In the Same Boat

Chapter 1

SAMMIE

As I laugh wildly at another one of his jokes, I hope he doesn’t notice me keeping an eye on the front door.

Danny is one of those people who tells a story like he’s onstage in front of an audience – even though he’s sitting at a dining table with me. And only me. I’m really hoping it stays that way.

This is nice. I know, nice is such a meh word, but sometimes it’s the perfect one. Nice is good. Big, flashy, extravagant, exciting – all things that are impossible to sustain forever. Nice though – nice stands a chance.

Sitting here with Danny, looking at him across the candlelit table, the two of us tucking into a cannelloni that took me forever to make – and not in an authentic Italian-mama-slaving-over-sauce kind of way, more me calling the cannelloni a different C-word because stuffing those little tubes is way harder than it looks.

Don’t look in the bin, it’s a cannelloni cemetery in there.

This is what I want. Not just cannelloni, but someone to sit down to dinner with, to share stories, laugh with, debrief the day together. Someone who is interested in me, not judging me, not telling me how I should be living my life.

I glance at the door again. I can’t help it – but the note on the fridge was crystal clear: Out for dinner, don’t wait up – Chris x.

There’s no room for interpretation there, right?

I have the place to myself, to see where things go with Danny uninterrupted.

Oh, I hope things go well. I don’t want to be the kind of woman to ‘need’ attention from a man but, my gosh, it feels like it’s been so long since anyone wanted me.

Danny seems like he’s actually interested though, like he’s enjoying the food – things couldn’t be going better.

He’s sitting across from me, shirtsleeves rolled up, leaning forward slightly as he talks. I like it, it feels like we’re quite literally growing closer. People don’t lean in towards people they’re not interested in, do they? I’m sure I saw that in a video somewhere while I was doomscrolling.

‘—and so Col and I are at the top of Snowden, he looks cool as a cucumber, I feel like I’m fighting for my life, but because he’s looking great I don’t want him to see what a state I’m in, so I’m trying to style it out…

’ He takes a pause to have another bite of his food.

He seems like he’s really enjoying it. So am I, now that I’m relaxing a little – even if I do say so myself.

My aim was ‘edible’ but I might actually have landed somewhere a little closer to delicious.

I’ll say this for Danny: he tells a great story.

I’m on the edge of my seat, my fork hovering in front of my mouth as I wait to find out what happened next.

I mean, how many people have climbed a mountain?

Okay, probably more than I realise, with my sedentary lifestyle, and my generally sedentary friends, but he’s the first person I’ve met to have a mountain-climbing story for me, so I’m all in.

Danny is a blokey bloke. The kind who climbs mountains with his mates before getting absolutely hammered in a cabin.

He’s into sports – any sports, it sounds like from our conversations – and I can see his job (a carpenter) literally etched into his hands.

Dings and scars. He must have taken a chunk out of one of his fingers at some point because one of his nails looks like it has a piece missing.

Removed by force. That’s pretty masculine, right?

Not the girly-girl ‘I broke a nail’ vibe I seem to squeak out if I – I don’t know – open a cupboard at a funny angle.

No, no. A proper, hardy ‘I’ve chopped a bit of my finger off, lads – can you hold my brew for a minute’ kind of toughness.

Did I mention it’s been a long time since it felt like a man wanted me?

Because I’m finding the most bizarre things sexy.

He could probably tell me that he collected Fireman Sam memorabilia and liked to flick his bogies at the ceiling light, and I would probably find a way to tell myself it was attractive.

Oh, he hasn’t expressed any interest in either of those things, don’t get me wrong.

He seems like a nice, normal man. Nice – there’s that word again. Nice is all I want.

‘So I’m mortified, Col is eligible for some kind of “hiker of the year” award. The rest of our mates bailed on the way up. It’s just me and him, and I’m properly exhausted, but he’s still. Too still. And then I realise he’s looking a bit white… and then he passes out.’

‘Oh my gosh,’ I blurt. ‘Is he okay? What happened? Is it, like, the altitude? Or…?’

My voice trails off. I know nothing about mountains or altitude or exercise generally. Best I stop talking, before I embarrass myself.

‘It turns out he was exhausted too,’ Danny says with a chuckle. ‘He didn’t want me to realise that he was out of breath, so he was basically holding his breath. He blacked out.’

‘Wow…’

‘They say pride comes before a fall,’ Danny reminds me. ‘He would have fallen all the way to the bottom, if I weren’t there to help him – no, no, not really. But I did help him up, he caught his breath, and we took it steady on the way back down.’

‘That’s so nice of you,’ I tell him.

‘Yeah, well, I’m not all nice, I did use the time while he was unconscious to catch my breath.’

I laugh – because I assume he’s joking. He laughs too, thankfully.

‘You can’t tell anyone this, by the way, because I swore I would never tell anyone,’ he adds, still smiling playfully.

‘He had to rub a cramp out of my thigh on the way back down, so we said we’d take the stories to our graves.

I swear that’s why neither of us is married yet, because we’re worried about it coming up in a best man’s speech. ’

‘Well, when you meet the love of your life, you’re going to have a hard time selling that excuse to her,’ I point out.

‘Which is why I always tell dates all about it… once I’ve decided it’s going well,’ he replies.

I smile.

‘It’s going well, eh?’

‘It’s going really well,’ he assures me. ‘This is the best cannelloni I’ve ever had. The bread is amazing too – I can’t believe you made this.’

I did not, in fact, make the ciabatta bread. I didn’t say that I did either, Danny assumed, and I was simply being a good host by not correcting him. I wouldn’t want to be impolite. I made the money that bought it, so… we’ll say that’s pretty much the same thing.

I take a sip of wine, peeking at him over the rim of the glass. This is going well, I think.

He smiles at me. I love the way he smiles – soft and simple.

Everything seems genuine with Danny, which makes a change.

It’s hard to put your trust in a man, and it’s difficult enough to do it for the first time, but there’s a hopeful excitement that comes with it.

But when you try, and fail, to trust a man, again and again, then suddenly the thought of placing yourself in his hands feels like an extreme sport.

Far more extreme than climbing a mountain.

Then again, Danny sounds like a great guy to have by your side at the top of a mountain.

So long as you don’t mind rubbing his thigh, which I don’t, because he’s gorgeous.

Messy dirty-blonde hair, the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, a great smile. The attraction is definitely there.

‘So you’re basically responsible for making sure we all have clean water,’ Danny says.

Ugh, now this is the real test, talking about my job.

‘Oh, when you put it like that, I guess I do,’ I say with exaggerated pride. ‘No pressure. Well, some pressure.’

Shit. It’s cracking jokes like that – ones better suited for the office – that could send this thing south. Whether he gets it or not, he laughs.

‘That’s really impressive,’ he says. ‘You must be really smart.’

‘It’s mostly staring at spreadsheets,’ I say. ‘And occasionally standing in the middle of the field wondering where it all went wrong.’

‘I’m no stranger to wondering where it all went wrong – usually while I’m sitting in A & E,’ he replies. ‘I love my job a bit too much sometimes, I get a bit overenthusiastic, I don’t know when to slow down…’

‘Is that what happened to your finger?’ I ask.

He nods.

‘You should see me drilling…’

I’m sure it’s only because I haven’t had sex in a really long time, but everything he says suddenly sounds like dirty talk.

We’re in my house, my bedroom is upstairs, we’re alone – would it really be so bad to jump the gun a little? Forget the five-date rule. I’ve tried that. Perhaps my problem is that I play it too safe. I’m too scared to fall.

What if I jumped?

I untuck my long blonde hair from behind my ear, as though it’s going to cloak me, to stop Danny from reading my mind.

I know, I know, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I take another sip of wine and remind myself not to get carried away.

It’s just a date, just a dinner… except it feels like more.

He’s entertaining, he likes my cooking, he credits me as being the kind of girl who can bake bread, for fuck’s sake. I’m going to say it… it’s going great.

Of course that’s when the door opens.

‘Sammie, darling, you didn’t say you were having company…’

What I want to say is: I didn’t, because you said you would be out. What I say instead is…

‘Oh, didn’t I?’

Danny looks back and forth between us, trying to work out what’s going on.

‘I thought you were out tonight…’ I say.

‘Change of plan – I thought I’d have a night on the sofa with you. You and…’

‘Danny,’ he replies.

‘Danny, lovely to meet you. I’m Chris.’

I’m going to have to say something, this is so awkward…

‘Sammie’s housemate?’ he asks.

Nope. It’s worse. So, so much worse.

‘Oh, bless you. No, I’m not her housemate. I’m her mum!’

My mum, Chrissy (although she’s trialling Chris, during this phase of – what does she call it? – reinvention), has been living with me for 150 years. At least that’s what it feels like.

‘Any dinner left for me?’ she asks, dumping her shopping bags down on the table with so much force she almost blows the candle out.

I close my eyes briefly. Do you think, if I play dead for long enough, she’ll be gone when I open my eyes again? Or will she reappear like a jump scare in a horror movie?

Nope, she’s still here. So is Danny… for now. I watch his face, his thoughts clearly racing as he wonders what this is.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t join you,’ she says with a chuckle. ‘I’ll have what’s left after you’ve gone upstairs.’

‘We’re not going upstairs,’ I quickly insist. Because we’re not. Not with my mum downstairs. Is she mad?!

I daren’t even look to see how that reaction has gone down with Danny. I’m sure there’s a way for him to take that personally.

‘No? Was her cooking that bad?’ she asks Danny with a wink. ‘She never cooks for her dates. She never really cooks for anyone, she must really like you…’

Oh, it’s so hard, because I know that she means well, but I really want to smack her with what’s left of the ciabatta until she stops saying things.

‘Mum…’ I start, but my voice trails off. I’m hoping she’ll take the hint.

‘I need to head off soon anyway,’ Danny says, which is the first I’m hearing of it.

‘Oh, don’t rush on my account,’ she says immediately. ‘I can make myself scarce.’

She absolutely cannot make herself scarce. She lives here.

I dare to meet Danny’s gaze. Oh no, there it is, a mixture of sympathy and discomfort. I can see him pulling away. Quite literally. He’s standing up, reaching for his jacket from the back of the chair.

‘You don’t…’

‘It’s fine,’ he tells me. ‘Really. I’ve got an early start tomorrow anyway.’

‘Right, okay,’ I say – well, what else can I say?

Mum takes this as her cue to start gathering her bags, presumably to leave the room. Fab, yeah, a bit of privacy. It’s too late now though.

‘It was really nice,’ he says as he puts on his jacket. ‘Thank you for dinner.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I reply. ‘I—’

‘Don’t worry, I can see myself out,’ he reassures me with a smile.

Yeah, and he can’t do it fast enough.

The door closes behind him with a soft (but undeniably purposeful) click.

‘Well,’ my mum says as she heads for the kitchen. She starts unpacking her shopping, laying it all out on the worktop. I notice her give my cooking mess a dirty look – no pun intended. ‘He seems nice.’

‘Yeah, he did,’ I reply.

‘You should have told me you were having a man over,’ she replies. ‘I wouldn’t have walked in.’

I wrinkle my nose, not that she can see me. I’m sure she thinks that’s true, that she believes she’s giving me my personal space, but it doesn’t feel that way to me.

She’s my mum and I love her, more than anyone else on the planet, but I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman who is living with her mum. Men don’t love that. It makes me look like a silly baby.

Then, as if to prove my point, she starts cleaning up after me.

‘You could invite him over again,’ she suggests. ‘I’ll make myself scarce.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ I reply. ‘Anyway, how was your day?’

My mum does that very mumsy thing of telling me all about her day, in lots of detail, mentioning lots of people by name that I don’t know.

It does make me smile when she says things like ‘You know Paula? Paula Clarke. Paula Paula. Mick’s wife.

Mick from the butchers. He has a son to another woman and her other son went to school with you, but not your year, the one above, or the one above that – he had ginger hair.

Dropped out of the army, has a kid he doesn’t see…

’ only to end the tale with ‘anyway, she died’.

I start clearing the plates from the table, bringing them in and placing them in the dishwasher. Of course Mum takes them back out and pre-washes them, then places them inside the dishwasher in a way that she believes is correct.

She means well. She means well. She means well.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ she tells me. ‘I’m sure he’ll call.’

I mean, he would probably WhatsApp me, because it’s 2026, but that’s by the by. I saw that look in his eye. There’s no way he’s going to get in touch.

I return to the dining room to blow out the candles. It was all going so well until it wasn’t. Well, you know what, forget him. I know, having my mum turn up isn’t ideal, but she’s my mum and she’s living here. If that puts him off, well, then I feel sorry for his mum.

It’s just… it was going so well… and… ugh. It’s over now. No big argument. No disastrous dinner. Just… over.

My mum has done so much for me over the years. If she needs a place to stay, then my door is always open.

But in the meantime, it means closing the door on my love life.