Short Stack

by Lily Morton

  “Yes. Mr Niall Fawcett. It is him we’re talking about. The son of Edward Fawcett.”

  “Oh, erm, yes. Niall is my young man.” A snort comes from behind me, and I pull the door shut a little. “But why would Lord Ingram want to meet him?”

  Angus smiles knowingly. “Well, he wanted to make sure that after scaling the wall last night, he had suffered no injuries.”

  “Oh my God,” I say faintly.

  The butler continues, his face wry. “His lordship saw him in the bushes and thought he was a pheasant at first, but luckily he’s watched the four series of Planet Earth, and he was able to dismiss the notion, as there are no six-foot-four pheasants.” I moan slightly in horror, but he continues. “I say lucky because his dismissal happened before he reached for his shotgun. A big relief to his lordship, as he was at school with Mr Fawcett’s grandfather, and it would have made their school reunion rather awkward if he’d shot his grandson in the arse.”

  I blink, but footsteps pad behind me and Niall appears, yawning and wearing just his jeans. “Morning, Angus,” he says sleepily.

  The butler gives him a warm smile.

  “Good morning, Master Niall. Kippers for breakfast as usual?”

  “You know each other?” I say open-mouthed.

  Niall grins. “Lord Ingram is my godfather.”

  “Then why didn’t you come through the bloody door last night?” I snap, asking the question that I’m sure Angus and I are needing the answer to.

  He grins at me lazily. “Thought it would be exciting.”

  The butler stirs. “Yes. Lord Ingram was saying fondly only this morning, ‘Like grandfather, like son.’ Your grandfather apparently loved a sexual adventure like no one he’s ever met before.”

  Niall blinks, and a sick expression crosses his face.

  Laughing, I nudge him. “Bet you wish you’d scaled the wall back down again, Prince Charming.”

  He gives me a lazy smile. “Only if you’d been with me, Rapunzel. That’s the way we roll in our fairy tale.”

  Gideon and Eli

  Onboard Antics

  This is a deleted scene that was set on the ship at the beginning of the cruise. It disrupted the flow of the story, so I left it out. But it’s a nice little scene that shows the two of them becoming comfortable with each other and the burgeoning attraction between them.

  Gideon

  I sit at a table in one of the restaurants onboard the ship and stare down at the pile of mangled fabric in front of me.

  “What is that?” Eli asks, leaning close and gifting me with the scent of coconut.

  “That is a swan,” I say haughtily.

  “Oh, dear. Did it have an accident?”

  I shake my head, trying not to let him see me smile. “Fuck off. I suppose yours is so much better.” I look over at his napkin and sink in my chair. “Oh my God, you’re a ringer. You’ve done this before.”

  He smirks. “Nope. Never done it before.” He nudges me. “But I’m very good with my hands.”

  “So am I,” I say gloomily. “But they don’t have the classes on this ship that will help prove my point.”

  He laughs far too loudly, and an old lady promptly turns around and glares at us. Eli offers her his wide, charming smile, and she immediately melts before shooting a spiteful look at me.

  “This is like an alternate universe,” I mutter. “I’m normally very popular.”

  “Is it in a universe where the occupants are deaf and blind?”

  He’s the cheekiest sod I’ve ever met. If he were anyone else, I’d have levelled him with a horrible remark by now. Instead, I can’t help the snort of laughter and nudge him so hard that he nearly falls off his chair. The lady teaching the napkin-arranging class looks over at us.

  Eli stands. “I’m so sorry,” he says apologetically. “We’re going to go back to our suite because my patient isn’t feeling well.” I immediately try to conceal my smile of delight with a sickly expression. However, Eli leans forward and whispers, “Look ill.”

  “I am,” I say crossly. “Can’t you tell?”

  He stares at me. “Is that your ill look? I thought you were constipated.”

  I shake my head. “You’re a terrible nurse. I must have been very evil in a former life.”

  “I’m not so sure it was a former one,” he mutters.

  I laugh before hastily turning it into a cough. We walk slowly back to the suite, and I pause hopefully outside the bar.

  “No,” he says briskly. “No chance.”

  I sag slightly. “But I’m tired. I need to rest.”

  “You need to rest your jaw,” he mutters.

  I laugh out loud before I can help myself. “You have the worst bedside manner I have ever encountered.”

  “I don’t think that means quite the same thing in your world,” he says primly.

  He steers me outside onto the deck. We’re at sea today, and a brisk breeze blows our hair, mitigating the heat of the Italian summer sun. He walks along the deck to the tables and chairs placed by the railing. We sink into them, and a waiter arrives promptly to take our drink orders. Eli places the order before I can open my mouth.

  “Lemonade,” I say disgustedly as the waiter leaves. “I’m not a five-year-old child.”

  “You have the lung capacity of one,” he says happily. “And probably the drinking ability of one now after being teetotal for a week and a half.”

  “Fuck,” I say despairingly. “I’ve been working on that since I was sixteen.”

  “It’s a tragedy,” he says cheerfully. “All of that hard work just gone in a flash of bad behaviour.”

  I laugh and look out to sea, which is sparkling like the waves have captured sunbeams inside them.

  The waiter arrives with our drinks, and I take a sip of mine. It’s homemade and is tart and refreshing and all the more irritating for that. I shake my head and put the drink down before looking at Eli. He’s staring contentedly out to sea with a smile playing on his full lips.

  “You’ve travelled a lot, haven’t you?” I say impulsively.

  He looks startled. “I have,” he says slowly. “With the Red Cross at first and the nursing jobs now.”

  “What was your favourite place?” I ask, surprising myself. I’m generally not interested in people, but I am in him for some reason. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t push himself on me. I mentally shrug. Who knows?

  “I think Rome.” He turns to me. “Have you ever been?”

  “I have. We filmed there for a couple of months.”

  His face fills with enthusiasm. “What did you think?”

  “I liked it. Did you go to the Trevi Fountain? It’s practically a requirement since Three Coins in the Fountain.”

  He smiles at me. “You reference a lot of old films.”

  “I do?” I ask, startled. I consider it. “I suppose I do. I’ve always loved the glamour of old Hollywood.” And the way they were so good at covering things up, I think. I shake my head. “So, did you like the Trevi Fountain? Did you chuck a coin in?”

  He nods. “We went at dawn after we got out of a club. The sky was this incredible pink and the early morning sun made everything glow. Of course, I didn’t have a coin to chuck in because some twat stole my wallet. Still, I’m sure it counts.” He startles a laugh out of me. Eli looks thoughtful. “Then I got food poisoning. I was under the doctor for a day.”

  I blink. “Well, that’s a little bit too much information for me.”

  He looks startled and then grins. “No, not that. It means I was ill. I had to have the doctor.”

  I start to laugh. “I thought you were telling me about your sexual adventures.”

  He bites his lip. “That’s a bit much for a getting-to-know-you chat.”

  “Are we doing that?” I say slowly, surprisingly not disliking the idea.

  “Yes,” he says brightly. “It’ll be good for us that we know each other well when it comes time for me to tell you that you can’t do something.”<
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  I shake my head, repressing a smile. “You do that a lot,” I say.

  “What? Tell you what not to do?”

  “Besides that very obvious fact. You use a few Welsh words in conversation.”

  He shrugs. “I can’t help it. I was born and brought up in Cardiff. No matter how far I travel, I’ll always sound Welsh.”

  “I like it.” I shrug awkwardly. “I mean, when you’re not butchering the English language, it’s quite charming.”

  His smile seems to illuminate him from within. As if he’s glowing like one of the statues around the Trevi Fountain at night.

  “I got a private tour of the Vatican once,” I say impulsively. I’m not sure why I’m talking to him about stuff like this. Most of the people I work with would be bored stiff at the conversation.

  “Wow, did you see the Gallery of Maps?”

  “All one hundred and twenty metres of it. They’d have saved a lot of room if they’d just used Google Maps.” He laughs loudly, and I smile at him. “It was after everything had closed, so there were no other tourists around. It felt like I was seeing the Sistine Chapel in the same quiet as when Michelangelo painted it.”

  Eli immediately looks envious, and I have the sudden ridiculous urge to arrange something for him. I’ve travelled the world and always sloped off wherever I’m filming to see the area. Although I always enjoy doing that, I can’t deny it’s a bit lonely when the only commentary I have is the one in my head. I’d love to share some of the sights with him. He has the eager curiosity and wide eyes that mark him out as a good travelling companion.

  He looks at me dubiously. “I suppose you’re always working, so you never see the country properly?”

  “No, of course not,” I say, startled. “I always make time to explore wherever I am. I don’t get that. If you want to do something, make time for it. Simple.”

  “You’d have a lovely career in logistics,” he says.

  I laugh. “Have you been to Iceland?” I ask.

  He leans forward enthusiastically, and we’re off. We sit in the sunshine, sipping cold drinks and talking for the next few hours as we compare our notes on the different countries we’ve visited. He’s lively and funny, and I stare at him as he laughs and gestures with his long-fingered hands. He fascinates me despite all my efforts not to pay attention to him.

  “I like this,” I say suddenly. “We should talk every day.” The moment the words are out, my cheeks flush.

  Eli looks startled, but then he grins. “We should,” he says. “After all, you’re the boss.”

  “I think that’s honoured more in word than deed,” I say sourly, listening as the sound of his laughter is borne away on the breeze.

  Messages

  Deleted Emails

  These are the original emails that Gideon and Eli sent to each other while they were separated. I shortened them drastically because they interrupted the flow of the book, but I saved them because I love their chatty and intimate nature. You can see them getting closer as each email arrives and we learn so much about Gideon and Eli.

  To: Eli Jones

  From: Gideon Ramsay

  You would like it here.

  Chi an Mor is an enormous Elizabethan manor house that rests in its setting as though it’s always been here. There’s been a house here in some form or another since Norman times, and a battle was fought on the land as part of the civil war.

  I’ve taken to walking the paths at night, and the other night I could have sworn I heard the sounds of voices on the breeze and the clash of armour. But that’s probably the product of an imagination that’s been stifled for so long and is running amok now. Either that or the DT’s have finally caught up with me.

  The cottage I’m staying in is charming. Built of the same golden stone as the big house, it’s compact and charming. There are only two rooms up and down. A lounge and small kitchen downstairs, and upstairs is a small bedroom and a bathroom. All around are fields and trees and it’s as if it’s a cottage in a fairy tale.

  England is basking in another hot summer. Midsummer here is always a beautiful time when everything is full of a rich fecundity and ripeness. It’s the time before the slow decay that counts down to autumn and winter and the air is full of rich scents and the sound of birdsong.

  I leave all the doors and windows open during the day, and the whole cottage seems to smell of sunshine if it had a scent. Perhaps it does. What do you think it would be? For me, it would be a tart lemon smell intensifying to a warm citrus scent in the late afternoon.

  To: Gideon Ramsay

  From: Eli Jones

  I think if sunshine had a colour here, it would be something that burns your eyeballs off. It’s so hot. The only time that it gets cooler is in the evening, and that’s when the mosquitos come out!

  I’m still in the process of getting to know my new patient. It’s a strange sort of existence being a private nurse. You go to stay with someone in their home and move from being complete strangers to someone who knows more about them than their priest. I love the work, but I have to say that lately, I’ve been thinking of doing something else. I wouldn’t leave nursing, but travelling all over the world and staying in nice homes is getting a bit old because they aren’t my home.

  I think my patients would probably be horrified to stay in my flat where the kitchen door sticks and practically concusses you before you can get in. They’d be startled by the fact that the man downstairs has a deep and passionate appreciation for the songs of Steps, and that the lady upstairs likes to do Zumba at three in the morning. At least I hope it’s Zumba. It’s either that or she’s a very noisy serial killer.

  Despite it being the place I live in though, the flat still isn’t my home. I’ve never had a need for that before because I was enjoying travelling the world. But now I’m starting to want a home. I think we’re a bit alike in that.

  To: Eli Jones

  From: Gideon Ramsay

  I think you can do whatever you set your mind to. However, I’m glad that you’re not considering leaving nursing because you’re brilliant. Funnily enough, I was thinking about this today. Have you considered being a paramedic or working in the ER? I think you’d be good at it because you’re very calm and focused. It would also give you a little taste of what you lost when you left the Red Cross. Minus, hopefully, the gunfire.

  This house is extraordinarily peaceful. You would love it. There are certain parts of it that are already my favourites. Like the old armchair that nestles in a corner of the room by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, so I only have to reach over and pluck a book out.

  I’m reading like I haven’t done in years. I used to read voraciously as a child, but I grew out of it when I started acting. There was always something or someone to do and a great deal of trouble to get into.

  Now, at night I sit in my chair and read rather than drinking the night away. So far, I’ve read most of Ruth Rendell’s backlist, and I’m now working my way through the works of PD James.

  There’s no drink apart from tea at my side. I’m even drinking that disgusting green tea shit that you made me drink on board. Is it worrying that I find myself liking it?

  To: Gideon Ramsay

  From: Eli Jones

  I have considered being a paramedic. But what could ever replace the excitement of getting you up in the morning and making you meditate?

  I’m glad that you’re drinking green tea. It’s good for you, which I often heard you complain is said about all things disgusting. Here I drink gahwa which is spiced Arabic coffee served in tiny brightly painted cups with a plate of fresh dates.

  I’ve never read PD James. I hate mysteries. They give me a headache. I like fantasies where you enter the pages, and everything is new and exotic. Maybe that’s why I needed to travel so far away from home. Maybe the sights and wonders I’ve seen have simply been because I ran out of Terry Pratchett books in Wales.

  On evenings when I’m not on duty, I sit out on my balcony. The heat
is slowly dying then, and the air feels refreshing with a breeze blowing in from the sea. I sit on a cushioned lounger and read and talk to the small cat who climbs my balcony with the casual confidence of someone who knows they won’t fall. She’s a tiny thing, black with four neat white paws. She will sit daintily at my feet washing her paws, but I don’t try to pet her because if I do, she will give me a look of such disdain. It’s eerily similar to the one you used to give me when I made you take your medication.

  To: Eli Jones

  From: Gideon Ramsay

  Today I had my first cooking lesson at the big house, as they call it here. I know you’re dying to laugh and honestly, you wouldn’t have been able to help it if you’d seen me wrapped up in an apron that was so huge the mind boggles over who it belonged to. I was lectured by a lady on the correct way to make cottage pie. Maggie is a woman in her forties. She’s spare-framed with a head of bright red curls. She also has a sense of humour which has got to help in the madness that is Silas’s home.

  Every second here someone is shouting at someone. People flock around the house like nosy sheep poking their noses into every cranny. I hear American, German, French, and Spanish spoken, and it’s strangely wonderful to hear that in the halls of an old manor house that has lain dreaming and mostly empty for years.

  I watch Silas and Niall, my friends of so many years, and how they have settled into domesticity, and I marvel at it and am slightly wistful. Don’t tell anyone because I’m confiding that to only you because I trust you. You’re one of the few that I do.

  I took my cottage pie back with me to the cottage where the quiet settled back around me like a comfy blanket. Like one of those soft throws you used to put around my shoulders on the deck. I heated it up and ate it at the small table in the kitchen with the door open to let in the scent of fresh-cut grass. It was only slightly burned because I had become absorbed in reading a Bill Bryson book. Even the charred bit tasted delicious.