Page 44 of In the Same Boat

‘Erm, I’m good with engineers,’ I reply. ‘But regular people? I’m not so sure.’

‘No, you definitely are,’ she insists. ‘I couldn’t do this without you… but I am sorry I wasn’t honest. I thought you would say no.’

‘You thought right,’ I say, unable to stifle my laugh. ‘But I’m here now, so I’m happy to help. Well, no, not happy. But I’m here…’

‘Oh, thank you so much, darling,’ she tells me. ‘You don’t know how much I appreciate it. Plus, this is still a break for you – and a nice one at that.’

I suppose it still sort of is… technically… but I would have preferred it without the random men we essentially picked up in a bar.

‘Yeah, I guess there’s that,’ I reply.

‘Just make sure you turn that phone off.’

‘I mean, I don’t have to go that far, sometimes people need me,’ I point out.

‘People need to learn to cope without you,’ she replies, missing the irony in that one.

I stand up to put on my jewellery. The armour to go with my warpaint. And then it’s time to join the boys for dinner – ugh, I’m dreading it. I didn’t exactly show either of them that I’m happy to be here – because I’m not, obviously, but I don’t want anything to be any more awkward than it absolutely has to be.

For a minute, we finish getting ready in a silence that is almost comfortable. I’m wearing a green wrap dress – one that I already own. I didn’t buy anything special for the occasion, because I didn’t think we were going anywhere as fancy as Monte Carlo. I secure it tightly at the waist, lest I pop out of the front of it – I’ll never forget my time on the dance floor at my friend Whit’s wedding for that very reason.

As Mum puts on her sandals, the day so far flashes before my eyes in little bursts. The airport. The drive. The marina. My hopes building and then sinking to the seabed below us. Hank waving at us in his dorky little hat. Nico appearing with shopping bags and the same blindsided expression that was etched across my face. I wonder if he’s handling this as well as I am? I suppose we’re in the same boat – if you’ll pardon the pun.

‘I can’t believe I’m playing along with this,’ I say as we head for the door.

‘With dinner?’ Mum replies – she has to be playing it innocent with that one; she knows what I mean.

‘With all of it.’

Her face shifts to something a little more sympathetic.

‘I know it’s a lot.’

‘A lot is exactly how I’d describe it,’ I reply. ‘Or maybe even: too much.’

‘Dinner is dinner,’ she reminds me. ‘And a yacht is a yacht.’

I mean, she’s not wrong. I want to argue, but she looks so pleased with herself, so alive with this nervous excitement. No, I’m not happy about any of it, and I’m still very much annoyed, but there’s a part of me that understands why she did it. She wanted something to look forward to. She wanted me to have something to look forward to – I believe that’s true – but she wanted to see Hank, and she didn’t want to come alone. It’s win-win for her really.

‘Well, the dinner had better be very good,’ I warn her, wondering if Monte Carlo has a McDonald’s. I would take my phone out of my clutch and google it, but my mum might accuse me of trying to check in with work.

‘Hank said it would be something special.’

Yeah, but he probably thought his hat was something special, so I’m not convinced by that statement at all.

We make our way through the narrow corridor and up towards the deck. The evening has settled beautifully over the marina by the time we step outside, and I’m almost irritated by how taken I am with it. Monaco at night is ridiculous. All gold lights reflecting on the dark water – like everything here glitters. The yachts around us glow softly too, music drifting from somewhere nearby, laughter carrying through the air in little bursts.

Meanwhile, the deck has been transformed from a casual day vibe to a sleek, almost romantic evening dining space.

The table has been set properly with white linen, polished cutlery, little tea lights in glass holders and flowers arranged low in the middle so everyone can still see each other. There are wine glasses, plates already laid, folded napkins and an ice bucket tucked discreetly to one side, with a bottle of something expensive-looking chilling in it. Everything looks like something from a lifestyle magazine that I couldn’t afford – and yes, I do mean I couldn’t afford the magazine.

Hank is standing near the table in a pale linen shirt and navy trousers, looking absurdly pleased with himself – did he do this? Because if the man who wore that hat earlier (mercifully, he isn’t wearing it tonight) is the same guy who laid this table, then I’m gagged. Then again, the man owns a yacht, so I’ve clearly underestimated him.

Nico is next to him, brooding – more like stropping like a twelve-year-old boy who has been dragged to a family wedding.

Still, reluctant as I am to admit it, he looks great. He’s wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark trousers, no tie and an air of confidence that means he probably knows he looks great. His hair looks still slightly damp from the shower, brushed back in a way that makes him look both sharper and somehow more relaxed – and absolutely more like he belongs on a yacht. He glances over as we appear, and for a second his eyes land on me with enough attention that my heart skips a beat.

‘Nico, doesn’t Sammie look nice,’ Hank prompts him with a nudge.