Page 63 of In the Same Boat

We all leave the restaurant together and step back into the warm afternoon light. Hank and Mum walk ahead almost immediately, her hand looped through his arm. They look like a couple – I can’t believe how quickly things are moving between them.

Nico and I fall into step behind them.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘Hopefully their date went better than ours.’

‘Hopefully,’ he replies. ‘I doubt it could have gone worse.’

That said, hopefully it didn’t go too well either, because we can’t go on like this, Mum living it up with Hank, while I’m saddled babysitting his man-child of a son.

Yes, he can be fun, charming in bursts, objectively easy on the eye, but I’m not a babysitter.

I mean, I’m sure he feels the same way, like I’m some sort of dull granny he’s having to take care of.

The end of this trip can’t come soon enough. And I’m trying not to think about what comes after that…

14

SAMMIE

For better or worse, I’ve reached a very specific stage of emotional exhaustion where life here in Monte Carlo is starting to feel quite normal.

It’s not normal, obviously, not one part of it, but it’s amazing how quickly you adapt. I never would have thought I had any survival skills, but my ability to sit out here on the deck, drinking Hugo Spritzes with Nico, while our parents sit inside the cabin flirting up a storm – I’m impressed with myself.

The drink might be helping, but I’ve found a way to almost dissociate while time ticks by. You know, I actually think I’m excited to get home, to get back to work.

I’m also incredibly in denial, it would seem, because this really isn’t okay.

Of course it’s bizarre, to be sitting on the back deck (no, I can’t remember what Hank called it) of a luxury yacht while the harbour glows around us – it’s hard to say if the light is coming from the sunset or from the piles of money that everyone around us so clearly possesses.

The marina is beautiful, without a doubt, and it’s easy to forget we’re on a yacht. This may as well be a swaggy apartment; given that it’s just parked here, we’re not actually going anywhere. I swear, I’m too working class to understand that one. If this were my boat I’d be zipping around all over the place (assuming none of this lot were with me, of course).

I’m strategically acclimatising, that’s what I’m telling myself, like when people live near train tracks or airports and eventually learn how to filter out the noise. Or how I ignore everyone around me in the open-plan office while I’m on Teams meetings with, well, everyone around me.

I can block out my mum’s flirting, Hank moving in on her, Nico’s presence – I just need to apply myself. I can do anything I set my mind to, I can do anything I set my mind to, I can do anything I set my mind to…

‘You’ve got an intense look on your face,’ Nico points out.

He doesn’t make it fucking easy, does he?

If he weren’t here (right now, but also generally) this moment would be perfect. I’m sitting on the fancy cushioned seats, my legs tucked underneath me, sipping my drink, taking in the view.

The sun is starting to disappear now, but the air is still warm. I actually feel cosy.

In the cabin – or the saloon, as Hank calls it – Mum and Hank are working their way through another bottle of wine. They’re sitting at the table, their faces inches apart, gazing into each other’s eyes, chatting away. I’m slightly curious what they’re talking about, so intensely, for so long, but I imagine I would be traumatised if I heard a word of it, so I’m better off out here, with Nico, even if he is annoying me.

‘If they get any closer, they won’t be able to finish their drinks,’ Nico says, scooting closer to me. ‘You can’t fit a wine glass in a gap that small.’

‘Speaking of small gaps,’ I say, nodding to the barely there space between us.

‘Worried you won’t be able to control yourself?’ he jokes.

‘Do you know what, you’ve got it in one,’ I reply. ‘I’m worried I’ll shove you into the water.’

This seems to have become our dynamic over the past couple of days. This sort of playful bickering. We’re not exactly friends, don’t get me wrong, but we’ve settled into something that feels oddly adjacent to it. Avoiding each other didn’t work, actually getting on is a non-starter, so this – I don’t know – toying with each other for sport feels bearable. It’s like target practice, in a way.

‘So, how old were you when your mum adopted you?’ he asks.

‘I’m not adopted,’ I reply.