Page 12 of Ship of Fools

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.

He starts walking, his strides taking him ahead of me, as I almost have to run to keep up with him. He’s a bloke’s bloke, like my father. My dad always walked way ahead of my mother, only turning around once in a while to tell us to hurry up, always in an irritated voice. He was always stressed. Always late. Always seemed embarrassed as my mother hurried us along. He’s more relaxed now, all free and retired and enjoying long days of reading the papers on his laptop and pretending he’s still working. He’s not, but I suppose he has earned his lazy days. My parents. They have been good to me, but right now, I’m happy I’m here and not stuck in their guest room feeling like a nuisance over Christmas.

We stop in front of a grey door of one of the converted townhouses, with all the ‘For Sale’ and ‘For Rent’ signs out the front. That is usually a clear sign that these are cold and unloved badly designed boxes that nobody lives in for long. I suddenly dread what we will find inside, perhaps a mould-infested, damp, basement room, with soiled sheets and dirty teacups?

He fiddles with the key, and opens the door, letting me step inside what turns out to be a warm and cosy hallway, leading to a small kitchen with an open-plan area to the side. He has a huge bed, nicely made with blankets and crisp white sheets. A small sofa full of remote controls, and the floor sports a random selection of socks, half-full cups of tea and discarded food wrappers.

He’s my kind of man. It’s warm, clean and lived in, and I happily kick off my shoes and throw myself on the sofa, laughing out loud as the cushions let me sink in. It’s comfortable. I could live here. I could sink into this life, a life where I live with someone like Luca, and spend my evenings on a sofa like this, where he would love me and kiss me, and things would be a little brighter.

But, this is not my life, and I get up, feeling a little stupid again.

“Sit down. I’ll make tea.” He grunts.

“Go shower, get some dry clothes on, and I’ll make tea. You’re soaked.” I say instead, looking at the wet patches on his jeans, his sodden socks and the puddle of water on the floor under the hookwhere he has hung up his raincoat.

He looks at me like I now have three heads, then he walks off to what I assume is the bathroom.

Not that I can nosey around much in his tiny flat, but I have a good look around his kitchen as I can hear the shower running, and browse his cupboards and shelves as the kettle boils. I have found two clean mugs and teabags, and his fridge houses a bottle of semi-skimmed milk, exactly what I prefer. I can’t find any sugar, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll drink anything right now, because I am still cold from our walk, and my hands are grateful for the warmth of the mugs as I gently stir the milk, making two perfect brews.

I’m probably daydreaming again, because I didn't notice him coming back, but there he is, standing in the doorway wearing... like every piece of clothing he owns. Joggers, jumper hoodie and a dressing gown on top. And socks. Like he is trying to hide inside a mountain of clothes. Or he might just have been really cold, despite the flat being nice and cosy.

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