Page 9 of A Loser by Christmas
“Good.” Dad sounds honest-to-God happy with me. He follows that Christmas miracle with another question. “And what does that tell you about him?”
I’m more used to surveying people facing shit situations. Perhaps that’s why this guest comes into a sudden and much starker focus, like a magic-eye picture. I recognise the long, slow breath he takes—I’ve had to steel myself the same way each time I’ve attempted to sell a speedboat.
“He’s a fake.”
Dad shocks me with a rare expression. He’s proud. Vocally so. “Yes! He isn’t anyone successful at all. He’s a gate-crasher. One who definitely isn’t here to buy what we’re selling.”
That reminds me of my original reason for hurrying towards this event tent. “I think I’ve found someone who will?—”
“Shh! He’s coming over.”
Dad’s right. We both watch him edge closer, and I spot something else familiar.
He looks like Calum did when he said his season might already be over.
I notch down my jacket zipper a fraction to capture what Dad summarises.
“You watch. He’s going to ask for a job.”
He can have mine.
“The biggest hint is the suntan,” Dad tells me. “If his suit fit him better, I might think he was a trust-fund baby. I bet he’s actually a year-round yachtie—no money yet still manages to hop from boat to boat to stay in the sun year-round. Not much of that crew work going lately.” Less than thirty seconds later, he’s proven at least partially right.
This gate-crasher extends a hand. “Harry Lancaster.” He sounds exactly as posh as someone born sucking on a silver trust-fund spoon should. But it also sounds as if he’s worked at the sharp end of the superyacht market. He proves it by namingsome high-profile skippers. “And I have a ton of all-round crewing experience on smaller vessels. Plus, I’m a qualified diving instructor, but right now, I need to stay put here in London. If you need someone experienced on your team, I’m your man. From sales to test drives, I’d be happy to join you.”
He launches into a spiel linking his skills to Dad’s business, reciting horsepower details for each Juno model. Frankly, he knows more about Dad’s babies than me.
“Nope.” Dad cuts him off, although he isn’t loud about it. If anything, he sounds as blue as Elvis does about his Christmas over the sound system. “Business is seriously down.” It’s the first time I’ve heard him outright admit that. “Besides, Juno Speedboats is a family business.” Again, his heavy arm lands across my shoulders. “My son is all the help I need.”
He has no idea I’d switch places with this potential stand-in in a heartbeat. Or that I’d unzip my jacket and peel off my jumpsuit with all of London watching if it meant getting back to my own work. All I can do is grab my test-drive helmet and head off for a long night that will get me no closer to the answers I want from Calum Trelawney. Or any nearer to an escape that I still need more than breathing.
My chest tightens out of nowhere, my ribs so constricted I don’t have enough breath to fight back when Lito stops me on the way out of the sales tent.
“Off to film your prize-winning movie, are you?” He smirks. “Or did you think again about my offer?” His tongue repeatedly pokes the inside of his cheek, and I almost knock the smirk from his face with the crash helmet I carry. Thankfully, someone saves me from spending the rest of December in prison.
Harry Lancaster steps between us. “Who hurt you, Dixon?”
“Hurt me?” Lito blusters. “What do you mean?”
“I mean someone must have. I thought so at the last boat show when everyone warned me you wouldn’t take no for ananswer. Someone did the same to you, right? Wouldn’t listen when you said no to them?” A yachtie Dad described as a time-waster looks below the surface of someone sleazy and does it with what sounds like kindness. “You do know that you don’t have to repeat that cycle, don’t you? Why not have a little think about how much better you’d feel if you broke it?”
Lito’s mouth opens and then snaps closed. He backs off in a hurry, and Harry nods towards the bar. “Grab a drink with me...?”
“Valentin.”
He shakes my hand, then tugs at his ill-fitting shirt collar. “Could do with any intel about who might be in the market for a willing body.” He’s so posh that sounds comedic. So does his confession. “As long as it isn’t Dixon. I’m all for giving people second chances, but even I have limits.” Harry asks, “Drink?” again, but I come to a different split-second decision.
“I’ve got a better idea.”
I tell him what that better idea involves, and Harry follows me to the boat-show bathrooms.
“You sure?” he asks the moment the door of a cubicle locks behind us. He unfastens that too-big shirt in a hurry and yanks down the fly of his suit trousers.
“Never been surer.” I shrug out of my crew jacket, unholster my camera, then wriggle out of my jumpsuit.
“This is nuts.” He laughs as we swap clothes, and that laughter is contagious. I don’t even try to keep my own in, and it’s exactly the same manic sound my GoPro last captured when killer whales circled my boat.
This time, I’m not sinking. I’m buoyant at getting to switch clothes, then clipping my GoPro to the breast pocket of a suit borrowed for the second time this evening. I also switch identities with someone who pulls on my test-drive helmet, thensalutes the way Dad told me to do to prospective clients but that I can never make myself comply with.
