Page 49 of In the Same Boat

I swear I can feel the boat rocking, ever so gently, not enough to be a problem or make me feel seasick, just enough movement to remind me that I’m not on solid ground right now – geographically or emotionally.

I might be trapped in my own personal hell, but Mum seems over the moon.

Right on cue, she sighs, showing me just how content she is. She sees the luxury yacht, the fancy man, Monaco; she feels the luxurious mattresses below her. My presence here isn’t bothering her at all.

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ she whispers.

I turn my head slowly towards her.

‘What part specifically?’ I ask sarcastically.

She laughs at me.

‘All of it.’

The cabin lights are dimmed, with only a warm glow from the bedside lamp that makes everything look softer and dreamier (even though this is more like a nightmare). I can see Mum’s huge smile though, clear as day.

‘You really like him, don’t you?’ I say.

I know she’s told me that she does, but I mean, she really likes him. Enough for all of this to seem okay.

‘I do,’ she says softly.

She shifts beside me, the duvet pulling slightly with her movement. It’s a good job it’s warm tonight, because I get the feeling the duvet is going to be as difficult to share as the mattress.

‘He’s kind,’ she says. ‘And funny. And intelligent.’

‘Kind, yeah, okay, we’re on his yacht,’ I agree. ‘Funny – I assume his hat was a joke, so maybe, but intelligent? He thinks the boat is called Carp Dime.’

She laughs quietly.

‘Oh, leave him alone. He was probably joking.’

‘I wish I could leave him alone, I wish I could get away from everyone,’ I insist. ‘Hank, Nico – even you. You’re going to take me out with that elbow.’

‘Oh, no, I’m not giving you an excuse to leave,’ she jokes.

It is difficult to resent the reason for her good mood, because it’s nice to see her so happy, I just wish I didn’t have to be so miserable at the same time.

I pull the duvet up slightly and stare back at the ceiling. This is really not what I imagined when Mum told me she’d booked us a holiday. Not one part of it. Not the country, the accommodation, the company, the one bed between us. I would have been much happier going to the coast for a long weekend. I had pictured quiet mornings in a hotel room where no one needed anything from me. A balcony, maybe, looking out over the sea. A huge bed entirely to myself. Room service. Long soaks in the bath. The kind of rest where nobody is talking at you or expecting anything or invading your personal space.

Instead, I’m here.

‘I can hear you overthinking,’ Mum says beside me.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘You’ve gone very quiet.’

‘I’m tired.’

‘Hmm…’

I sigh because, annoyingly, she’s right.

‘I just can’t believe this is my holiday,’ I admit. ‘This is the annual leave I’ve been hoarding for a special occasion. Months of stress and spreadsheets and site meetings and sewage reports – and it was all for this.’

‘There will be other holidays,’ she reminds me.