Page 38 of Ship of Fools

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 hotel?”

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.”

“Baby.”

I say it again and again. Soothing and shushing.

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