Chapter 3
Of course, mon père is the opposite of helpful when I ask for the night off in a noisy sales tent where the party has already started. Salesmen circle as Christmas classics boom over the sound system almost as loudly as Dad does. His question confirms he only partially heard what I just asked him.
“You want to talk to someone? Good for you, Valentin! I knew you had it in you.” He gestures around at tables set with glinting silver and sparkling crystal.
“And yes, there will be plenty of clients to chat up between your test drives.” Before I can correct his misunderstanding, he hesitates.
He also repeats that surprisingly sweet smile.
“Unless . . . unless it was me you wanted to talk to?”
It wasn’t.
He slings a heavy arm across my shoulders regardless, his eyes reflecting the shine of party tinsel, and he’s a whole lot gruffer.
“We can do that, if you’re ready to learn the real ropes of the business, like who to target and who to avoid at parties like this.
Because true success in this business?” He leans in to share a pearl of wisdom.
“It means never letting yourself get sucked in by people with no real money. Don’t lose time over a time-waster. ”
That isn’t how I’d describe Calum Trelawney.
I don’t yet know his motivation for hunting me down, but I do have evidence of real wealth that I could show Dad.
And I would if he didn’t virtually have me in a headlock.
I’d pull out my phone and show him Calum’s net worth, which was easy as pie to find online.
I even have proof of what scored him a recent bump in earnings although I don’t show Dad the screenshot I took of Calum asleep between champagne bottles and a much bigger trophy than the one I need to win this Christmas.
He doesn’t need to see what I have to admit is an impressively muscled back and bottom.
I also won’t show Dad the other image I found of a much younger Calum, because no matter what a narrow-eyed elf said about me being Calum’s type, I can’t ignore this fact—several women shared his bed in that sleeping photo taken when he was a rookie.
Dad says, “Speaking of losers,” and for a split second I think he means me for wishing I’d never seen that image. “There’s a prime example.” He points. “Look. Over there on the red carpet.”
I assume he’s spotted Lito, who is exactly where Dad suggested, doing his greasy thing with a smartly dressed guest. But it isn’t Lito Dad points at. He jabs an accusatory finger at someone I assumed was a VIP.
“Never let your first impression fool you.” For once, Dad reduces his ear-splitting volume. “Believe me, Valentin. He doesn’t belong here.”
Neither do I, but my worst attribute kicks in, curiosity activated. “How can you tell?”
Dad blinks, perhaps surprised that I want to know. He quickly rallies. “By looking closer. Underneath the surface.”
I could weep at him describing my actual vocation—looking below the surface is exactly my brand of documentary making. Tonight, I swallow that truth down because Dad isn’t done yet dissecting the guest Lito has hooked by the elbow the same way he did to me.
“Always do that, Valentin. Look under the surface before you waste a sales pitch on some chancer. Start right now. Look closely. What do you notice about him?”
That’s easy.
I spot sun-streaked hair and a great tan. This gala party guest is a golden reminder of the glow I last saw radiating from an incubator. Maybe that’s why I expect to see ice-chip eyes. Instead, I meet the turquoise warmth of tropical oceans.
Dad keeps his volume lowered. “What kind of person is he?”
That’s obvious.
“A rich one.” This guest has got to be wealthy to be at this invite-only gathering of moneymakers.
“He’s successful.” And he’s confident enough to ignore Lito’s bullshit.
I watch someone I believe could be a potential client shake off London’s sleaziest photographer.
And I glimpse evidence that he’s at least rich enough to have also avoided most of England’s dismal winter—a suntan this deeply honeyed doesn’t come from a can.
It takes time and dedication. “He’s wealthy.
” Probably not as loaded as the hockey player I want to hurry back to, but rich enough that he might be in the same speedboat market.
Dad peers like I do, only at me instead of at this new arrival. And again, he’s uncharacteristically encouraging instead of flat-out dismissive. “You sure about that?”
I nod. This new arrival is the whole package right down to the cut of his—
“Wait.”
Dad actually does. He holds his tongue instead of speaking over me like usual, and just like that, my opinion changes. “His suit doesn’t fit.” This guy shares my slim build. His jacket was tailored for someone bulkier than either of us.
“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 naming some 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 an answer.
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, then salutes the way Dad told me to do to prospective clients but that I can never make myself comply with.
He’ll love to see that.
“You can definitely pass for me as long as you keep your distance.”
“From your father? Got it.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard. Once Dad is on the sales warpath, nothing gets him off it.” Although tonight, I can’t help remembering him looking at me with pride. “Try to make a sale for him, yeah?”
Harry makes another confession after we sneak out and reach the jetty lined with Dad’s real babies.
“Always wanted to get my hands on a Juno.” He lifts the mirrored visor of my helmet, and it doesn’t matter that it’s dark down here by the water.
I see how much he means this. “I’ll take good care of them.
” His promise is easily as warm as his eyes were back in the sales tent where he made Lito seem all too human.
“See you back here later for another switcheroo?”
I shout, “Yes,” over my shoulder, already darting away.
I clutch the sole speedboat key that I kept.
“I won’t be long.” Who knows if he hears me over the roar of the engine I fire up.
Dad didn’t build this beast of a boat to tempt any bankers.
He handcrafted it for Reece’s rescue foundation—part of a year-long loan that helped to save lives for twelve months solid.
Now it might just save my contest chances.
I steer it towards the shadows where la Sylvie is moored in almost complete darkness, but I pull up to zero sign of life aboard her.
Shit. He left already.
I had hoped Calum would still be on egg-watch duty, and for once, I do get a wish answered—when I stand up from the pilot’s seat, I see him on the jetty, walking away.
It turns out mon père isn’t the only Juno who can bellow.
“Hey, loser!”
London sparkles brightly, water in the marina shining. So does the moon, which finds a gap between clouds to show someone who has reason to hate me. Calum wheels around, the moon also highlighting how he’s everything Dad said a gate-crasher wasn’t.
His suit fits perfectly, all that hockey-player bulk transformed to big-cat sleek.
He also looks fierce, while my brain inserts a tender image of him crouched over an egg to tell it a bedtime story.
His glare does wicked things to my stomach.
And to places lower down my body, which is a little disturbing considering his rep for violence.
I forget that he has reason to rain pain down on me like he does to other players.
And I forget too what an old photo of a crowded bed suggested about his real type.
He’s mine from the tips of hair I know is dark gold in daylight to eyes the moon floods with liquid silver.
Yes, I want to hear his story, but I also want to unwrap him like I used to peel the layers from my first present each year at my grand-mère’s.
I aim for casual. “Need a ride?”
Calum Trelawney quits glaring at me.
He laughs, and that sounds a lot like Christmas coming early.