Ship of Fools Read online

  The Lambert & Gloss showroom looks almost out of place, set back from the main road, surrounded by mature trees, and with views over the picturesque postcard town that I have lived in my entire life. It’s a small town with big ambitions. Well, at least that is what the town-hall motto screams from the billboards outside. It’s supposedly no longer just a countryside town, but we are part of the Greater Manchester area, with high speed trains and fancy retail parks on our doorstep. It might sound all posh, but the majority of the population here work hard, live hard, and struggle like everyone else. My family are hardly rich or affluent. Mum and Dad own a small bungalow, and I rent a one-bed flat a few blocks from the house where I grew up. I’ve done well for myself, and most of the time, I’m happy and content with my life.

  I’m meeting the head sales guy today, about a neglected vintage monstrosity that’s had me sighing with despair all week, yet with the money they are offering? I would be mad to turn down. It’s a restoration job, with handmade exclusive custom parts, and with some careful cleaning and a few repairs it will emerge as a beautiful, sleek car that will stand out a mile. It will also attract boy racers and thieves, with the proposed gold-plated alloys and custom reflective paint, but hey, the buyer has the cash, and I have the knowledge. Lambert & Gloss, know their customers, and if they are offering me the job, I’m not going to let them down.

  ‘’Luca Germano.” I say, louder than I meant to, trying to crack an apologetic-looking smile at the lady manning the reception. She looks a little out of place, like someone has let their grandmother out of a nursing home to sit by the desk, but her stern face and heavy-rimmed glasses soon put me right.

  “Mr. Germano.” She booms, looking me over like she is inspecting a car. Well, I am wearing a clean hoodie, and jeans with no holes, from what I can remember. I am also wearing well-polished boots.

  My father always told us never to leave the house with unpolished shoes. “We may wear oily overalls all day at work—” he would boom, “—but that doesn’t mean we can’t take pride in our footwear.”

  “That’s me,” I say back, trying to smile again. I’m not much of a smiler. I don’t particularly like dealing with office people, and these kinds of sales meetings freak me out. Give me a car workshop, and a pair of oily overalls, and I can show you what I can do. Turning up in an office with a folder full of designs and proposals? I hope this guy knows his stuff, because I am not up for small talk today. Show me what you need done, and I will deliver.

  “Italian?” the receptionist asks, her face suddenly softening.

  “Si, signora,” I quip back, my grandmother’s stern language lessons kicking in without me being able to stop it.

  ‘’Oh, I don’t speak it.” She smiles, and nods to me to follow her up the glass staircase to the second floor. “I go on holiday to Venice every year. My husband and I enjoy two cruises a year. Venice is our favourite, it’s a beautiful city.”

  I just nod. I’ve never been to Venice, just to the dodgy part of Rome that my dad calls home. Its downtrodden streets, and dingy flats, and a life very much like the one I have here in England. Just with a cooler language and better food, and the weather. Italian summers were the highlight of my childhood, a chance to escape the British rain for a while.

  I glance around the area and accept the seat offered on the stark, white leather sofa. It’s an impressive building, displaying several high-end cars on the ground floor, with glass stairs and balconies leading to the open-plan mezzanine, where the sales offices are located. Stylish, light, waiting areas are dotted around, where customers can enjoy a complimentary beverage whilst parting with their hard-earned cash. There are no signs for loans or credit percentages displayed here. It’s just not that kind of place.

  Here, Lambert & Gloss’ affluent customers are invited to relax on the lush leather sofas, and refresh themselves with champagne from the crystal glasses on display, and there is a sleek-looking stainless-steel espresso maker bubbling away in the corner.

  “Espresso?” the receptionist offers. She clearly doesn’t speak Italian, so I politely rein in my urge to correct her pronunciation, and just nod lamely instead. I could kill for a cup of tea, but I don’t dare to ask. Nor would a glass of the expensive champagne on display in the glass chiller, do me any favours. I don’t drink, not anymore. Give me a glass of water, or some freshly pressed orange juice, and I will be happier than anything, or maybe a cup of tea. I love a good cup of tea.

  I can handle the fine-looking espresso placed in front of me, though, and I almost have to close my eyes as I accept the small cup and inhale the aroma.

  “Mr. Germano?” a voice behind me says, as I stand up, trying not to spill coffee all over myself.

  The coffee spills, all over my hand, as I turn around. Because I know this man. I know every feature of his face, despite him now wearing a suit, and, however much I try not to, I smile, smile like a loon.

  “Oh fuck,” he says. The guy. Then he snorts, and a blush creeps up his cheeks, as he lets out a little giggle. “This is... unexpected.”

  He tries to save the moment, grabbing a folded napkin from the table, and handing it to me, as I clumsily try to clean the coffee from my hand, spilling more from the coffee cup in the process.

  “Let me get you a fresh espresso,” he says, not able to pronounce it correctly either.

  The name badge on his suit says Mr. Andreas Mitchell, Sales Manager. I’ve never known his name, just his face. Well, who am I kidding? I know the outline of his body, like I’ve mapped it with my fingers. I know every freckle on his face. I know every little bone in his fingers, every crease on his rosy pink lips, because I’ve stared at them enough.

  “Come into my office,” he says, leading the way up the glass staircase.

  “Andreas.” I say it in my head, over and over. Andreas. It suits him, the name. It’s soft, and flowing, like a melody in my head. I would have hated him to have a short sharp name. Something common like Dave, or Tom. Andreas. I love it.

  “This is unexpected,” he repeats, as he closes the office door behind me. “Mrs White will bring you another coffee. Take a seat.”

  I just stand there like a fool, because what am I supposed to say? I haven’t expected this either. I’ve had no idea what the guy I have been fantasising about for months, actually does for a living, and to be honest, I have never cared. It’s not like I’ve thought I would ever have the chance to talk to the guy. That, chatting-people-up thing? That’s not what I do. Never have. Never will.

  “I know who you are,” I blurt out. “I mean, I’ve seen you around, but that... that has nothing to do with why I’m here.” I try to wipe my palms on the front of my hoodie, in a vague attempt to compose myself.

  “You are Luca Germano?” he says instead, then crosses his arms in front of his chest.

  “Yep.” I’m smooth, as always. I’ve told you I am not a talker. I just want to know what he needs and show him my suggestions. I have sketches, based on the model mentioned in their contract offer, and I had a brief chat with James, one of the Lambert & Gloss mechanics that I have dealt with before. It’s just a few ideas that bounced around in my head, having not even seen the photos of the actual car.

  I know the car has mould, damp and extensive interior damage. The old electronics need to be stripped, and the whole thing has to be rewired to modern specs. The once-white interiors need to be restored, and the client has talked about high-end speaker bars to be sunk into the dashboard. Ridiculous perhaps, but in my line of work, orders like this take skill and imagination, sourcing the right parts, with added custom fittings. In the end, when it all comes together into something that is both stylish, sleek and sounds good, then my job is done, even if the end result isn’t something I would necessarily want to drive myself.

  “I... suppose I should apologise for… Friday,” he says. Andreas. He’s trying to smile, but I can tell he is embarrassed. Squirming in the posh suit, his hands obviously clammy as he discreetly wipes them on th
e napkin still in his hand. It’s dirty from coffee, but he seems to have forgotten, leaving a small trail of brown lingering on his thumb.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.” I deflect, placing my folder on the table in front of us. “If you can just let me know your client’s requirements, I can show you some basic outlines for things that would be available to fit within your timeframe. James told me the car needs to be ready for the 24th? That’s three weeks?”

  “The client needs… he’s requested…” Andreas is flustered, and I’m not quite sure why.

  I’ve never approached him, or spoken to him, so I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. So, yes, I know him from the club, where he hangs out with his friends and dances and drinks. And he, the carefree man he becomes on the dance floor, is pure perfection. In the lights of the club he looks much younger, smooth and trim, with a blinding smile and an easy laugh. Blond hair that curls around his face, all cheekbones and dimples and sweetness wrapped up like a gift with a neat Christmas bow. Well, in my dreams, that is. He has a cute butt. Legs for days. Beautiful pecs that he shows off in those tight shirts he tends to wear. Here, under the bright office strip lights, he looks more mature, yet I can make his shape out in the suit he’s wearing, His jacket is just that little bit too tight, his trousers obviously tailored, showing off his neat bulge against the sleek lines of his legs. And I’ve blatantly rejected him.

  If I, and I’m using if here, if I ever had a partner, I would want someone like him. A man who would light up the room. Someone who would make me smile every time I saw him. I’ve never met a man like that, well, apart from this unattainable specimen right here, although I have had my fair share of temporary bed partners.

  “Can you give me a brief of what you need?” I say, probably a little too sternly as I reluctantly take a seat at the glass desk in front of me.

  Everything is too bright in here. Too sleek, too... He’s messing with my concentration, being right here. The man is too close, a soft scent of soap and aftershave wafting past my nose as I take a deep breath. Savour it. Intoxicating. That is what he is at the club, when I let myself dream, my eyes following him on the dance floor. I’m not ashamed. Every man has to pleasure himself somehow, and everyone has that image they conjure up in their head when the urge comes on.

  He’s mine. I can picture him easily, his mouth around my cock, his legs in the air, his face as he orgasms, my mouth sounding out his helpless moans as I coat my own hand in come. Everyone masturbates, and everyone has that fantasy that just tips them easily over the edge. Andreas, just the thought of his name in my head makes me smile, Andreas, is mine. He has been, ever since I first laid eyes on him. It doesn’t mean that I have some kind of messed-up idea that my wanking fantasies will ever become reality, especially now that I have met the real him. He’s way out of my league, a high-end executive, to my oily ragged freelance custom-car electronics-whizz-slash-mechanic-slash-interiors-designer self.

  I’m not stupid. If I want sex? I go get it, because I have people I can ring for that. I don’t get myself into stupid situations where I will be the one left with egg on my face.

  “You rejected me on Friday. I just want to apologise. I was drunk and rude,” he says instead, and surprisingly sits himself down on the opposite side of the table. “I’m not very clever after half a dozen shots, I can tell you that.”

  He only has to open his mouth, and I smile.

  “Can’t remember. So, it’s not a problem.”

  That’s me. Bury everything under a thick layer of ignorance. In a way, I am begging him to just give me the brief on paper, so I can get out of here. In another way, I could sit here and listen to him talk for days. He has a little lilt to his speech, a soft Mancunian accent I can’t quite place. And his dimples are even more prominent close up as I look up and find him smiling at me.

  “So, it’s not a problem?” he says.

  I love how unprofessional he is. I would have just pretended I had never met him before in my life and moved on. But that’s just me. Instead, he is sitting here apologising for some kind of lame drunk thing that neither of us remember.

  Well, that’s a lie, I do remember. I would never in a million years have said yes to his drunken proposal. I don’t take advantage of people, and I certainly don’t bring home people who have no idea what they are getting themselves into. Andreas was drunk, and that? No. Would never have happened.

  “You were having a good time. I was leaving. Not a problem.” I grunt, spreading out my wiring diagrams over the table. “Please don’t mention it again.”

  “I was drunk, and I have a feeling I behaved badly. You could have taken advantage,” he teases.

  So, he’s a flirt at work too, despite looking totally professional, offering small smiles between each sentence spilling out of his perfect pretty mouth. I should say something about it, make his flirting into a joke. I don’t, because I’m a dick, but hey? What’s new?

  “I don’t take advantage of drunk men who should call it a night and go home,” I find myself saying, as I look up and find him giggling softly.

  “Good advice.” He smiles. I melt. Again. “Last orders is usually the time when I make those really bad choices and mess up my life.”

  “Don’t,” I warn. I mean that in a multitude of ways, but Andreas, just chatters on. Something about one-night stands and unsuitable men, and the way his life is going down the drain, because he is a complete tool when it comes to being drunk, and desperate at the end of the night.

  “It’s a T400iXR? Original model?” I say instead, pretending to look through my neatly scribbled notes.

  “It’s a beautiful car.” Andreas grabs a pair of dark-rimmed glasses from his pocket, placing them casually on his nose. Something that shouldn’t make me catch my breath, but suddenly my majestic masturbation fantasies have risen to a whole new level. I stutter and pretend to cough, when in reality, I probably let slip a tiny moan of arousal. He’s... he’s… truly something else.

  “Talk to me,” I say instead. I could just as easily have said something completely inappropriate at this point, as he leans over the table and grabs one of my sketches. A sleek outline of the car, with a few metallic modifications to create added curves and reshape to fit modern brake lights.

  “The buyer wants the car to be more feminine. A T400 was never meant to be a feminine car. She is a beast, a road warrior. But this?” Andreas almost stutters.

  “This, is just the start,” I say quietly, letting my eyes gaze over the designs. Once cleaned up, the soft leather restored, with pearlescent inlays to discreetly house the Bose soundbar in the dash. Hidden USB sockets in the armrests, and a Wi-Fi system built around the dials complementing the look. It’s not over the top, just subtle, in line with the customer's brief. Smooth. Pretty. Just like him.

  “You’re good.” He smiles. I melt. It’s hard to control it when he’s so close. I can smell him. If I reached out, I could touch him. I can almost taste him on my tongue.

  “He wants the car delivered for Christmas?”

  “The car arrives here tomorrow, and we have three weeks to complete modifications. Some parts will have to be ordered in, but the sound system he wants is widely available, and, well, the modifications are obviously not off-the-shelf items.”

  “I will make them,” I huff quietly. He knows this. That’s what he’s asked for. That’s why I am here. “I have conditions, and need access to the vehicle first thing tomorrow,” I say, as he interrupts me.

  “You’ve worked for us before, and I’m familiar with your company. Everything will be made available to you as per your previous contracts, if that is still what you prefer. Have you thought about your fee?”

  “I…” I start. He’s staring at me. I’m staring back. There’s something in his face, the glasses, the look he gives me. It makes me an imbecile. I smile. Smile like a child. “...usual fees.”

  “This one is time sensitive. The deadline is fixed, and we will deliver on time,” he
says firmly, letting his fingers gather up the paperwork on the table.

  “The client will collect as planned. I can’t see a problem with that,” I mumble into my drawings, as he hands them back to me.

  “It’s a lot of work. The chassis is in a state, there is extensive damp, the complete rewiring...”

  He looks quite distraught, pulling out some photos from a leather binder. I look. I sigh. The car is a wreck, but I’ve seen worse. It’s doable. As long as the model is the correct one, and as long as my contacts deliver on the parts. We have three weeks.

  “Can your people deliver?” I ask. They can. I have worked with them before.

  “Can I trust you?” he asks back. Badly chosen words. He can trust me. Professionally? Yes. Emotionally? I’m a bit of a mess on the inside, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “I will deliver, as long as the photos and description of the work needed are correct.” I always do. My dad taught me not to make promises that I can’t deliver on, and this car? Piece of cake. I just need to see it first to calm the unease in my stomach.

  “Welcome on board.” He grins and reaches his hand across the table.

  I don’t take it, instead I just stuff my paperwork into the folder, more forcefully than I should. I nod. I leave.

  I don’t need to have anything else to do with him from now on. I’ll just check in with the mechanics in the bay on my way out, and sort whatever workshop time I’ll need. It’s better if I don’t see Andreas Mitchell again. Saner. Safer.

  Better.

  It’s just a job after all.

  Andreas

  I haven’t been avoiding the workshops. Well, that’s what I keep telling myself. Instead, I have been trying to be good, by avoiding unnecessary drama. That’s an expression Charlie used a lot this weekend.

  Mostly the unnecessary drama was other people’s fault. Perhaps equally mine, what do I know? I don’t remember much from Friday night—just that I woke up in a strange flat in the early hours of Saturday, with a dude I don’t remember snoring next to me, and bruises all down my legs.