Page 26 of Gideon
The restaurant he chooses isn’t busy at this time in the morning, which is why I let him steer me to a table by the huge plate-glass window without too many protests while he goes to grab the food.
I look out of the window at the sea sparkling in the early morning sunshine. I’ll never let him know, but I’ve discovered a peace in sitting and watching the world go by. The sea changes all the time just the way he said it did, and I find myself drifting in my thoughts for hours, sitting in a puddle of sunshine and quiet.
Today we’re in port, as the ship mainly sails at night, and I watch a cluster of men on the dock gesturing at each other over stacked boxes. I run my finger over the table absently and look down at the card there. It’s the same card that is pushed under our door every night, listing the day’s events onboard. Eli always seizes like it’s got the winning lottery numbers printed on it somewhere. I marvel at the list. There are more activities on here than if they were in Tudor England catering for Henry the Eighth. I look a bit closer and grimace. And I wouldn’t want to do any one of them. Fucking line dancing.
A tray is set down in front of me on the table, and I look up at him. “Why are we fetching our own food? This is a very expensive cruise, not the Welcome Break service station.”
“Why are you using the wordwe? You didn’t fetch anything.”
I huff. “Point taken.” I peer at the dishes. “So, what did you bring for me?” I can actually feel my nose wrinkle. “That looks like hamster food, which even in this service-station-like atmosphere I can’t believe they’d serve. Which would make it …” I pause and glare at him. “Muesli.”
“That’s right,” he says cheerfully. “Muesli with Greek yoghurt and honey. It’s a great way to start the day.”
“Only if the alternative to starting the day is vomiting all over the table.”
A lady who is just starting to sit down at the next table gives me a death glare and moves to another table with a great deal of dramatic posturing. Eli bites his lips as if repressing a smile. A smile or a grimace.
“You need to start eating healthily.” He looks me up and down. “Or at all.”
Is he saying I’m too thin?I sit up a bit straighter. I’m known for my fucking body, and he’s looking at me like I’m one of the fucking Chuckle Brothers. “I didn’t get this body without a lot of work,” I say tartly. “It’s the body of a Greek god.”
“Well, give it back and settle into the body of a thirty-nine-year-old whose cholesterol needs sorting out,” he says placidly, unaffected by my posturing, as usual.
I subside and drag the bowl towards me sulkily. Glaring at him, I raise a spoonful to my mouth.Oh my God, it’s fucking lovely. The tartness of the yoghurt and the sweetness of the honey along with the muesli are gorgeous. Using all my acting talents, I keep my face expressionless and lower the spoon. “It’s okay,” I say grudgingly.
“That good, eh?” he says cheerfully.
I glare at him as I notice what he’s eating. “That’s fucking bacon and eggs.”
“Yep,” he says happily. “It’s well lush too.”
“Doesn’t your nursing gene make it impossible to be so cruel to your patients? Surely it’s against nature?”
“No, because nature also gave us patients like you,” he says earnestly. “So, it balances the universe.”
I can’t stop my laughter, but it dies when I reach for my cup. “Is this fucking tea?” I hiss. “Where’s my coffee?”
“It’s over there where it can’t harm your blood pressure. You drink far too much of the stuff. That’s green tea. It’s an antioxidant.”
“I’m sure that’s what they put in laundry detergent.”
“And you would know that, how?” Eli asks, humming around his fork of food.
I stop my smile just in time. God, I love sparring with this man. I haven’t had anyone interest me like this in – I pause to think – forever.
He pushes the event list towards me. “Pick something to do today.”
“Can’t we go ashore?” I say longingly, looking at the dock and thinking of being back on firm ground and not surrounded by people all the time. Maybe sitting in a pretty café and having a beer. That’s if Nurse Ratchet would let me within a mile of fucking alcohol.
“Nope,” he says, popping the “p” quite obnoxiously. “Not yet. You’re not back to full strength yet.”
I look down at the list. “Jesus, what a mix,” I say meditatively, taking a sip of tea and nearly spitting it out. “This is bloody disgusting.”
“Drink it,” Eli says serenely. “Or I’ll make you join the crochet club this afternoon.”
“If they’ll teach me how to crochet an escape ladder, I’ll go gladly.” I look down at the list. “Ann Widdecombe and Terry Waite are both on this ship doing talks. What a strange mixture.” I shake my head. “Poor sod. After a week on here he’ll be wishing he were still tied to a radiator.”
His snort of laughter is drowned out by a loud “hello.”
