Page 54 of Gideon
I let myself into the cottage, carrying the tray gingerly. I know anyone looking at the slightly shrivelled chocolate cake would turn their nose up, but I feel immensely proud. I made this from start to finish. I laugh because it’s ridiculous. I have many acting awards which are in a cupboard somewhere, but I have never looked at them like I’m looking at this slightly charred cake. I pause. Maybe if they made the Baftas out of chocolate, I’d have been more receptive.
I look around the cottage appreciatively. It’s full of sunshine and smells of furniture polish from when the cleaner came in yesterday. The Stieg Larsson book I started yesterday is lying on the table, and I shake my head. This place is hardly party central.
Nevertheless, I’ve enjoyed this time on my own. At first it felt strange, but as time went on, I settled into the stillness, and it became almost a triumph to be doing things for myself after all these years of employing staff to fulfil my every need. I’ve learnt to cook, took long walks with my brother, and read nearly everything in the cottage, and in some small way I think I’m approaching who I used to be before all the layers of anger and cynicism covered me.
Eli would be proud of me,I think, then still at the pang in my stomach. If he thought that what I felt on the ship was an illusion, he was wrong. I still miss him every day. Nothing seems quite right. It’s as if the day is a painting that’s missing the final hit of colour to make it a masterpiece. I shake my head. I’m not sure I fucking know myself anymore.
Thinking of him sends a shaft of worry through me. I’m as aware of the time passing as if I’d taken a pen and crossed the days off a calendar like a lovestruck schoolboy. Okay, I admit it. I totally programmed a reminder in my phone. That’s how I know that the four months were up yesterday. It’s also how I’m very aware that he hasn’t contacted me.
Every week he’s emailed me like clockwork. Long, gossipy letters full of funny details of his day, bossy instructions about my health, and occasionally blisteringly intimate glimpses into his thoughts and feelings. But he’s been silent for more than a week now and I’m trying not to wonder what that means for us. Has he met someone else? Has he grown bored with the idea of a fucked-up actor and moved on to easier pastures, like that young, dark-haired man who picked him up from the boat?
I glare at the thought and put the cake down. Despite promising myself that I wouldn’t do it, I grab my phone and pull up my email account. I sag. There’s nothing apart from a couple of adverts for erectile disfunction and an exhortation for me to book a holiday in the Cotswolds. For a second I stare blindly ahead, seeing his warm, open face in my mind, full of humour and kindness. Then I shake my head and move into the kitchen to deposit the cake on the counter. He knows where I am. I can’t make him want me. I sigh. I wish I could.
Later that evening I sit at the table in the kitchen with the door open, letting in the scent of roses from the bush on the patio. I’m eating a mushroom risotto that I made myself and reading from a book propped against the salt and pepper grinders.
At first I try not to take any notice when my iPad chimes in the lounge, telling myself that I’m at an interesting bit in the book. But really it’s because superstitiously I feel that if I look, it won’t be from him. I’m therefore profoundly glad that there’s no one to see me bang my shin as I race across the room towards it or the way my hand shakes as I open my email.
To: Gideon Ramsay
From: Eli Jones
Four months have gone. My job is finished.
I read the words and then read them again, my heart hammering in my chest. Then I tap out my reply.
To: Eli Jones
From: Gideon Ramsay
Come to me. I’ve been waiting.
Chapter
Eleven
Even cranky porcupines need a cuddle
Gideon
Later that night I wake with a start, my pulse racing, and sit bolt upright in bed. “What the fuck?”
Then the banging on my front door, which has obviously woken me up, starts again. Panic settles in.Is it Milo? Has something happened to him?
I bound out of bed and promptly fall straight over my shoes that I’d kicked off carelessly earlier. “Shit!” I groan, rubbing my elbow which has connected painfully with the bedside table. “Shit, that hurts.”
The banging begins again. “Okay,” I bellow. “What the fuck? Hold on a second.” I look around for some clothes helplessly, since the bedroom is covered with clothes strewn in colourful piles as if waiting for a body to come along and reanimate them.
Shaking my head, I pull on the nearest pair of shorts and a T-shirt, realising they’re inside out and back to front just when the banging on the door starts again. Dismissing the state of my clothes, I race out of the bedroom and down the stairs. I fumble with the door’s stiff lock, cursing under my breath until it turns, and I fling the door open.
“This had better be an emerg–” I gulp the words back as I struggle for breath. “Eli!”
He leans against the door post as casually as if he’s calling in for a cup of sugar. Dressed in grey joggers and a burgundy hoodie, the moon sends his shaggy mess of hair white-blond and darkens his eyes, so for a second I wonder if I’ve conjured him up in a dream.
Then his lips quirk hesitantly. “Is it okay that I’m here?” he asks, and I break my stasis, grabbing his arm and hauling him over the threshold.
He laughs and follows willingly, his body hot under my palm. I switch the hall light on and gape at him. He’s tanned a smooth golden brown from being under the Dubai sun, his hair is a sun-drenched mess, and the freckles dotted wildly over his nose make it seem like he’s been dusted with cocoa powder.
“Oh my God,” I say hoarsely. “You’re really here. I only emailed you tonight.”
