Page 2 of Ship of Fools

‘’Luca Germano.” I say, louder than I meant to, trying to crack an apologetic-looking smile at the lady manning the reception. She looks a little out of place, like someone has let their grandmother out of a nursing home to sit by the desk, but her stern face and heavy-rimmed glasses soon put me right.

“Mr. Germano.” She booms, looking me over like she is inspecting a car. Well, I am wearing a clean hoodie, and jeans with no holes, from what I can remember. I am also wearing well-polished boots.

My father always told us never to leave the house with unpolished shoes. “We may wear oily overalls all day at work—” he would boom, “—but that doesn’t mean we can’t take pride in our footwear.”

“That’s me,” I say back, trying to smile again. I’m not much of a smiler. I don’t particularly like dealing with office people, and these kinds of sales meetings freak me out. Give me a car workshop, and a pair of oily overalls, and I can show you what I can do. Turning up in an office with a folder full of designs and proposals? I hope this guy knows his stuff, because I am not up for small talk today. Show me what you need done, and I will deliver.

“Italian?” the receptionist asks, her face suddenly softening.

“Si, signora,” I quip back, my grandmother’s stern language lessons kicking in without me being able to stop it.

‘’Oh, I don’t speak it.” She smiles, and nods to me to follow her up the glass staircase to the second floor. “I go on holiday to Venice every year. My husband and I enjoy two cruises a year. Venice is our favourite, it’s a beautiful city.”

I just nod. I’ve never been to Venice, just to the dodgy part of Rome that my dad calls home. Its downtrodden streets, and dingy flats, and a life very much like the one I have here in England. Just with a cooler language and better food,andthe weather. Italian summers were the highlight of my childhood, a chance to escape the British rain for a while.

I glance around the area and accept the seat offered on the stark, white leather sofa. It’s an impressive building, displaying several high-end cars on the ground floor, with glass stairs and balconies leading to the open-plan mezzanine, where the sales offices are located. Stylish, light, waiting areas are dotted around, where customers can enjoy a complimentary beverage whilst parting with their hard-earned cash. There are no signs for loans or credit percentages displayed here. It’s just not that kind of place.

Here, Lambert & Gloss’ affluent customers are invited to relax on the lush leather sofas, and refresh themselves with champagne from thecrystal glasses on display, and there is a sleek-looking stainless-steel espresso maker bubbling away in the corner.

“Espresso?” the receptionist offers. She clearly doesn’t speak Italian, so I politely rein in my urge to correct her pronunciation, and just nod lamely instead. I could kill for a cup of tea, but I don’t dare to ask. Nor would a glass of the expensive champagne on display in the glass chiller, do me any favours. I don’t drink, not anymore. Give me a glass of water, or some freshly pressed orange juice, and I will be happier than anything, or maybe a cup of tea. I love a good cup of tea.

I can handle the fine-looking espresso placed in front of me, though, and I almost have to close my eyes as I accept the small cup and inhale the aroma.

“Mr. Germano?” a voice behind me says, as I stand up, trying not to spill coffee all over myself.

The coffee spills, all over my hand, as I turn around. Because I know this man. I know every feature of his face, despite him now wearing a suit, and, however much I try not to, I smile, smile like a loon.

“Oh fuck,”he says. The guy. Then he snorts, and a blush creeps up his cheeks, as he lets out a little giggle. “This is... unexpected.”

He tries to save the moment, grabbing a folded napkin from the table, and handing it to me, as I clumsily try to clean the coffee from my hand, spilling more from the coffee cup in the process.

“Let me get you a fresh espresso,” he says, not able to pronounce it correctly either.

The name badge on his suit says Mr. Andreas Mitchell, Sales Manager.I’ve never known his name, just his face. Well, who am I kidding? I know the outline of his body, like I’ve mapped it with my fingers. I know every freckle on his face. I know every little bone in his fingers, every crease on his rosy pink lips, because I’ve stared at them enough.

“Come into my office,” he says, leading the way up the glass staircase.

“Andreas.”I say it in my head, over and over. Andreas. It suits him, the name. It’s soft, and flowing, like a melody in my head. I would have hated him to have a short sharp name. Something common like Dave, or Tom. Andreas. I love it.

“This is unexpected,” he repeats, as he closes the office door behind me. “Mrs White will bring you another coffee. Take a seat.”

I just stand there like a fool, because what am I supposed to say? I haven’t expected this either. I’ve had no idea what the guy I have been fantasising about for months, actually does for a living, and to be honest, I have never cared. It’s not like I’ve thought I would ever have the chance to talk to the guy. That, chatting-people-up thing? That’s not what I do. Never have. Never will.

“I know who you are,” I blurt out. “I mean, I’ve seen you around, but that... that has nothing to do with why I’m here.” I try to wipe my palms on the front of my hoodie, in a vague attempt to compose myself.

“You are Luca Germano?” he says instead, then crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“Yep.” I’m smooth, as always. I’ve told you I am not a talker. I just want to know what he needs and show him my suggestions. I have sketches, based on the model mentioned in their contract offer, and I had a brief chat with James, one of the Lambert & Gloss mechanics that I have dealt with before. It’s just a few ideas that bounced around in my head, having not even seen the photos of the actual car.

I know the car has mould, damp and extensive interior damage. The old electronics need to be stripped, and the whole thing has to be rewired to modern specs. The once-white interiors need to be restored, and the client has talked about high-end speaker bars to be sunk into the dashboard. Ridiculous perhaps, but in my line of work, orders like this take skill and imagination, sourcing the right parts, with added custom fittings. In the end, when it all comes together into something that is both stylish, sleek and sounds good, then my job is done, even if the end result isn’t something I would necessarily want to drive myself.

“I... suppose I should apologise for… Friday,” he says. Andreas. He’s trying to smile, but I can tell he is embarrassed. Squirming in the posh suit, his hands obviously clammy as he discreetly wipes them on the napkin still in his hand. It’s dirty from coffee, but he seems to have forgotten, leaving a small trail of brown lingering on his thumb.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” I deflect, placing my folder on the table in front of us. “If you can just let me know your client’s requirements, I can show you some basic outlines for things that would be available to fit within your timeframe. James told me the car needs to be ready for the 24th? That’s three weeks?”

“The client needs… he’s requested…” Andreas is flustered, and I’m not quite sure why.

I’ve never approached him, or spoken to him, so I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. So, yes, I know him from the club, where he hangs out with his friends and dances and drinks. And he, the carefree man he becomes on the dance floor, is pure perfection. In the lights of the club he looks much younger, smooth and trim, with a blinding smile and an easy laugh. Blond hair that curls around his face, all cheekbones and dimples and sweetness wrapped up like a gift with a neat Christmas bow. Well, in my dreams, that is. He has a cute butt. Legs for days. Beautiful pecs that he shows off in those tight shirts he tends to wear. Here, under the bright office strip lights, he looks more mature, yet I can make his shape out in the suit he’s wearing, His jacket is just that little bit too tight, his trousers obviously tailored, showing off his neat bulge against the sleek lines of his legs. And I’ve blatantly rejected him.

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