Chapter 1
“They don’t even begin to understand that if he is to be truly fit to take command of a ship, a real ship’s captain must of necessity be thoroughly familiar with the seasons of the year, the stars in the sky, the winds, and everything to do with his art. As for how he is going to steer the ship - regardless of whether anyone wants him to or not - they do not regard this as an additional skill or study which can be acquired over and above the art of being a ship’s captain. If this is the situation onboard, don’t you think the person who is genuinely equipped to be captain will be called a stargazer, a chatterer, of no use to them, by those who sail in ships with this kind of crew?”
From The Ship of Fools, by Plato, the ancient Athenian philosopher
Copyright © 2020 Sophia Soames
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ISBN 9798573820927
Cover Design and Photography ©2020 Aurelia Morris
The people in the cover artwork are models and should not be connected to the
characters in the book. Any resemblance is incidental.
All artwork and fonts are licenced and/or free for commercial use by Sophia Soames,
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Graphics: Love by Andrea Gonzalez from the Noun Project
Ship of Fools by Mike Pick from the Noun Project
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
References to real people, events, TV shows, organisations, establishments, or locations
are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any
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Beta reading by Erika Budavölgyiné Paksai
Final Editing by Twoenns Editing
Originally Edited by Ann Attwood Editing and Proofreading Services
Formatting by Leslie Copeland at LesCourt Author Services
Proofreading Elouise East, ClockTower Editing
“It’s only words,” Charlie would have said. “Words don’t define you. You are just what you are, and you can’t help who you fall in love with.”
Not that Charlie is in love with me. Not the way my heart has decided that he’s the only thing allowed in that big cavity in my chest where my feelings hang out.
“I’m in love with Charlie,” I say to the mirror instead. “I’m in love with him, and I don’t know what to do with all that.”
This thing with Charlie? It has to end. I can’t go on like this. I just…
“Get a grip, Daniel,” I say to the face in the mirror. “Get a fucking grip.”
This thing with Charlie started six months after my divorce finally came through. At the time, I had just moved into the modern-looking budget hotel on the corner of Chistleworth’s town square, having put my meagre belongings from thirty-two years of living into a weird green storage facility on the other side of town. Everything left of my old life, and everything I now owned, securely packed up in pristine cardboard boxes with my surname neatly printed on barcoded labels. Now, it also included an official letter declaring me, once again, a free man.
I didn’t feel free. I felt burdened with a life I didn’t know what to do with. I didn’t even know how to get around the town I was now going to call home, having lived all my life in London. I had run away from that life faster than I could say arguments, heartbreak and divorce. But I had found myself a new job, packed up the remnants of my splintered life, and decided that life in Chistleworth would heal all my wounds. I had also bought a bike because if I was going to embrace small-town living, I was going to do it properly. No more packed tubes and buses, just a healthy commute along tree-lined streets, with the hills as a postcard-worthy backdrop.
I should have known then that life as I knew it was over. But it wasn’t the first time I had needed to pick myself out of a deep, dark hole of misery, and it wouldn’t be the last.
I knew that with certainty now as I slowly unwrapped myself from the comfort of sleep. I was still in the same dingy hotel room with its sleek Scandinavian-wood theme, white crisp linen and framed cheery prints on the walls. It was just that I intuitively knew that he was gone, and the clouds sailed into my head, humming the inevitable song of depression and grief.
He was gone. Just like he said he would be.
I tried to sniff the bedlinen, hoping to catch a lasting memory of him, only to find the sheets smelling of detergent and the pillows of nothing at all. It was almost like I’d imagined him, and that nothing from the last week had been remotely real at all.
I sat myself up and tried to gather my thoughts. They were all over the place, half screaming at me and half wanting to make me cry. The rest of me?
I was not a hopeless mess. I was not unable to love. Nor was I unable to find someone to love me back. I had so much more to give, so much more to discover, and I thought I could be happy again—one day. If I could just manage to wake up in the morning and figure out how to be me because this new me was like some kind of crazy cartoon version of myself. I needed to learn to be someone who was more normal because I realised that I had absolutely no idea what to do with this strange person I had mysteriously become.
So, I threw the covers back over my head and let myself sink into darkness as the alarm on my phone set the world alight with its almighty electronic shriek.
I supposed it was time to get real. Wake up. Stop trying to be something I was not.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and hobbled out into the bathroom, the stark light from the bathroom mirror making me look even paler and more dishevelled than normal.
“Hello, Daniel,” I said to myself in the mirror, grimacing back at my reflection. My hair was too long, unkempt and straggly around my face which was blotchy from sleep. Justine used to say that I looked like an older, scruffier version of fitness guru Joe Wicks with my messy dark curls and stubbly chin. Just less muscular and a bit more mature.
“Homosexual…” I said sternly. “I am a homosexual man.”
I giggled, feeling embarrassed at the words coming out of my mouth. If Charlie were here, he would’ve laughed. Joe Wicks would have told me to hit the floor and do push-ups until I cried.
“It’s only words,” Charlie would’ve said. “Words don’t define you. You are just what you are, and you can’t help who you fall in love with.”
Not that Charlie was in love with me. Not the way my heart had decided that he was the only thing allowed in that big cavity in my chest where my feelings hung out.
“I’m in love with Charlie,” I said to the mirror instead. “I’m in love with him, and I don’t know what to do with all that.”