With book in hand, Stuart and Amery appeared at Harwich Port at four fifty four; on separate coaches.

     ‘You decided to go then?’ Stuart tried again.

     ‘It’s odd that we’re here on the same day.’ Amery shifted around anxiously – as if he was worried he would miss the ferry.

     ‘He sounds positively English,’ Stuart thought.

     The ferry pulled in at that moment, and a rush of people alighted. The two of them almost walked together; boarded together, but Amery hurried off ahead. Stuart furrowed his brow as he walked over to a small kiosk selling melted snacks and warm cans of pop, apparently the “refreshments.”

      He obliged the fee of four pounds for just a bottle that’s sticker would have read “Fanta” had it have been made in England, a congealed Twix and the Sunday Mirror. Most of the Twix came off in the wrapper and, being the dignified gentleman that he was, he decided not to lick. The biscuit and occasional bits of caramel made him thirsty. The impostor fizzy drink made him even thirstier. He decided to distract himself with the newspaper.

     It was full of celebrities complaining about how lonely they were. This comforted him – at least he wasn’t the only one. He longed for fame. His idea was so brilliant, he knew it.

     ‘I can’t help it if all the top businessmen in England are utter dickheads.’ He suddenly felt ashamed at thinking it as if he had said it in a school playground just as a teacher was moseying and nosying by. He also felt like the ridiculous journalists who think that talking about what Mrs Beckham was wearing that summer was an intelligent news story. He folded the paper in half, placed it on the next bench along, and walked over to the bar.

The calm waters lapped at the boat’s side, lulling Stuart into a welcome sleep. The day had been an awful one, not helped by that strange man jumping every time they caught sight of each other. A night on a ferry. Alone. To a country he had barely seen on television before, let alone been to before.