Chapter 12
NICO
I always wonder why it is that even the men who can’t cook are experts at cooking two things: breakfast and barbecue.
Genuinely, I am near useless in the kitchen, but my breakfasts could win awards. I don’t know how it’s possible, but if I’m making a full English – it’s perfect. Making hot dogs on the barbecue – a work of art. But as soon as I try to cook the same sausages for bangers and mash – absolute failure.
I’ve woken up feeling like I need to try harder, to make this trip work, even if it’s just to make it go faster. I started thinking about what I could bring to the table and it came to me… breakfast, no pun intended.
I’ve always found that food makes everything better, whether it’s cooked, served or delivered.
If you’ve had a bad day, if morale dips at work, if you want to celebrate or commiserate.
Food is always the answer. When I was growing up, when I was frustrated or angry, my dad would always tell me: you’re not angry, you’re hungry.
And do you know what? Even if I was angry, the food helped.
In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the burger that made me feel better, it was probably taking time out to talk about things or distract myself.
Yes, it would have been nice if he had briefed me on the mission, but I don’t mind an unexpected side quest here and there. I’m hoping this works today, because this week will be a lot easier if we all play nice.
This yacht is usually my safe space, as cringe as that sounds, but I can’t think of a better way to describe it. It’s where I usually come to escape real life, to clear my head – it’s generally not where I watch my dad crack on with women, even when we do come here together.
I might not be here alone, but I still get that feeling.
The morning light pours in through the windows in soft gold stripes, catching on polished wood, the metal fixings, the glass.
It always seems quiet on a morning, like we could genuinely be out at sea – I love the peace and tranquillity.
This is my kind of vibe. Chilling, cooking, gaming until late.
My dad would say I’m getting old but I think I just know what I like.
I’m making pancakes, because they’re a hard thing to dislike.
I’ve got a variety of toppings on offer so, really, they’re as good as what you top them with, but I like to think I’ve got my base recipe down now.
I slice strawberries, put out blueberries, warm maple syrup and prepare a bowl of Greek yoghurt with honey swirled through it.
There’s fresh coffee, orange juice – oh, and I bought pastries, because they’re exquisite from my usual bakery, and I wondered if Sammie might refuse to eat anything I made on principle.
It’s strange between us – I can never tell if we’re arguing, bantering or flirting.
I get the feeling she doesn’t like me, like we got off on the wrong foot, or she’s just genuinely repulsed by our parents dating, so that disgust filters down to me…
but then we’ll have a moment, a minute or two here or there, where we seem to perfectly align.
Of course, there is one thing we’re united on: this week being a bad idea.
The first batch of pancakes comes out well. The second batch is even better, though, and the third – perfection. These are the ones I need to give to the guests.
Dad appears while I’m plating up, wearing a pale blue polo shirt and a big, goofy grin.
‘Something smells good,’ he says. He comes over and peers at the stack of pancakes. ‘Very impressive.’
‘Try not to sound surprised.’
‘Well, you never do anything like this for just me,’ he points out. ‘Trying to impress someone?’
I throw a banana peel at him, which he catches and throws back.
‘Even the bread keeps its head down in the toaster when you’re around – that’s probably why you burn it,’ he jokes. You can’t beat a dad joke, unfortunately, can you?
‘Don’t eat anything yet,’ I warn him, watching him hovering around the worktop, glancing into bowls, eyeing up the strawberries.
‘I can wait, I can wait,’ he reassures me. ‘I gave the girls a knock. They should be here soon.’
‘Great,’ I reply.
‘Sammie seems lovely, doesn’t she?’
I laugh.
‘I still don’t think she’s our biggest fan, Dad,’ I point out.
‘Then we need to work on that,’ he replies. ‘Chrissy tells me a lot about her and she sounds perfect. Smart, kind, beautiful…’
‘You’re single, she’s single – have you thought about telling her how you feel?’ I say sarcastically.
‘Erm, Chrissy is the one for me,’ he announces.
There’s a noise from behind him. Sammie clearing her throat, letting us know that she and her mum are standing there. I wonder how much they heard…
Dad beams when he sees them but there’s something underneath it. He’s nervous. Not obviously, not to anyone who doesn’t know him, but I do. Dad gets bigger when he’s feeling less confident.
‘Oh, Nico, this looks lovely,’ Chrissy says warmly. ‘Did you make all of this?’
I nod.
‘I did – coffee?’
‘Please.’
Dad immediately steps forward.
‘I’ll get it,’ he insists. ‘I helped, didn’t I, son?’
I can’t help but pull a face. But what kind of wingman would I be if I didn’t say…
‘Sure.’
Sammie walks over and casts a curious eye over the breakfast. She’s wearing a floaty blue dress, one without straps – I don’t think I’ve ever truly appreciated how much there is to admire about a pair of shoulders, a neckline, the way she strokes her collarbone as she thinks.
As she gets closer I can smell the sun cream on her skin.
‘Do you like pancakes?’ I ask.
‘Hmm, sometimes,’ she replies.
I wonder if that’s true, or if she’s messing with me.
I know that she’s smart – her mum mentioned she has two degrees.
I wonder if one of them is in psychological warfare, because what do you mean ‘hmm, sometimes’?
How has this woman walked out here and made me feel insecure about breakfast?
It’s a shame she doesn’t play video games, because that kind of expert-level thinking could make her a valuable asset on my squad.
‘You made all of this from scratch?’ she asks.
‘No,’ Dad says brightly, appearing beside me with a coffee for Sammie. ‘We did.’
Sammie takes the coffee from him, smiling as though she knows that might not be true.
‘I do a lot for morale,’ Dad insists.
‘It’s an important job,’ Chrissy assures him.
We sit outside on the deck because Dad likes to make the most of the sun before it gets too hot to sit out. The morning is already warming up, the marina is twinkling, people are starting to move around. Monte Carlo is coming to life.
As we all sit down, I’m proud of the job I’ve done with the table. Pancakes stacked on a large white plate, toppings laid out in bowls so everyone can help themselves – the flowers from last night are still here, and I’m not usually a fan of flowers, but they elevate my efforts for sure.
I serve Chrissy first. Then Sammie, who watches me like I might be trying to poison her.
She cuts into hers with a scepticism usually reserved for defusing bombs.
I try not to watch as she takes her first bite, but I do and I could swear her eyes are trying to roll into the back of her head, but she’s fighting it.
Her poker face holds firm. I think she’s enjoying them though.
Her eyebrows lift very slightly, and she looks down at the plate like she can’t quite believe it.
‘Are they okay?’ I check.
‘Yeah, they’re okay,’ she says simply.
There’s a woman trying to hide her delight, if ever I saw one.
‘I’ve had better,’ she adds.
Ouch. Now those are the words of someone who is trying to hurt me.
‘Well, they’re the best I’ve ever had,’ Chrissy assures me. ‘You’ll have to give me the recipe.’
‘Ah, but then you wouldn’t have a reason to come back,’ Dad replies.
She smiles at him.
‘I’m sure I’d find one.’
Ha. They’re going to put me off my breakfast if they don’t give it a rest.
By the time Dad starts telling a story I would very much prefer he didn’t tell – as is almost always the case – I notice that half of Sammie’s food has vanished already.
‘Nico is usually a nightmare in the kitchen,’ Dad tells them.
I shoot him a look, telling him to leave it there, but I can see his smile growing. He thinks it’s charming when he tells this story. He’s the only one who thinks that.
‘There was one time when he cooked dinner for one of his girlfriends and nearly burned the flat down,’ he tells them.
Brilliant. Not only has he made me look like I can’t usually cook without a 999 call, but his choice of words, ‘one of his girlfriends’, makes it sound like I have multiple girlfriends at once. Sammie gives me a look, like maybe she heard it that way too.
‘They left a pan on,’ Dad continues. ‘The two of them… got distracted.’
Oh, what is he doing? Why is he making it sound like that? Yeah, we got distracted, watching the Eurovision Song Contest. It was a million years ago and Dad was there too.
I don’t know if he thinks he’s helping me, making me out to be some kind of stud – but one who needs taking care of, oddly – or what. He might need a wingman, but I don’t.
‘It wasn’t quite like that,’ I say, leaving it at that.
Sammie suddenly becomes very interested in her coffee.
And… things are awkward again. Perhaps even more so.
‘Well, you did a great job with the pancakes,’ Chrissy assures me. ‘You know, Sammie’s an excellent cook, she could give you lessons.’
Sammie visibly winces and I feel where she’s coming from.
‘Mum,’ Sammie says.
‘What? You are.’
I’m grateful when the conversation shifts to things more local.
Chrissy asks about the marina, and Dad talks about a route he wants to walk later.
Sammie eats the rest of her pancakes while maintaining the air of someone who has done so under protest – and yet she clears her plate, so they must have been good.
‘Right then. I’ve got a fun day planned,’ Dad says with a clap of his hands. One of those loud, single claps only dads seem to be able to do.
‘What kind of fun day?’ Sammie asks, bracing slightly.
Dad beams.
‘You’ll see.’
‘Dad, maybe Sammie wants to do her own thing,’ I suggest.
She looks at me like I’m trying to get rid of her – but that’s not what I meant.
‘Nonsense,’ he replies. ‘We’re all here together.’
Yeah, that’s the problem. The four of us here together, playing happy families, when we’re basically strangers.
It feels like all three of them are crashing my time off.
So much for a break from work, eh? I almost miss it, because at least the minefields in games are navigable, there’s always a route through, an obvious strategy.
Here I have no idea what I’m doing – and it’s not going to be fun at all. No matter what my dad says he has planned for us all.