Page 43 of Gideon
I shoot a glance at him. “Was he reading it in the report from the private detective he set on me?”
He flushes and looks awkward. “I’m afraid that Frankie is rather overzealous, but then I’ve given him plenty of reasons over the years to never hire someone who might be talkative to the press.” He stops and grabs my arm. “I know you’re not like that.”
“How do you know?”
For a second it’s silent, the only noise the musical jingling from the rigging of the boats and the lonely cries of the seagulls. Then Gideon shrugs. “I think we’ve come to know each other very well during this trip.”
“I know,” I say softly because it’s true.
You can’t avoid getting to know someone when you’re in close quarters with them, but I’ve never had such long and intimate conversations with anyone in my life before him, and that includes past lovers.
Each night we’ve sat on the deck, lit by fairy lights and with our hair blown about by the wind, and we’ve talked for hours, moving from politics to religion to TV shows and music that we like. I’ve cherished the time because he engages me and makes me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met. His mind is so quick and his humour dry, and I think I could sit forever with him listening to that wonderful voice of his.
We walk in silence for a bit, enjoying the morning sun on our faces and exchanging random observations about the boats. Or if you’re him, random sarcastic observations.
“There are a lot of people walking about,” I finally muse.
“It’s a walking town. A lot of the streets are pedestrianized and there’s a lot to be seen, like artist walks. You can rent bikes and go high above the town and see the old villas. They’re gorgeous.”
“But we’re not doing that,” I say, looking at him sternly. “It’d be far too much for you at the moment.”
“Oh, how dreadful that we’re not hiking in the heat. What a terrible tragedy. Whatwillwe do?” he says acerbically. Then he nudges me. “I know. Let’s go and sit in a bar and drink absinthe.”
“Let’s not,” I say and grin at his put-upon sigh. It really doesn’t work with me and he knows it. “We’ll have a gentle stroll,” I say. “With plenty of breaks.”
“Okay, you’re the boss.”
“You know it,” I say in a delighted voice.
We grin at each other a little bit too long, and the silence draws out as we stare at each other. I swallow hard and he echoes me, raising a hand and tugging at his shirt collar. “We’ll go into the old centre,” he finally says, his voice hoarse, and I turn and follow him obediently.
The old town is a maze of narrow cobblestoned streets lined with pretty shops and cafes with their brightly coloured awnings that send shady rectangles onto the hot pavements. “This is so pretty,” I marvel. “I’m sure I’ve seen this before, though.”
“You might have seen it in paintings. Loads of artists have stayed here over the years. Picasso stayed here for a while at the Chateau Grimaldi with his lover Francoise Gilot who was his muse. They seemed to have been very happy here. He painted a lot and left the paintings to the owner. It’s a museum now.” He pauses. “I like to think of that. The two lovers coming here to a sleepy little seaside town and living in this golden creative bubble.”
He flushes slightly and I stare at him. It’s becoming very apparent to me that Gideon Ramsay of the sharp tongue and jaded view of life, is actually secretly a romantic. The thought charms me but I say nothing and walk happily along beside him as he cuts his way through narrow streets, obviously knowing where he’s going.
The town is fairly quiet at the moment as it’s still early, but the streets are coming to life in the way that seaside towns do. Shop owners open their doors and call to each other, speaking in voluble French as the multicoloured bunting flutters in the sea breeze.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” I ask him as he cuts down a side street and then another.
He nods. “Many times. The Canvis gala is held here every year.”
“There’s posh, then,” I muse and he grins.
“And fucking boring. The last few times I came, I ended up ditching the party after I’d donated and wandered the town instead. There’s a lot of history here.”
“You ditched the Canvis party?” I ask, amused because it’s a huge annual charity event attended by loads of celebrities. Some of my old patients would have given their teeth to attend it.
He looks awkward. “I can’t see the point of spending all that money on food and drink and clothes. Donate all of that to the cause instead. Ask me for the money and I’ll happily give it without having to wear a dinner jacket and talk to people I don’t want to know.”
“You’ve just downgraded the event of the year to a children’s party.”
“At least children get jelly and ice cream,” he says sulkily.
We pass through a bustling market where the air is sharp with the scent of fresh cheeses and meats. Gideon buys us a paper bag full of peaches and I bite into mine, feeling the juices run sweet down my throat. I watch him as he gives the vendor the money, exchanging some remark in quick French at which the vendor laughs.
“You fit here,” I say, finishing my peach and licking my fingers. He looks handsome and urbane in navy shorts and Vans and a short-sleeved navy shirt that’s open at the neck to show his tanned chest. His distinctive features are shaded by sunglasses and a straw Panama hat. I’ve seen appreciative glances thrown at him, but it’s not to do with who he is because that’s not obvious. It’s more him. He stands out even when he’s not trying.
