Chapter 10
SAMMIE
Getting ready for dinner on a yacht is exactly like getting ready for dinner anywhere else – except now and again the floor occasionally moves, and your mum keeps saying things like, ‘Oh, isn’t Nico wonderful?
’ while you try to apply eyeliner without removing an eye – by accident or on purpose.
Any valid excuse to leave would be welcome.
I’m standing in the tiny bathroom, leaning far too close to the mirror, trying to make myself look presentable.
I’ve had a permanent frown since I got here, so I’m trying to create the illusion of lift by applying eyeliner and lip liner in a way that counteracts the weight of the world on my face.
It’s hard not to scowl at my reflection, for falling for a scam like this – and at the hands of my own mother too.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Mum calls from the cabin.
‘I’m concentrating,’ I reply.
‘On what?’
‘Not blinding myself,’ I insist – although part of my attention is scanning for escape routes.
When I come out of the bathroom, Mum is standing in front of the mirror by the wardrobe wearing a coral dress I have not seen before.
It’s soft and floaty, skimming her waist and falling around her knees, and she looks genuinely beautiful in it.
There’s a brightness to her that softens my anger at the situation, if only a little.
Obviously, I want her to be happy – I just don’t want to be a part of it.
‘You look lovely,’ I tell her.
She turns, pleased.
‘Do I?’
‘Gorgeous,’ I insist.
‘Not too much?’
‘For dinner on a yacht in Monaco?’ I joke. ‘I think too much is a standard requirement.’
She smiles and smooths her hands down the fabric.
‘I bought it just for the trip,’ she says. ‘I can’t imagine wearing this back home.’
She sits on the edge of the bed, patting the space next to her, indicating for me to join her.
I did wonder when she was going to address the elephant in the room – the fact that she tricked me here.
‘This is exactly why I wanted you to come,’ she says.
‘To check your outfits?’
‘To check my everything,’ she says. ‘Darling, it’s been so long since I dated someone, I’m not sure I know what I’m doing. I need you here to keep me in check, make sure I don’t do anything stupid. Plus, if I get all tongue-tied, you can step in – you’re so good with people.’
‘Erm, I’m good with engineers,’ I reply. ‘But regular people? I’m not so sure.’
‘No, you definitely are,’ she insists. ‘I couldn’t do this without you… but I am sorry I wasn’t honest. I thought you would say no.’
‘You thought right,’ I say, unable to stifle my laugh. ‘But I’m here now, so I’m happy to help. Well, no, not happy. But I’m here…’
‘Oh, thank you so much, darling,’ she tells me. ‘You don’t know how much I appreciate it. Plus, this is still a break for you – and a nice one at that.’
I suppose it still sort of is… technically… but I would have preferred it without the random men we essentially picked up in a bar.
‘Yeah, I guess there’s that,’ I reply.
‘Just make sure you turn that phone off.’
‘I mean, I don’t have to go that far, sometimes people need me,’ I point out.
‘People need to learn to cope without you,’ she replies, missing the irony in that one.
I stand up to put on my jewellery. The armour to go with my warpaint.
And then it’s time to join the boys for dinner – ugh, I’m dreading it.
I didn’t exactly show either of them that I’m happy to be here – because I’m not, obviously, but I don’t want anything to be any more awkward than it absolutely has to be.
For a minute, we finish getting ready in a silence that is almost comfortable.
I’m wearing a green wrap dress – one that I already own.
I didn’t buy anything special for the occasion, because I didn’t think we were going anywhere as fancy as Monte Carlo.
I secure it tightly at the waist, lest I pop out of the front of it – I’ll never forget my time on the dance floor at my friend Whit’s wedding for that very reason.
As Mum puts on her sandals, the day so far flashes before my eyes in little bursts.
The airport. The drive. The marina. My hopes building and then sinking to the seabed below us.
Hank waving at us in his dorky little hat.
Nico appearing with shopping bags and the same blindsided expression that was etched across my face.
I wonder if he’s handling this as well as I am?
I suppose we’re in the same boat – if you’ll pardon the pun.
‘I can’t believe I’m playing along with this,’ I say as we head for the door.
‘With dinner?’ Mum replies – she has to be playing it innocent with that one; she knows what I mean.
‘With all of it.’
Her face shifts to something a little more sympathetic.
‘I know it’s a lot.’
‘A lot is exactly how I’d describe it,’ I reply. ‘Or maybe even: too much.’
‘Dinner is dinner,’ she reminds me. ‘And a yacht is a yacht.’
I mean, she’s not wrong. I want to argue, but she looks so pleased with herself, so alive with this nervous excitement.
No, I’m not happy about any of it, and I’m still very much annoyed, but there’s a part of me that understands why she did it.
She wanted something to look forward to.
She wanted me to have something to look forward to – I believe that’s true – but she wanted to see Hank, and she didn’t want to come alone. It’s win-win for her really.
‘Well, the dinner had better be very good,’ I warn her, wondering if Monte Carlo has a McDonald’s. I would take my phone out of my clutch and google it, but my mum might accuse me of trying to check in with work.
‘Hank said it would be something special.’
Yeah, but he probably thought his hat was something special, so I’m not convinced by that statement at all.
We make our way through the narrow corridor and up towards the deck.
The evening has settled beautifully over the marina by the time we step outside, and I’m almost irritated by how taken I am with it.
Monaco at night is ridiculous. All gold lights reflecting on the dark water – like everything here glitters.
The yachts around us glow softly too, music drifting from somewhere nearby, laughter carrying through the air in little bursts.
Meanwhile, the deck has been transformed from a casual day vibe to a sleek, almost romantic evening dining space.
The table has been set properly with white linen, polished cutlery, little tea lights in glass holders and flowers arranged low in the middle so everyone can still see each other.
There are wine glasses, plates already laid, folded napkins and an ice bucket tucked discreetly to one side, with a bottle of something expensive-looking chilling in it.
Everything looks like something from a lifestyle magazine that I couldn’t afford – and yes, I do mean I couldn’t afford the magazine.
Hank is standing near the table in a pale linen shirt and navy trousers, looking absurdly pleased with himself – did he do this?
Because if the man who wore that hat earlier (mercifully, he isn’t wearing it tonight) is the same guy who laid this table, then I’m gagged.
Then again, the man owns a yacht, so I’ve clearly underestimated him.
Nico is next to him, brooding – more like stropping like a twelve-year-old boy who has been dragged to a family wedding.
Still, reluctant as I am to admit it, he looks great.
He’s wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark trousers, no tie and an air of confidence that means he probably knows he looks great.
His hair looks still slightly damp from the shower, brushed back in a way that makes him look both sharper and somehow more relaxed – and absolutely more like he belongs on a yacht.
He glances over as we appear, and for a second his eyes land on me with enough attention that my heart skips a beat.
‘Nico, doesn’t Sammie look nice,’ Hank prompts him with a nudge.
‘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.