Page 6 of Ship of Fools

“Mum.” I warn.

“He’s got his eyes set on someone.” Dad gossips, because yeah. I tell my dad stuff, and then I regret it for the rest of my life. “He thinks the boss man up at Lambert and Gloss is the cutest thing ever.” Dad sniggers.

“Albert Lambert?” Mum howls.

“Nooo!” I shout, throwing a scrunched-up rag at my dad. I miss. Of course.

“What’s the other dude? Billy? Bob? B…?”

“Boris Gloss. He’s at least a hundred years old, Mum. Seriously guys,” I laugh.

“I thought Boris Gloss was dead.”

“He must be, haven’t seen him in years.”

“His wife died, I think he retired, did he retire? Don?”

“Boris Gloss was down the pub last week, so I doubt he’s dead.”

“Who burned the house down? Mum? What did you do this time?”

That’s Bea, my little sister. Or not-so-little sister. She’s nineteen, heavily pregnant with a boy child and we have no idea who the father is. Talk about scandalous and shameful. Well, not in our family. My mum cried tears of happiness when she found out Bea was up the duff, and Dad just laughed out loud when she told us she was quitting university and moving back home. Bea is amazing, she’s a free spirit like my mum, with Dad’s brain and my stubbornness, and in a way, it surprised nobody when she announced she was four-months pregnant and not having an abortion. She is also due on Christmas Eve, which of course is the butt of endless family jokes.

“How’s my baby Jesus?” Mum coos, and wraps herself around Bea, dressing gown and all.

“I’m not naming him Jesus, Mum.” Bea sighs, mouthing some choice words to me behind her back. I just giggle.

“But he will be a Christmas kid!” Mum declares. “What about Noel. I quite like that.”

“He needs a nice strong Italian name.” Dad booms, his hands covered in soapsuds.

“Something like Matteo, or Elia. Strong, good names. Nonna suggested Elio, I quite liked that too.”

“Dad, that’s from that film, the one with all the sex. The guy was called Elio, remember?”

“Has Nonna seen that?” Dad laughs to himself. It wouldn’t surprise me, my Italian Nonna watches everything. She has Netflix, Amazon Prime and some dodgy pirated SKY subscription as well, so she can catch up with all the English language films now she has moved back to Italy.

“Bea should decide, it’s her baby,” I say, earning myself a smile from my little sister. She’s bloomingly beautiful, despite her hair needing a wash, and the dark circles under her eyes.

“Okay, yes, true…” Dad mutters. “Can’t you just... if it’s still aboy, can’t you name it Don? I like the sound of that. Don Senior and Don Junior. I can teach him everything I know.”

That makes my mum burst into tears, another normal occurrence in our house. Someone says something soppy and ridiculous, and Mum cries. She may not be Italian by blood, but she’s definitely all-Italian Mama when she turns on the waterworks.

Our family. Always full of drama. My mum cried when I told her I was gay too. She kissed me and hugged me and told me I could be just as cool as Harry Styles. I’m still confused as to why I would be anything like Harry Styles, since last time I checked he was into older women, but then, Mum might be right. Or confused. Does it matter? Nope.

I knew I was gay once we started sex education at school. The girls got weird. The boys got even weirder. I just felt lost in the middle, until I watched two boys kissing on TV and sported an instant boner that just would not go down.

Being a weird kid, I asked my dad what to do. He told me to find myself a boyfriend, and live a happy life. That was about it. Apart from my mum’s obsession with Harry Styles. And weird TV shows. And trying to learn to cook. You get the picture.

“You got a boyfriend yet?” Bea laughs, as she kisses my cheek. She’s massive, her rounded tummy barely covered by one of Dad’s old shirts.

“You got one yourself?” I tease back.

“He’s got a crush.” Mum fills in, sitting herself down and wiping her eyes on a tea towel.

“Ohh!” Bea laughs, “Do tell, Luca. We need some good gossip. Well, did Mum tell you about Mrs Cavanaugh? “

“What about Mrs Cavanaugh?” I fill in quickly. Trying to change the subject, because there is nothing really to tell. What am I supposed to say? I think Andreas Mitchell is seriously hot, and he’s probably the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and he’s funny and crazy and also drinks too much and shags anything that moves. From what I have seen, that is. He’s probably the least suitable guy for boyfriend material, and anyway, he is totally out of my league. A fantasy of imperfect perfection.

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