Page 7 of Ship of Fools

“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. Gossipmongersallof 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, withhandwritten 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, not 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.

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