Page 37 of Gideon
When they pause with tears in their eyes, I hold out my hand for the blunt and Gideon meekly puts it in my hand. “Thank you,” I say sternly and promptly throw it over the side of the ship. Constance makes a sound of protest and I turn back, bracing my hands behind me on the railing. “This is terrible behaviour,” I say and they hang their heads like recalcitrant children. My lip twitches but thankfully they can’t see it. “You’re here on this ship to get better. For shame.” I shake my head at Gideon. “Smoking dope is most definitely not on your health care and recovery plan.”
“Well, I think it should be,” he says sulkily, making an effort to rally his authority but listing sideways into his partner in crime who is staring dreamily at the moon. “I’m sure I’d have got better a lot sooner.”
“Well, it isn’t and it also doesn’t specify missing meals. Have either of you eaten this evening?” They shake their head in an exaggerated fashion and I make a shooing gesture with my hands. “Come on. We’ll walk you back to your cabin, Constance, and then Gideon and I are going to order something for you to eat.”
“I am hungry,” he says eagerly.
“I’m sure you are,” I say. “That’s called the munchies.”
I shake my head as that sends them into another fit of laughter.
Getting them back to the suite is a feat of ingenuity and that’s not even counting the stoned old lady on crutches. I imagine it’s a bit like being a sheepdog herding its charges. One of them veers off in one direction while the other tries to go the other way. They have the attention span of either toddlers or amoebas, branching off to ooh and aah over the glittering contents of the jeweller’s window where Constance announces in her very loud voice that her third husband bought her a labia ring when she’d been good.
“Okay,” I say slowly and gratefully once we pole up outside Constance’s suite. “Wait here,” I instruct Gideon. “I’m just going to make sure that Oliver knows what she’s been up to so he can keep an eye on her.”
“If your boyfriend can drag his eyes off you,” he says fretfully and then his expression brightens. “That fire extinguisher is sored!”he exclaims.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “So red, and so not going to be touched under any circumstances at all, Gideon Ramsay.” He slumps back against the wall, looking like a sulky child, and I grin at him. “Wait here, trouble,” I say affectionately.
Oliver is predictably sullen, but he rallies enough to practise being insincere with his charge, and I leave them to it. When I get outside, I stop dead.Shit! Where’s he gone?For a second panic engulfs me, but then I see someone’s foot poking round the corner and the faint tuneless humming of “Let’s Dance” by David Bowie.
Grinning, I make my way to him and stand over him. He’s lying on the floor outside our suite staring at the ceiling. “I can see the stars,” he says dreamily.
I look up. “They’re not stars, they’re spotlights in the ceiling.”
He waves his hand. “They are stars,” he says crossly. “I can quite clearly see that they’re twinkling at me.”
“Well, of course they are,” I say soothingly.
He stares up at me. “You’re so gorgeous,” he mutters in a low voice and my heart starts to pound heavily. “I want you, but I won’t do anything. Do you know why?” he whispers loudly.
“Why?” I say softly, feeling the mood shift and change.
“Because I can’t.” He raises his finger to his mouth. “Shush!” he admonishes me rather loudly. “It’s a secret. I’m gay, but you can’t tell anyone.”
I feel my whole body clench in shock as all my thoughts and half-formed suspicions are confirmed. My cock twitches instantly, but I ignore it.
“Gideon,” I say softly.
He shakes his head. “Ouch! Someone hit me.”
I smile helplessly. “No one hit you. You did it yourself by banging your head on the floor.”
“Well, that was a bloody stupid thing to do,” he says fretfully. He stares at me. “Don’t tell anyone,” he whispers. “No one would understand. I’d never act again. My fans would never forgive me. I can’t be gay.”
“I don’t think you have a choice in the matter,” I say softly, then earnestly assure him, “I won’t tell anyone.”
I feel so sad. I don’t know why he thinks that, but I suppose I can’t blame him. There’s a lot of homophobia about, and he would more than likely lose some jobs. My concern is more for what this is doing to him. What must it be like to live your life being told that one of the most inherent parts of yourself is wrong? It must be soul-destroying. Is this why he’s so wild and unmoored and grumpy?
“You can trust me, Mr Ramsay,” I say, feeling the urgent need to tack the mister part on so it reminds us both where this soft mood could land us. In dangerous waters.
“I’m not Mr Ramsay to you,” he says crossly. “I’m Gideon to you. I hate you being formal with me.” He tugs on his jumper crossly. “I’m very hot,” he says peevishly. “Why is the heating on?”
I bend over and help him pull his jumper off, and he emerges from the folds blinking like a tiny stoned mole. My mouth twitches, but any semblance of a smile vanishes as he looks at me, his eyes deep and dark.
“You’re not for me,” he says slowly. “Go back to your boyfriend.”
“I haven’t got one,” I say sharply. “Not that that improves our situation at all.” My head is still reeling as thoughts teem and churn.He’s gay. He’s closeted. He’s gay. That means I could have him. He’s my patient. He’s gay too.
