Page 46 of Short Stack 3

“Well, it does sound imperative,” he says. “Is key ring a euphemism for sex?” He bites his lip.

“Erm, no. We sell them in the shop.”

“Oh, well then.” He waves a hand. “That soundsveryurgent.”

He walks off, muttering something about country folks, and I go to the car to grab the three dozen red roses I bought for Oz and then make haste towards the gift shop.

I pull my coat around me as I walk along the path. February has been freezing, with no sign of spring in the air. Most nights, I come home bitterly cold to the bone, as my job finds me in many barns and stables. Oz will usually have supper on the stove and a hot bath waiting, and it’s become a favourite time of mine. I’ll lie in the huge claw-foot bath that’s washed many of my ancestors’ posteriors, and he’ll perch on a stool chatting about his day. I will inevitably try to entice him into the bath, which is usually successful. Oz does like sharing space with me. I smile. Supper will then burn, and the bathroom floor will be flooded, but I always accept Oz’s fussing with a warm heart and a happy smile. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how lovely it is to have my own person and not be alone anymore.

The house looms next to me, golden lozenges of light from the windows hitting the path like a magic trail in front of me. The sea roars in the background, and the air is so bracing that my earlier tiredness is blown away.

Chewwy suddenly appears from the side, giving me a start. “Don’tdothat,” I chide. “You’ll give me a bloody heart attack.” I stroke his big head. “You do look a bit like a werewolf. Maybe Oz could get you a bit part in the movie.” I point my finger at him. “But as your agents, we’ll demand a cut of your pay. How does one hundred per cent sound?”

I could swear he rolls his eyes, and then he heads off down the path, looking back at me to check I’m following. We walk past the overspill car park, where trailers and motorhomes are parked with wires trailing everywhere — more signs of our current occupation. A door opens, and music briefly blares out before it’s slammed shut, and people scurry here and there holding clipboards. I stand back to allow a harassed-looking woman towing a rail of clothes to get past and then make haste to get away with Chewwy at my heels.

I come around the corner of the house and spot the gift shop. It’s an old building that used to be the office for my father’s stable master and one of the first jobs in the conversion that Oz was involved in. It, therefore, has a lot of fond memories attached to it, some of them very recent. Last weekend, Oz and I had been overcome by passion, and I’d shagged him over some boxes in the stockroom.

The door is open, showing the bright interior, and my smile dies when I see Rob standing close to Oz. My boyfriend stands by the counter with boxes strewn around him. His dark hair is longer than usual, and he’s wearing a pair of jeans worn thin with age and with holes in the knees. On his feet are his old combat boots, and a pair of neon pink thick socks poke out the tops. I’m gratified to see he’s also wearing one of my old jumpers, the navy wool hanging on his slim figure. He’s always cold in the winter, and my knitwear regularly disappears.

The producer is watching him avidly. He’s a handsome man with smooth blond hair and blue eyes. He’s a few years younger than me, putting him nearer Oz’s age. As I watch, he steps closer, saying something and putting his hand on Oz’s arm.

I tense, and Chewwy astonishingly growls, but I’m gratified by how quickly Oz shakes off Rob’s hand. Oz says something, making Rob back up a little, and I take that as my cue to enter stage left.

Whistling to Chewwy, I stride into the gift shop. Oz looks up at the noise of our arrival, and his whole face lights up.

“Silas,” he exclaims.

My heart clenches because everything he feels for me is written all over him. He’s not one for over-the-top declarations of love or extravagant gestures, but the simplicity and strength of his love is his calling card.

He rushes over, his whole face shining, and then stops abruptly as I thrust the bouquet at him. “For you,” I say rather awkwardly, suddenly realising that I don’t know if he even likes flowers. “Or not.” I give a nervous laugh. “If you don’t like them, don’t worry about it. You can just put them in the main house.”

I watch him carefully set the bouquet on the counter as if it’s made of glass, and then I let out a startledoufas he turns and rugby-tackle hugs me, his grip tight and his face glowing and soft.

“I’ve never been given flowers before.”

I frown. “Well, that’s just sad, darling.”

“They’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Thank you. I love them.”

Rob’s presence fades immediately from my mind, and I bend to kiss Oz, feeling the softness of his lips and the scratch of his stubble.

The kiss is a little more forceful than usual, which I’ll put down to my ruffled feelings, and when I pull back, his eyes are bleary, but his face is quizzical because he’s noticed. Of course he has. He’s as sharp as a tack.

“You’re early,” he says rather than questioning me.

I smile, brushing a strand of dark hair off his forehead. “The course wrapped up early, and luckily, when I called in at the groomers, Chewwy was already done.”

He looks down at the dog, who is waiting attentively for his own share of affection from Oz. “Look at my handsome baby,” he coos, stroking the big dog, who jumps around whining andnudging Oz so fiercely that he staggers. I reach out and haul him next to me.

“My hero,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes.

I grimace. “You might not be thinking that when you hear the complaints coming our way. Chewwy ran on set.”

“Oh, dear. He’s so fame-hungry. Will heeverget his chance at stardom?” he says in a tragic voice, making me laugh.

However, Rob doesn’t seem quite so happy. “He actually ran onset?” he asks crossly.

I scratch my chin. “Yes. West didn’t seem very happy.”

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