Love Overboard

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Sofia had been thrilled to get the job at Nakachwa. On her first day she turned up thirty minutes early because she had convinced herself that the buses would get stuck in traffic. Of course they didn’t and she had stood outside in the cold January morning for fifteen minutes that felt much longer until Joy arrived. Even in a dream state she could still feel the electricity, the buzz of anticipation as she waited. Joy was everything she wanted to be one day: a restaurant owner, a great chef, a mother, a visionary.

Joy and Peter had opened Nakachwa before anyone in the culinary world had really considered that ‘African’ food was anything worth thinking about, years before the craze for Ethiopian food swept across gentrifying swathes of London. The restaurant had been open for fifteen years and had had a Michelin star for five of those by the time Sofia stepped through the door. They were a couple, and their baby also had the name Nakachwa. Joy was in charge of the kitchen and Peter was in charge of everything else, including service.

‘You’re here early,’ said Joy, with an endearing inflection of a worn-down Ugandan accent. ‘I like early – too many of these youngsters who think that blackness absolves them from timekeeping. Not in my house.’ She stood back and motioned for Sofia to pass.

The L-shaped dining room was set up for around one hundred covers. All the tables were circular, highly polished, ethically sourced teak. From where she was standing in the doorway, it looked like a forest of trees, each felled to dining height. The walls were painted in various shades of warm earth tones: terracotta, ochre and mahogany. The length of the back wall, where the kitchen could be spied over the top of the serving counter, was a dreamy mauve, like the colour of the horizon as the sun dips out of view. Overhead large wicker lamp shades pooled each table with light. The pictures she’d seen online, and glimpses she’d spied behind Joy’s head during her rushed and furtive Zoom interview, hadn’t done it justice.

’It’s beautiful,’ said Sofia. She wasn’t being hyperbolic; she thought it might be the most enchanting space she had ever seen.

‘Thank you,’ said Joy. ‘It reminds me of home. That’s all I have ever tried to do really – bring a slice of home to this grey city.’ She chuckled. ‘Peter never believes me when I say I’m a proud Ugandan, but this is my homage.’ They stood in silence for a moment, and then Joy collected herself from her daydream. ‘Anyway, I’m sure what you really want to see is the kitchen.’

‘Yes please.’ She could hardly contain her excitement.

Joy led the way. The kitchen was just as breath-taking. For Sofia – who had been a lowly commis on the bottom rung, and cornered into the windowless depths of one of Lochland’s kitchens – it was a revelation. It was 8a.m., an hour before the first prep shift started, and the sun was just rising. Along half of the back wall of the kitchen, which was gilded with large windows, the first rays of light flooded in.

That first day passed in a daze. At 9a.m. the other cooks started arriving. She spent most of the day mesmerised watching Joy work. She was calm but authoritative, and came over to Sofia’s station on a couple of occasions to compliment her work, as she did with the others in the kitchen. It was a revolutionary approach. No shouting, no swearing, no threats.

Over the next couple of months Sofia settled into her new life. A few friends from back home in Portsmouth had been in London for a while and soon enough she had infiltrated a couple of groups. She knew just the right number of people to keep things interesting without feeling like she had to frequently bail on plans because of her unsociable hours.

At work too, she found herself a little group that had begun to solidify into friendship. Tony, Erica and Simon – the four of them would go for an ill-advised round or two or three after work in a nearby pub. There was a lot of drinking. Sofia often found herself commuting through a fog of dehydration, the proximity of other bodies bumping against her on a tube carriage prompting hair-raising waves of nausea.

Tony was a chef de partie like Sofia. Her full name was Antonia, although she hated it for ‘outing her as the Sloane Ranger’ she tried so hard to conceal with her cropped blue-black mullet and pierced eyebrow. Erica and Simon were front of house. Among the rest of the restaurant staff there was a divide between the two ‘camps’ but their little gang enjoyed bridging that gap. Erica was a little shy, but breathtakingly efficient, and a stickler for details. She had a lilting French accent that endeared her to customers – that and her infectious smile.

Simon was Peter’s second in command, and not immediately likeable. Sofia’s first impressions of him had been that he was quite reductive: a posh, white, public-school boy who’d never had a knack for academia but had enough connections to land a job in a Michelin-starred restaurant straight out of school. He was the kind of man who was always simultaneously gagging to let you know that he knows better, and absolutely mortified that he can’t help himself from telling you that. Something about private schools in this country bred that kind of bizarre combination of arrogance and self-loathing. She found that as time wore on, she began to find it strangely endearing, the rawness with which he understood the contradiction.

On this particular evening they were at Erica’s, crammed around a small table in the kitchen of her shared flat. Erica was the worst cook, but, predictably, the best hostess. Your glass was never empty at Erica’s house. It was a wonder she could even afford her rent alongside her drink-induced generosity. ‘I’ll go get another few bottles,’ she said. They had finished the lasagne, which Sofia reckoned was shop-bought and transferred to a baking tray just before their arrival. The four bottles of red wine on the table were already empty.

‘I’ll come with,’ offered Tony. The pair of them swayed around the room in search of a tote bag and then stumbled out the front door.

‘So how would you rate your time at Naka so far?’ Simon had a habit of trying to catch her gaze when he started a sentence and then breaking eye contact about halfway through. It was all part of his self-deprecation schtick and Sofia had gotten used to it, although it took some time to shake off first the irritation and then the pity it had inspired in her. Recently she had begun to find it sort of charming.

By now she was firmly in the category of drunk, the tipsy giggles making way for earnestness. ‘I honestly love it, and it’s not just that the kitchen is amazing, it’s the team. We all just work so well together. It’s a unit, and everyone is, like, friends.’ This wasn’t quite true, but having come from a kitchen where everyone seemed to be trying to get ahead by any means possible, it felt something akin to homely.

Simon nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, it’s a good vibe,’ he said, ‘but you’ve got to watch out for number one. Do you think you’re going to go for the sous position?’

The sous chef, Mark, was leaving at the end of the month to set up his own pop-up in one of those shipping containers turned overpriced watering holes in East London. That meant the position was up for grabs.

‘I’ve only been here six months, Simon, and I’ve only been a chef de partie for a year total. I’ve got to pay my dues.’

‘But you’re the best.’ This time he didn’t look away, and Sofia blushed at the sincerity of it. She’d never really thought about the fact that he was sort of good-looking. Not her usual type, but then again she wasn’t really sure she even had a usual type.

Her dating history was limited to a two-week boyfriend in secondary school, a couple of flings at culinary college, and one more serious year-and-a-half stint with a perfectly nice, but perfectly boring guy named Ethan in Oxford. A sweet boy, but after he had revealed that he thought the Black Panthers were an American football team, she’d known that they were just treading water until she left the city. She had to admit, rather shamefully, that she hadn’t thought about him at all since she’d arrived in London.

Simon was darkly funny, a cynic and a pessimist, but she often found his company refreshing. He was honest, she thought, about himself and about other things too, so she knew he wouldn’t be giving her a compliment like that for the sake of it.

‘Well I mean, has Peter mentioned anything to you?’ Sofia asked.

He smiled slyly. ‘Oh so you want some insider knowledge?’

Sofia was embarrassed but also enjoying the playful tension that was blooming between them. ‘No, no forget I asked. That’s not fair on you and I don’t want to go behind Joy’s back.’

He laughed. ‘You’re such a goody two-shoes. Between you and me, he said that Joy has her eye on you, and that’s a direct quote.’

Just then Tony and Erica giggled their way back into the room, and Sofia, realising that she had leant forward over the table towards Simon, quickly sat back in her chair. She didn’t know why she felt like they were doing something illicit, but when Simon smiled at her, she felt a thrill of conspiracy.

For the next couple of weeks, Sofia and Simon found moments throughout the day to laugh at each other’s jokes, moan about their hangovers, and evaluate how the restaurant was running that day. Among the four of them Sofia began to feel self-conscious about how often she said things that were only meant for him to hear. Not flirty things particularly, but pick-ups from their other conversations or variations on an in-joke they shared.

She also started to notice Erica, and the way that she interacted with Simon. When she caught sight of them over the top of the chef’s counter, giggling together, she was troubled by the wave of envy that surged through her. She didn’t like to admit it to herself but she had thought she was one of the only people who could really make Simon laugh. Watching them made her feel angry because it exposed that delusion.

It was an unremarkable Tuesday lunchtime shift, until Joy came in. She didn’t usually work Tuesdays, and there was always a sense of substitute teacher mischief on those days. Sofia felt the mood shift before she noticed Joy striding across the dining room, her fine dreadlocks architecturally spiralled atop her head. Out of her chef’s whites she looked regal. A thick cuff encircled her upper arm, her ears dripped with gold, and she was wearing a long loose tunic the colour of blood. The guests couldn’t help staring as she walked past – the queen of her kingdom, Joy owned the space she was taking up. She leant over the chef’s counter.

‘Sorry to barge in like this. Hello, everyone.’ Her brown eyes twinkled.

‘Hello, Chef,’ came the response in chorus.

‘Sofia, could I talk to you in the back office please?’ Sofia felt a dozen pairs of eyes fix on the back of her head.

‘Yes, Chef.’

The back office was claustrophobic – having utilised the windows for the kitchen and dining space, there weren’t enough to go around, so the room was dimly lit, and with only enough space for a desk and a chair facing it.

‘Take a seat, Sofia.’ It felt oddly formal, except Joy had to perch on the corner of the table, and Sofia had to scoot the chair up against the wall for them to maintain eye contact.

‘I guess you might have an idea of what I want to talk to you about?’

Sofia didn’t know what the right answer was. ‘I think I might,’ seemed appropriately non-committal.

Joy held her gaze, seemed to start saying something and then thought better of it. ‘I want to offer you the sous chef job,’ she said matter-of-factly.

And there it was, the thing that she had not let herself believe that she wanted, in her more sober moments, but had hung over her ever since Mark announced he was leaving. The first person she wanted to tell was Simon.

Sofia realised that she had not said anything and that Joy was looking at her expectedly.

‘Um, Joy, I don’t know what to say. I’m honoured. Are you sure?’ She was welling up. She willed herself not to cry.

‘I’ve thought about it a lot, and obviously it’s important to take experience and well, politics, into consideration, but I for one cannot sit back and ignore raw talent. And that is what you have, Sofia. It would be a waste not to make use of it in my kitchen.’

‘I really don’t know what to say.’ She lost the fight and swiped aggressively at her wet cheek.

‘Say yes.’ Joy held out her hand. Sofia shook it.

‘Yes.’

No one asked her what the meeting with Joy was about. She’d just gone quietly back to her station. Tony had raised an eyebrow as she walked past. ‘Pub later,’ Sofia mouthed back. That night the four of them met outside the Black Bull and Sofia could hardly contain her excitement.

‘I got the job!’ she blurted as soon as they were all standing within earshot.

‘Oh my God, amazing.’ Erica was all hugs and pats on the back.

‘Knew you would.’ When Simon hugged her she thought she could feel him linger just a beat too long.

Tony was quiet. Once Sofia turned to face her, she felt her ecstasy draining.

‘You good, Tony?’ Simon probed tentatively.

‘Sure, just finding it a little hard to understand why you’ve been promoted to sous after six months and I have been in that kitchen for two years, and others have been there even longer.’

There was a heavy silence. Sofia felt numb. She had been naive to think that this wouldn’t happen. Joy had essentially warned her, when she talked about the ‘politics’ of her decision.

Tony looked at the floor, unsure of what to say or do next. ‘I think I’m going to head home, guys.’

The three of them watched her leave. Erica was the first to break the silence. ‘So what’s everyone drinking?’

For Sofia it was red wine. Soon her teeth were stained and her discomfort and guilt had dissipated. She wouldn’t be able to remember much the next day. She remembered that she soon lost count of whose round it was. She remembered that they had been laughing so loudly that people kept looking over disapprovingly. She remembered that after closing they had tried to find somewhere else to drink. But in the hungover grogginess of the next morning, when she woke up in bed naked next to Simon, that was all she remembered.

After an awkward ‘good morning’ and a feeble excuse from Sofia about needing to ‘get to a gym class’ she was out of his flat and on her way home. She felt a little embarrassed on her ‘walk of shame’ but also triumphant. She had not misread the signals, and even though the exact progression of their evening still eluded her there was something about an unexpected falling into bed that felt exciting and cosmopolitan. She had never done anything like it before and she couldn’t help grinning to herself for the rest of the day, basking in the glow of a conquered crush.

Over the next few days, flashes of that night would come back to her. Some of them clarifying, others mortifying. Snogging outside the pub, pawing at each other in the back of a taxi, discarding pieces of her clothing in his halfway, but the ‘main event’, she still had no recollection of.

Back at work, Tony was no longer talking to her. When Joy announced that Sofia would be taking the sous chef role at Friday dinner service, the reception was muted, met with a perfunctory round of applause. Sofia plastered on a smile and tried to ignore the reluctant tone of everyone’s ‘congratulations’. Tony had been right. There was bitterness towards her in the kitchen; Joy had misjudged how strong the reaction would be.

Simon and Erica at least were genuinely happy for her, and she retreated out of the kitchen and into the dining room whenever she got the opportunity.

‘They’ll get over it,’ Erica reassured her. ‘Just give it some time, and I’ll try and talk to Tony.’

‘It’s hard for people, you know, to see someone else just be more talented than them.’ Sofia playfully smacked Simon’s arm and felt a thrill when he grinned at her.

‘Keep your voice down,’ she scolded, although she was giggling. ‘The last thing I need is for any of the cooks hearing you say something like that.’ Her hand was still on his arm and when he looked down at it and smirked, Sofia quickly pulled it away and blushed. They still hadn’t talked about that night, but nothing had really changed at work. Sofia sought out his company as a welcome balm to the hostility in the kitchen, and knowing that he wanted her was the perfect antidote.

‘Are you guys going to Mark’s leaving party on Sunday?’ It was Erica, who seemed oblivious to what felt to Sofia like palpable sexual tension between them.

‘Yeah I think so,’ said Simon nonchalantly, and then whilst holding Sofia’s gaze intently, ‘unless any other, more interesting plans come up.’

She blushed, looking away.

‘I think I’ll go.’ She knew it would be badly received for her not to, now that she had to consider the politics of everything.

Sofia decided that she wanted to make an effort that night. She didn’t want to admit to herself that it had anything to do with seeing Simon, but it crossed her mind a few times, as she discarded outfit after outfit onto her bedroom floor. She settled on a deep red halter-neck top but skipped the matching lipstick with half a mind that she might be kissing a certain someone. Black jeans, boots, hair piled on top of her head with curls cascading down over her forehead, and in ringlets down her neck, she was ready to go. She looked good, sexy even, and despite the anxiety of navigating the tension with her colleagues, she was excited.

On the bus, she texted Simon to tell him she was on her way, and then she texted Erica. Neither of them had replied by the time she was standing at the top of the three-storey walk-up in Camden. She could hear music thumping on the other side of the door, and the chatter of a drunken crowd. She took a deep breath, resigning herself to the solo entrance she had been hoping to avoid.

A few drinks in and Sofia was dancing with the other guests and actually enjoying herself. She had spotted Tony, but the way she quickly looked away suggested to Sofia that they were not ready for a reconciliation just yet.

‘I need to cool down,’ Sofia shouted at Mark over the music.

‘If you go out through the door at the end of the hallway, you can get up to the roof. It’s where the smokers congregate.’ She gave him a thumbs up and stumbled out into the hallway.

The roof was bigger than Sofia expected. People were clumped in small groups sharing cigarettes and passing around rolling papers. Sofia checked her phone. We’re on our tray. Erica had sent that about an hour ago. Sofia deduced that ‘tray’ was a drunken attempt at ‘way’ but was still confused by the ‘we’; perhaps Erica was bringing her housemate. Sofia took a few deep breaths, leaning into the euphoria of a cool breeze brushing against her dance-tired, drunk body. She decided to circle the perimeter of the roof before heading back downstairs and it was as she walked past the first chimney stack that she saw them.

In the moonlight, it was a romantic scene, Erica’s head of blonde curls tilted back with her hands entangled in Simon’s shaggy dark mop. They were so engrossed in their embrace that she felt confident standing in the shadows, unnoticed, if morbidly voyeuristic. A freeze of shock, and then a bolt of anger, Sofia let the emotions course through her before settling into a state of embarrassment and shame. Had she really thought that she was special? That Simon was in love with her or something? Clearly, she thought, she had been a drunken mistake for him, and she had completely misread the signals. What she had interpreted as flirty was just him being friendly, perhaps not wanting to shut her down, to spare both their embarrassment.

Quietly she took herself away, down the stairs, into the party to say goodbye to Mark and then out into the city. That night, wandering the streets alone, was the first time Sofia began dreading going to work.

The restaurant was closed on Mondays, so Sofia had a whole day to sit with her anxiety, which by that evening had reached a fever pitch. The next day she called in sick, and the day after that. She whiled away the hours, bingeing bad TV and ordering expensive takeaways. On the Thursday she received a text that made her heart stop. It was from Simon. Are you OK? Hope you haven’t got that nasty bug going around. She contemplated throwing her phone out the window. The sight of his name made her actually feel sick.

In the evening she got a call from Joy.

‘I really need you. I know you can’t help being sick but it’s your first week as sous and I think it would be good to have you in, even for a half-day, to get you up to speed.’ Sofia felt a stab of guilt. ‘It’s been a tough week, what with Erica off as well. We’re a bit short-staffed.’ Joy sounded stressed.

‘I’ll be in tomorrow,’ said Sofia, trying to push down the panic rising in her throat at the thought of facing Simon.

‘See you then,’ was all Joy said before hanging up. This is what people meant about not shitting where you eat, thought Sofia. It made even more sense not to shit where you cook. She needed to try and be a grown-up about this. She drafted a text to Simon. Back to work tomorrow. Could we meet before the dinner shift for a chat? She hit send, her heart pounding. Now she had to work out what to say to him. She decided she would not be ‘overly emotional’. She would simply lay down the facts and voice her disappointment and suggest they try and ‘remain professional’ from now on. Her reaction to the whole affair had made it pretty clear to her that she wasn’t the sharing type, at least when it came to romance.

The conversation did not go well. Simon already seemed agitated before they began speaking. He offered Sofia a brisk hug, which she reluctantly accepted.

‘How have you been?’ he asked, reverting to his old habit of avoiding eye contact, and instead staring straight ahead as they stood side by side outside the restaurant.

‘I’m fine,’ she replied, sensing his discomfort and taking courage in it. ‘I wanted to talk about the other night, last week.’ He stared blankly, as if Sofia hadn’t said anything at all. ‘I just wanted to clear the air, or you know, just clarify a few things.’ She felt irritated that he was acting as if she was boring him. He stayed silent.

‘I saw you and Erica at the party the other night and I wanted to let you know how I felt about it.’ That caught his attention. He snapped his head round to look her in the eyes, and she felt a chill when she saw the mixture of panic and menace in his stare.

‘What did you hear?’ he asked in a strained tone, trying to feign indifference and failing miserably. He wasn’t really listening to her.

‘What do you mean? I didn’t hear anything. I just said I saw you guys getting together and well, I think it hurt my feelings. I don’t know, I guess I thought maybe...’ She was tripping over her words and she couldn’t think straight. She was picking at her thumbnail as she spoke. ‘I thought that maybe you and me were, getting to know each other or whatever.’

He let out mocking laugh. Her stomach dropped. She dared to meet his eyes. They were cold and vacant.

‘Listen, Sofia, I think you’re a lovely girl, but that night was just a bit of fun. I thought we’d both agreed to that.’ Sofia burned with shame. She couldn’t remember if she had; she couldn’t remember most of that night. ‘I don’t really have time for this shit right now. I’m sorry you were hurt by the Erica thing but to be honest I am actually allowed to sleep with whoever I want.’

There was a silence, as Sofia contemplated how naive she had been.

‘Let’s try and be cool at work though, yeah? And it may be best if we keep the whole situation to ourselves.’

Sofia nodded meekly, looking down at her feet. She felt a perfunctory pat on her shoulder and then watched his boots stride back into the restaurant.

The next week was a slog. She had a lot to learn as Joy’s sous, which at least kept her from having time to mull over her situation during working hours. She stayed late and arrived early, determined to surpass Joy’s expectations. When she had to put her dishes on the counter for Simon to serve, she would look down or stare blankly ahead as she flatly said, ‘Service,’ and dinged the bell.

She stopped seeing her other friends, and stayed in bed until the sun went down on her days off. On her commutes home she stared out the window and tallied up how many people hated her. Simon, Tony, pretty much all the cooks. Erica had been off work since the party, which was over a month ago, and Sofia hadn’t heard from her. If she was being honest with herself, she had also avoided getting in touch. Sofia was concerned about the unwelcome sense of envy and anger she was feeling towards Erica, and how it might manifest.

Her dream life had come crashing down, mutating into a monstrous distortion of what it had been just a few weeks before.

It was her Monday off when she got a call from Erica. Sofia was so surprised she took a moment to stare at the call ID before she answered tentatively, ‘Hello?’

‘Hey, Sofia.’ She let out a deep sigh. ‘It’s good to hear your voice.’

Sofia was awash with relief. ‘You have no idea how much it means to me for you to say that.’ Her eyes stung hot with tears of gratitude. ‘I’ve not been in a great place recently.’

‘That makes two of us.’ Erica let out a dry chuckle. ‘Are you around today? I’d really like to talk to you in person.’

Sofia looked down at herself. It was four in the afternoon and she was still in her pyjamas. ‘Sure, I can be ready in an hour. Shall we meet at the Hope and Anchor?’ she suggested.

‘Um, I’m trying not to drink at the moment. Maybe Bert’s café next door?’ Sofia was sure she’d get the full story soon enough. ‘See you soon.’

Both women looked tired and resolutely pale as they took a small table by the window. Erica clutched a mug in her hands, and stared at the cooling coffee as she spoke. ‘I’ve quit Nakachwa,’ she burst out suddenly, like a confession. Sofia didn’t say anything, sensing that Erica needed space for what she wanted to say. She took a deep breath. ‘It’s about Simon.’

Erica’s story was the same as Sofia’s save for a few key details. Both had been very drunk, neither could remember a lot of what happened. But when Erica woke up in Simon’s bed, she was not embarrassed but somewhat triumphant; she was scared and confused.

‘I’m not really into him like that. I thought we were friends, and it terrifies me that I don’t know how I got there.’ Sofia slowly began to grasp what Erica was saying.

‘I saw you at Mark’s party,’ she said quietly, feeling embarrassed that her first instinct was to think of Erica as competition for Simon’s affections.

‘I don’t remember being there,’ Erica admitted. Sofia’s heart sank.

Suddenly the scene no longer seemed romantic at all, recast in this disturbing light. Sofia imagined his arms wrapped around her waist were holding her up, rather than holding her close.

Sofia reached her hand across the table and took Erica’s hand in hers. They didn’t need to say the words ‘assault’ or ‘consent’ to understand each other.

‘Have you spoken to him since?’ Sofia asked.

‘I rang him a few days after. It didn’t go well, really. I told him how I felt and he just dismissed me, said I had been drinking too much and it wasn’t his fault I couldn’t remember anything.’ She wiped away a hot tear running down her cheek. ‘Anyway I’ve told Peter and Joy I’m not coming back. I can’t.’

Outside Sofia gave Erica a big hug. She hadn’t told her about her own night with Simon. This was not the time. After hearing Erica’s story, she didn’t really know how to feel about it anyway. Unlike Erica she knew that she had ‘wanted it’, but now she couldn’t for the life of her remember why.

Sofia went back to work the next day. Every time she caught sight of Simon over the counter she felt some combination of confusion, shame and anger. So she began to simply never look at him. He seemed to understand this unspoken agreement instinctively. He made no effort to speak to her. They orbited around each other seamlessly.

With Erica gone and Tony resolutely ignoring her, her world began to quieten further, until she minimised talking to anyone at work to direct orders in the kitchen. When her shift was over she was the first out of the door. She politely declined any increasingly rare offers to go to drinks or parties.

For six months she lived like this, or rather existed like it, not knowing how to feel and eventually forgetting to feel at all.

It was a friend from home who snapped her out of it. She was back in Portsmouth for Christmas and managed to drag herself to the pub on Christmas Eve. She hadn’t seen this friend, Isla, since school.

‘So yeah, basically it’s split over two seasons, May to October and then November to April. You get a bit of time off if you don’t do back-to-back charters but it’s pretty full on.’

Sofia was only half listening, as she had grown accustomed to doing.

‘Sofia, you should totally look into it. I’ve just done a season with Captain Mary and she’s been looking for a decent chef for ages.’

‘Oh yeah, I mean I’m working in London at the moment.’ She gave an unconvincing smile.

Isla gave her a mildly patronising rub on the shoulder. She hesitated before speaking. ‘Are you, like, happy there though? You look a bit... grey. And you’ve always loved the sea. I’ll send you the link to the Facebook page anyway.’

Sofia nodded weakly, deciding not to engage with the look of pity staring back at her. ‘Sure – thanks, Isla.’

It took Sofia another three months to accept that she was depressed, that her dream had turned into a monotonous nightmare. She found the link, clicked through to ‘Yachties of the Med’ and almost immediately spotted a post from Captain Mary.