‘It’s just such a shame, Sofia, because you really are a great chef. I would have loved to keep you on permanently, but it will be very difficult to have the both of you on board.’ Sofia had a sickening flash of déjà-vu. She had already been in this position, only a couple of months before, with Joy sitting opposite her.
‘Please, Captain, I know what I did was wrong, but you gave me a chance once when I really needed one, and I’m begging you for just one more. I won’t let you down again.’
Sofia wasn’t just fighting for her job, she was fighting for herself, like she hadn’t done last time. ‘I’ve loved my time in your kitchen, and I’m just asking for one more shot to prove to you that thatiswhat I’m here for. Jack...’ She stumbled over her words. ‘I mean Officer Carter – he’s not why I’m here. I’m not looking for a love story; I’m here to be the best chef I can be, and if that means I never talk to Officer Carter again, I can do that.’ She sat up a little straighter, looking defiant.
Captain Mary leant back in her chair, taking her time to consider her options. ‘OK, Sofia,’ she said after a long pause. ‘You have one more chance. Consider the rest of this charter your opportunity to impress me, and I’ll think about the permanent role.’
Sofia wanted to kiss the captain’s feet. ‘Thank you, thank you so much. I won’t let you down.’
The captain held up her hand, cutting her off. ‘As for Officer Carter, I’m afraid you simply won’t be able to completely avoid each other, but might I suggest you try and keep your interactions civil and... professional.’
‘Of course.’ Sofia thought she might cry with relief.
‘I see a lot of myself in you, Sofia. Don’t disappoint me.’ The captain’s tone was stern but Sofia thought she spied a fleck of sympathy in her eyes. Sofia scrambled to her feet as the captain opened the door for her.
‘See you at dinner.’ And with that, the door swung closed, and Sofia was left standing in the corridor.
As she walked down the stairs, she spotted Jack through a window. He and Declan were kneeling in front of what looked like a vent. They were both concentrating, but they seemed comfortable enough around each other. Sofia wondered if they had discussed what happened last night, or swept it all under the rug.
Sometimes she envied the ease of male friendships; other times she felt resentful that it always seemed to fall on the women present to get to the bottom of the things they were trying to leave unsaid.
She automatically headed for the kitchen and then realised she didn’t really have anything to do before dinner. It was so rare that she wasn’t rushed off her feet that Sofia was at a loss. She decided to go and find Petra.
The laundry room was stuffy and humid, but there was something so cosy about the smell of freshly ironed linens that it made her homesick. In London her small studio hadn’t been big enough for a washing machine so she would often spend her Mondays off at the laundrette, watching a film on her phone as people literally aired their dirty laundry in public. The rhythm of life was so different on board. It was strange not to have those moments of private domesticity.
Petra’s ironing was mesmerisingly efficient. Sofia began folding towels and sheets from the dryer.
‘Not those, I’m going to iron those.’ Petra thrust her chin in the direction of the lace-scalloped pillowcase in Sofia’s hand.
‘That’s true luxury. I don’t think I’ve ever ironed my bed sheets.’ Sofia said it offhandedly. She wasn’t expecting the look of horror that flashed across Petra’s face.
‘I’m sorry, I just didn’t realise I was in the presence of a teenage boy,’ Petra scolded.
Sofia couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Wait, do you?’
‘Of course! It’s about the little things, you know. I’m very house proud.’ All the hours they had spent gossiping and baring their souls, and Sofia had never asked about Petra’s home life, what it was she had left behind. She didn’t even really know where she was from.
‘Where is home for you, anyway?’ Now Sofia was curious.
‘Well, I was born just outside Melbourne but I was working in Sydney before I left.’ Petra chuckled to herself. ‘I was supposed to go to Europe for six months, but six years later and here I still am.’
‘And where do you go in the off-season?’ Sofia somehow couldn’t really imagine Petra doing things like food shopping or paying council tax.
‘I have a tiny flat in Brighton that I rent out when I’m away, and then I spend the first week back cleaning it compulsively from top to bottom.’ Petra was huffing over a persistent crease.
She put down the iron and looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. ‘I actually bought it last year, never imagined I’d be able to afford it. I promised myself once I had that stability I would find a “normal job” and settle down.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh you know, I got the call from Captain Mary and the call of the high seas was too much to resist.’ Her sarcastic tone made it hard to tell how much truth was buried in the humour. Sofia waited, hoping the silence might draw her out. It worked.
‘Maybe part of me is scared? That if I stop moving I might just look around and realise there’s no one around me.’ Petra hurriedly went back to her ironing. ‘I don’t know, just your run-of-the-mill, mid-thirty-something paranoia about dying alone.’
‘Nah, you’ll always have Captain Mary.’ Sofia tried to lighten the mood, but Petra’s polite smile was a sad one.
For a few minutes the room was only filled with the sounds of hissing steam and the thudding of the dryer. Sofia needed to scramble onto safer conversational ground, but every topic she thought of seemed fraught with controversy.
‘Well last night was interesting.’ She hoped the statement was vague enough that Petra would feel comfortable guiding it in whichever direction she wanted.
