Page 45 of In the Same Boat

‘You clean up well,’ he says, presumably light-heartedly. I suppose it was said under duress.

I raise an eyebrow.

‘Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment,’ I warn him.

‘Almost,’ he replies with a smile.

‘Sammie, doesn’t Nico look dashing,’ Mum prompts me – oh, fab, she’s trying to get us to play happy families too.

‘Couldn’t find your tie?’ I check.

‘A tie on a yacht for an event like this?’ he replies, aghast in a way that is almost certainly a joke. Then again, his dad has a yacht. I still cannot believe these clowns, the blokes we met at the crappy Loft, spend their time on a yacht. The closest I come is hanging out on a walkway over a settlement tank at a treatment works with Jon. And do you know what? I think I would probably rather be at one now.

Mum gives a little cough beside me.

I look at her.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Just clearing my throat.’

I suppose that was a prompt, for me to say something nice – or as nice as ‘you clean up well’.

Hank steps forward before I have to debase myself.

‘Ladies, you look beautiful,’ he says. ‘And do I – we – have a treat for you. Drinks first, then dinner. I don’t know if you spotted her in the kitchen, but I’ve hired a chef to come on board and cook for us.’

‘Oh, wow, Hank, you shouldn’t have,’ Mum coos.

We can add it to the list of things that people on this yacht shouldn’t have done…

‘Well, I wasn’t going to trust Nico with the dinner,’ he jokes.

‘Wise,’ Nico replies, taking the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket. ‘Drink?’

‘A glass of Ruinart, ladies?’ Hank asks.

Even a pleb like me knows that you don’t pronounce the ‘T’ like that.

‘Oh, yes please,’ Mum replies.

‘Thanks,’ I say politely, never one to turn down champagne.

A woman in chef whites emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of tiny pieces of toast topped with different things. She introduces herself as Camille, explains the menu and disappears again, leaving us to our champagne and canapés.

‘Let’s take a seat,’ Hank suggests.

We sit around the table, and because fate is both predictable and petty, I end up sitting opposite Nico. Yep, I get to look him in the eye all evening.

Mum sits opposite Hank.

Soon enough, Camille returns with our starter. The first course is a small salad with figs, goat’s cheese, rocket and a balsamic glaze that has been drizzled so artistically I almost don’t want to disturb it. It’s delicious, loath as I am to admit it. Fresh and sharp and creamy, with bread warm enough to thaw even my icy scowl.

‘This is amazing,’ Mum says after her first bite.

Hank beams as though he made it himself.

‘Camille’s brilliant,’ he says. ‘She came recommended.’