loudly inside the house that looked so cold from the outside, despite the droplets of sweat forming on my forehead, and the heat from the scorching sun.

  “Marielle!” Nina shouts, waving to a thin woman in a sarong walking past the pool, the fabric around her waist floating behind her like a royal robe.

  “The beach was heaving,” the woman says in almost disgust, whilst removing her posh-looking sunglasses. “And this is?”

  “Dessie’s boyfriend Lucas. Mum and Dad are fuming.” She laughs, and knocks her fist into my arm, like we are some kind of bro-dudes.

  “Oops!” The woman who is apparently this Marielle, laughs nervously. “Bet that was a laugh!”

  I’m not sure what she means, but obviously I am the butt of some longstanding joke, and I place the beer—still in my hand—firmly on the table, nodding to the ladies before walking away. I can’t stand this. I can’t stand that I feel so completely out of place, and I most of all? I can’t stand that the man they are ridiculing is my Andreas, and he is not anything like these people, not at all. He is the least judgemental person I have even met. He’s a kind soul, a happy person who loves people, and he is just as at home sitting at Arthur Benning’s farm having a cup of tea, as he is selling some half-arsed pseudo celeb a brand new Aston Martin. He doesn’t care who you are, and treats the girls working in our local supermarket checkouts, as his own personal beauty consultants, just like he is Dr Watson’s favourite patient at our local surgery. It could be because Dr Watson is slightly in love with my boyfriend, and I don’t blame her one bit. He’s a ray of sunshine on a rainy day, and he is the sun my little world revolves around. It’s just the way it is, and just like he has flaws, and can be a complete pain and a royal arsehole, when he chooses to be, he’s not—and never will be—someone like these people.

  Or maybe I am completely wrong? Maybe I just don’t care, as I stomp through the door into the house, getting lost in room after room filled with plush seating and oversized floral arrangements, little details that make me angrier and angrier, as I follow the sound of arguing. Voices that make the skin at the back of my neck stand on edge. The sound of my boyfriend on the verge of tears, his voice cracking as he pleads for something I can barely make out.

  It’s not about money, because obviously this family has enough, but Andreas always pays his way, and is far more generous than I expect him to be. We don’t have much, and we certainly don’t live like this, but…

  I don’t know. I am so full of uncertainty and fear and regret, and to be very honest, I am angry... so fucking angry.

  He’s standing in the middle of the room, tears streaming down his face. His mother not even looking up as I enter, sitting perched on the edge of a chair, her hands nervously clutching the hem of her skirt. His father? He’s still sitting in that bloody chair of his, like a king on his throne, ordering his subjects into absolute submission.

  “Come.” I demand, like an idiot, but I’m too full of uncoordinated rage to do anything else. I have nothing to argue. No words to make this better. All I know is that this man standing crying in the middle of a Spanish villa, is on an island too far away from the place where he belongs. And I do know the man who walks backwards, letting me take his hand. I know him, because I belong to him, like he belongs to me.

  I do a curt nod to the humans in front of me, who I should perhaps thank for their hospitality, and their gracious invitation for me to spend the weekend in their home.

  I have suddenly no idea of how they expected this to play out. What the plan was, because to be honest, I never asked. I was letting Andreas take charge, I let him do whatever he wanted, because this was his holiday. This was his winter treat, his chance to get away and lie on a beach, and we were…

  “We’re leaving,” he says.

  “I know,” I say back.

  At least we’re on the same page as he drags me towards the front door, where our bags are still neatly sat where we left them.

  “Luca.” He says sternly, cupping my face in his hands. “This is the place I grew up. These people are my family. This...” He snivels and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “…is just the way things always go. It’s a powerplay with my dad, that I will never win. It’s an emotional tug of war with Mum, where she will never ever pick a side. I can’t change the people my parents are. I can’t change the fact that I’m not strong enough to stand up to them. I’m me, and…” The tears are running again, and my chest is suddenly too tight to breathe.

  “You... are the strongest most wonderful person I know.” I whisper into his mouth as I kiss him. “Thank you for bringing me here, and now? Do you know of a good hote
l?”

  He snorts into my mouth, his lips tasting of salt and tears and sadness.

  “I thought it might turn out like this. I booked somewhere else, just in case.”

  We didn’t say goodbye, and nobody came to wave us off as we stood on the gravelled drive, awkwardly waiting for a taxi. Andreas ordering one in pitch-perfect Spanish, making me gasp with admiration. Turns out he’s fluent in French as well—another fact about him that I never knew.

  “Private school was good for something, and I spent two years in the Swiss Alps. Dad thought it would cure my homosexual urges, spending time in the fresh mountain air. Little did he know how wonderfully gay-friendly a Swiss private school can be.” He had giggled as we drove along the winding coast roads towards the hotel where we made ourselves at home.

  It’s hardly what I would call a hotel, we’re in a little apartment complex with our own patio, a small hot tub outside making a consistent buzz that is probably part of why I am still awake.

  “I didn’t know it was so bad.” I whisper. Because we need to talk this out, and if he’s awake? I know how he works. He will be churning this over in his head until it becomes unbearable.

  “It’s not bad, it’s just your average dysfunctional family. Dad has had affairs. Mum has ignored it. Mum is obsessed with her friend Adele, and I sometimes wonder if it has gone further than that. Nina has had three stints in rehab for addiction to various party drugs, and the guy who cleans our pool is apparently not our half-brother, despite the fact he looks exactly like Dad, and that Dad pays for his schooling. So yeah. You can see why I don’t talk much about my family.”

  “It sounds like one of those docusoaps on TV. You know. Marbella life, or The Only Way is Essex.”

  He laughs and I wrap him up tighter in my arms.

  “I think Mum would have loved being part of something like that, apart from that her nervous breakdowns wouldn’t have made her look good on TV. Her rampant secret alcoholism wouldn’t have made things fun either. She drinks and then cries, and Dad calls it a migraine.”