‘Do I have to salute you or. . .’
He laughs. ‘Not at all. Captain is more of a politeness. But you can call me master if you wish.’
He sees the look of discomfort creep over my face.
‘No, no, not likethat! Master is my rank, not some weird control kink. My name is Ellis Simon and I wish I hadn’t made that joke.’
I smirk. ‘Nice to meet you, Ellis. I’m Sophie.’
We sit in silence for a moment before I eventually break the ice. ‘I can’t imagine taking a holiday at my job. But then my job isn’t at sea.’
‘What do you do?’ he asks.
‘Marketing. Not quite as exciting as sailing around the world. You must really like your job?’
‘Yeah, I do,’ he replies. ‘Well, I did. But I’m taking a break at the moment, you know, re-evaluating things. . .’
‘Sure.’
I don’t push the topic any further. Mainly because it’s none of my business but also because I don’t want to intrude on any existential crisis he might be experiencing by demanding some backstory.
‘So, you’re from the UK?’ he asks. ‘I live in London.’
‘Me too! Edgware.’
‘Feltham here.’
‘Nice! You’re American, though, right?’
He nods. ‘Grew up in Salem.’
Owen appears with the drink, motioning to another passenger that he’ll be right over.
‘Ah, like the film,Salem’s Lot?’
‘No, Salem, Massachusetts.’ He pauses. ‘Um, you do know that the novelSalem’s Lotwas set in Maine? Short for Jerusalem’s Lot. It also doesn’t exist. . .’
‘I did not know that.’ I laugh awkwardly. Nice one, Sophie, next you should talk about the fact that you also believed Camelot was real until your late twenties.
‘Easy mistake to make,’ he says as my cheeks turn pink. ‘We’re more about witches than vampires.’
We both sip our melting cocktails. It’s thirty degrees and if I wasn’t shaded by this umbrella, my pale skin would be frying like bacon, even underneath my factor fifty.
‘Booked any excursions?’ he asks. ‘There’s some good ones this week.’
‘Richie, I swear, if you splash my hair one more time. . .’
We both turn towards a woman lying on a stone lounger, scowling at the splash-happy Richie from behind her designer sunglasses.
I pull up the app on my phone and check my itinerary. ‘Yeah, I’ve booked for Olbia, Pompeii and Pisa. I wanted Civitavecchia for the Vatican, but it was full up.’
‘Nice,’ he replies. ‘The Vatican tour is great, but it’s also a three-hour coach ride with no bathroom on board. Not for everyone, especially if you’ve been eating at the buffet.’
‘I’ve been eating at the buffet! What’s wrong with—’
‘I’m kidding,’ he replies. ‘But between the ship and the coach, motion sickness can be a thing.’
As miffed as I am to miss the Vatican trip, three hours on a coach doesn’t sound particularly appealing. Three hours on a plane will get you snacks, coffee and a toilet that doesn’t require the plane to stop and let you out halfway.
