Short Stack

by Lily Morton

  I’ll cook this for you when I see you again, but you’ll have to keep an eye on the cooking bit as I’m far too absentminded to be in charge of an oven.

  To: Gideon Ramsay

  From: Eli Jones

  Is it wrong that the thought of you cooking fills me with fear?

  I think you would like the food here. We had majboos for dinner. It’s meat and rice that’s so delicately spiced that every mouthful seems to wake up your taste buds. For dessert, we had luquaimat which are tiny crunchy dumplings that are sprinkled in sesame seeds and dipped in date syrup.

  I’m sitting on my balcony writing this. The call to prayer seems to shimmer in the air. It’s hauntingly beautiful and ancient enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck.

  I believe you about hearing the old battle. I read somewhere that the curtain between other worlds and times is very thin. Maybe sometimes there are rips and tears, and we hear things that we aren’t supposed to before someone patches the holes.

  I’m trying to find an excuse for not going home. It was my birthday before I met you. I used the excuse that I was working to get out of going home. I don’t think my parents were even bothered. They probably approved because work has always seemed like the reason for their existence. Does that sound bitter? Maybe a little.

  My birthday has never meant much to me. It was usually spent with whichever housekeeper we had at the time, eating a cake she had made, and waiting for my parents. When they came home, we would eat supper and talk would inevitably turn to my grades and scores as if I was the sum of them. That sounds ungrateful, but I feel I can own that feeling to you.

  I’m resentful of the times they spent away from me as a child. There, I said it. I’m cross that I’m always weighed up and found wanting just because I don’t add up to a sum they can approve of. I’m angry because my dad hasn’t spoken to me in months and doesn’t seem bothered by that. I don’t fit a mould like all of my old friends from school. They’ve gone into the family businesses, made money and alliances, and created well-brought-up children to carry on the tradition.

  I sometimes wondered whether a fairy dropped me in their nest. Maybe I’m a changeling child, and meanwhile, the real overachieving child is somewhere in fairyland trying to improve his fairy parents’ stock portfolio.

  To: Eli Jones

  From: Gideon Ramsay

  I wish I could say that I know how you feel. My parents ran the other way. They were so distant they could have lived in France. I was shipped off to boarding school at the age of seven because that was the way it was done. I was with the children of similar families, and that was the way it was also done.

  It was slightly awkward sometimes when my friends told me all about the exotic countries their parents were working in and the reason for them having to board because my parents only lived about ten miles away from the school. I used to pretend that my mother was a mountain climber and my father a mountain guide. I told many elaborate stories about their daring adventures which were slightly spoilt when they actually attended a swimming gala once, and she had a panic attack because of the height of the stands, and he made a fuss when he got tomato sauce on his jacket.

  I’ll stick to wishing that you could see yourself as I see you. You’re fascinating. Clever and kind and brave. You enter a room, and I feel safe. There are very few people I can say that about. Maybe concentrate on what you are, rather than what you’re not. Simplistic advice but that’s the sort of life I’m leading at the moment.

  I’d crack those bloody meditation classes now.

  To: Gideon Ramsay

  From: Eli Jones

  I still think that your violent aura would spoil the other people’s meditation, but I’ll try to take your incredibly out-of-character positive advice. Even though it makes me feel dizzy like the world has shifted on its axis.

  I hope that while you’re finding yourself, you’re also finding your brother and your friends again. I know you won’t believe me, but I think they need you just as much as you need them. You seem to see yourself as a chess piece that has its own independent moves, while the others all belong to their pairs, each man’s movements set and dictated by the other.

  I think you’re wrong. I think you’re an out-of-sync piece that your friends and family are trying to absorb into their group. If you’re less prickly, they might manage it.

  I’m probably mixing up chess with Monopoly or something, but I won’t worry because I’m sure you’ll be very happy to point out my mistakes. I can just see you with your long nose turned up and muttering something about mixed metaphors in your posh voice, but you know I’m right. Make an effort with them. Now is the time.

  John Donne said that no man is an island. It’s true because I think you’re more like a coral atoll to me. Harsh and unforgiving on someone trying to visit, but beautiful and vivid and teeming with life underneath.

  To: Eli Jones

  From: Gideon Ramsay

  I hope you realise that your piss-taking tone is very evident even through an email.

  What is even more obvious is your very bossy streak, but I’ll do as you say. I hesitate to say you’re right because that would give you an appallingly self-satisfied air like the time that I said I would hate going to a spa. I can still see that smirk when I had the deep tissue massage. But on this one occasion, you might be near saying something profound. I don’t expect it to happen again.

  I’ll have you know that I’m becoming incredibly cerebral lately. There is a TV in the cottage, but I haven’t watched it since I got here. Instead, there is a record player on a shelf as well as a stack of old records. Each night I switch it on and let the sounds of Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin fill the cottage. These are songs that are older than me if you can believe, but the rough silk voices of the old crooners seem appropriate for this spot in the woods where it seems like time stops.

  But don’t worry. I’m not alone all the time and becoming mad and talking to myself. Every morning I have fresh bread and milk delivered by a Mrs Granger who makes the cakes in the tea shop here. She brings her granddaughter Molly with her sometimes, and they will come in and put the bread and milk away while Molly chatters to me as she does handstands and regales me with the minute details of her life, her voice as high and fluting as the blackbird who comes for the bread crumbs in the garden.

  Sometimes at night I will walk up to the big house and have dinner with my brother and friends. They’re lively meals filled with banter and a warmth I’ve never experienced before. It’s as if they were waiting for me to come in over the threshold, and, now that I have, I’m part of their family. Last night we ate chicken baked in a tray with chorizo and tomatoes and peppers. We washed it down with a rich red wine and mocked Oz for splitting his jeans on a tour. Then I walked back to the cottage along the gravelled paths. The air was heavy with the scent of the hawthorn, and a huge harvest moon lit my way as bats flitted above me.

  When Gideon Met Asa

  Eli

  The car climbs the hill, and to the right of us, all I can see is the glittering expanse of sea. Gideon fidgets with his jumper, pulling the sleeves down and rolling them back up again. Something he’s been doing for the last ten minutes.

  I shoot him a glance from the driver’s seat. “Are you expecting to grow tentacles soon?”

  He stares at me. “No. What a weird question. Why?”

  “Because you look like you’re preparing your sleeves for more arms. Are you nervous?”

  “Eli, I am never nervous,” he says loftily. “I have appeared on stage in front of the queen numerous times.”

  “Name dropper.”

  “As I was saying, I have appeared on stage in front of many famous people,” he continues with a tiny twist of his mouth. “I have acted on massive budget films. I have…”

  “Gideon Patrick Ramsay, are you nervous?”

  He slumps. “Yes, totally.”

  “Why?” I ask, amazed. “It’s only Asa Jacobs. As far as I know, he doe
sn’t wear a crown.” I pause. “Although if he wore it naked, I certainly wouldn’t complain.”

  “What is the fascination with that man?” He glares at me. “I’d just like to remind you that my box office returns are much bigger than his.”

  “It’s not the size of your box office returns, it’s what you can do with them,” I say serenely. “Can his returns make toast? Because it’s a certainty that yours can’t.”

  There’s a stunned silence, and then he starts to laugh. When he stops, he reaches across and strokes my hair back from my forehead. These tender gestures still manage to surprise me. You don’t get what you see with Gideon Ramsay. Well, you do get snark, sarcasm, and biting wit. But you also get sweetness when you least expect it.

  I pull the car into a layby and switch the engine off. “Why are you nervous, cariad?”

  “What if I don’t get this? I’ve had three jobs cancel on me this week. What if the jobs run out and I run out of money eventually? Frankie said it would happen.”

  “Is the ‘eventually’ you’re predicting the actual end of the world? Because you’re richer than Richard Branson.” I nudge him. “And much better-looking.” He doesn’t look appeased, so I take his hand. “In the unlikelihood your money runs out, then we’ll just have to live on my nurse’s wages,” I say softly. I smile. “Hope you’re okay with eating cheese on toast one week out of every month.” I cup one sharp cheekbone in my hand. He’s still too thin, and he’s been running on nerves this week. “Gid, the money doesn’t matter. And you’re making it sound like you’ll be carted off to debtor’s prison any second.” I sigh loudly and deliberately. “You’re so dramatic.”

  He turns a face of thunder towards me. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Dramatic,” I say slowly, spacing the syllables out. “You’re a total drama whore.” He glares, and I grin. “We’re together. The rest will sort itself out. And ignore Frankie. He was a wanker.”

  He blinks. “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it.” I go to switch on the engine, but he puts his hand on my arm.

  “Thank you.” He smiles.

  “For what?”

  “For telling me the way it is. I love that you do that.”

  “For the sake of honesty, I have to say you don’t. You went up the wall yesterday when I told you that you weren’t driving properly.”

  He shakes his head. “You were wrong and that happens much more often than you’d like to think.”

  I laugh and lean forward to kiss him. “They’re going to love you. Do you know how I know that?” He shakes his head, a dazed expression on his face. “Because I love you, and you’re wicked.” I smile at him. “Asa rang you and no one else for this job. They’ve been after you for a while. Just relax.” I pause, a sudden thought occurring to me. “Is it me coming with you that’s stressing you out? I know you invited me, but is it putting too much pressure on you because…”

  He covers my mouth with his long fingers. “No,” he says fiercely. “You are never the problem. Ever. You’re always my solution.” He removes his hand, his breathing loud in the quiet of the car and his face resolute.

  “Well, okay, then,” I say softly. “Let’s go together and have a good weekend, and if it’s shit, we’ll just fuck off.”

  “Together?”

  I squeeze his hand. “Always.”

  I start the car again and pull out onto the road. Within a few minutes, the entrance we were told to look out for appears, and I pull onto a gravelled forecourt and park. We look up at the house. It’s a large Victorian house with huge bay windows that look down on the beach and the sea. A bike lies abandoned outside the front door along with a skateboard and a bright red football.

  “Nice,” I say.

  He nods thoughtfully.

  I suppose people living in a house must seem a bit strange to him when he spent nearly twenty years living in hotels. Although he seems pretty adamant about buying a house in Cornwall for us. The thought of that makes me smile.

  We get out of the car and make our way to the shiny, navy front door. With an air of resolution, he puts his finger on the doorbell.

  We wait for a few moments, listening to the melodic chimes die away. With a puzzled look on his face, Gideon rings the bell again. He seems astonished that nobody is waiting on the doorstep for us.

  Finally, we hear light, quick footsteps. The door slowly opens a crack, and a little boy’s face appears. “Hello,” he says cheerfully. “I’m Billy.”

  Gideon looks down at him and then back at me with a slightly panicked expression.

  I give him a quelling glance. “Hi,” I say to the little boy. “We’re here to see Mr Jacobs.”

  “Oh,” he says in a disappointed voice. “That’s my daddy, but he’s busy at the moment. He’s out the back spraying Stanley Atkins with the hose.”

  Gideon blinks. “Oh,” he says hesitantly. “That’s nice. Is Stanley someone that your daddy…” He pauses. “Someone that your daddy knows?”

  I bite my lip.

  “No,” the little boy says. “She’s my dog, but she rolled in horse poo, so Daddy’s giving her a shower.” He pauses. “And swearing a lot,” he adds.

  Gideon sags with relief now that we’re not dealing with some sort of human prisoner situation, or whatever is running through his clever and theatrical mind. I make sure that he sees me rolling my eyes at him.

  “Well, it’s good to be clean,” he says heartily and subsides a little when the little boy carries on staring at him. “So, can we come in?” he asks in rather a desperate tone.

  “Or you could go and get Daddy,” I interject quickly. “Rather than let two complete strangers into your house.”

  “I don’t think you can come in anyway,” he says. “Molly’s missing.”

  Gideon narrows his eyes. “And is Molly a person or…”

  “Gerbil,” Billy says succinctly. “She got out of her cage, and she’s on the run. Peggy’s gone to bed because she says the whole house is a nuthouse, and if she doesn’t get up, then we might not get cake today.”

  “I don’t blame Peggy,” Gideon mutters under his breath and smiles over-brightly when Billy look like he might like to question him.

  “Why don’t you pop out and tell Daddy that Gideon and Eli are here, while we keep watch for Molly,” I hurriedly suggest.

  He brightens. “Okay dokey,” he says cheerfully then pauses. “She’s white with a brown patch over her eyes,” he says very seriously. “So that you don’t get confused.”

  “How many animals are loose in this house?” Gideon mutters, pushing the door open further and looking nosily inside as the little boy vanishes down the corridor.

  “Gid,” I chide, pulling it slightly closed. “Molly will get out.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll throw your body over hers to stop her,” he says snippily.

  “Don’t be silly. I’d squash her.”

  He looks nervously around. “Don’t let her out,” he instructs me seriously. “The last thing I want to do is squash Asa Jacob’s gerbil.”

  “Is that a euphemism?” comes a deep voice with a hint of a Yorkshire accent from behind us.

  We both jump and turn to face the speaker. He’s standing on the drive wearing jeans and a navy T-shirt, the fabric damp and clinging to his chest. His hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and he’s smiling.

  “Bloody hell, you’re tall,” I blurt out.

  He laughs. “You must be Eli. I’m so pleased to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but I’ve just cleaned horse shit off the dog.”

  “Likewise,” I say. “Is that a line you commonly use, or something just for us?”

  Asa throws his head back, giving a great roar of laughter, and Gideon shakes his head at me, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

  “Gideon,” Asa says, smiling widely. “I’m so glad you’re here.” He gestures at the door. “It’s open. Let yourself in and bring your bags. We’ll put them in your room.”

  After
retrieving the bags, we step into an airy hall filled with the fragrance of flowers. I notice a huge bunch of stocks in a yellow vase on a table.

  Asa heads down the hallway, gesturing for us to follow him, but Gideon exclaims and stands firmly in front of the door.

  “We need to look for Molly,” he says urgently.

  Asa stares at him open-mouthed and then his friendly expression cools. “Hmm,” he finally says. “Gideon, I’m not sure how to say this, but if you’ve brought that into my house, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Gideon stares at him.

  I suddenly snort with laughter, and they both turn to me. “Molly the gerbil, not the drug,” I explain.

  After a startled pause, they both begin to laugh.

  “Oh,” Asa says with a relieved expression. “Sorry. It’s just with a child in the house…”

  “Not at all,” Gideon says quickly. “I’d do the same.”

  I look surreptitiously at him, and for the first time, I wonder what Gideon would be like as a dad. The idea hadn't occurred to me before, as up until the last few months, he’d seemed to corner the market in young, free, and single.

  Gideon gives a sudden, loud exclamation, and, bending down by the hall table, he scoops something up. I smile when he straightens and he’s holding a fat gerbil.

  Asa bellows, “Billy!” He turns back to us. “I didn’t even know she’d got loose again,” he says, leaning against the wall.

  Footsteps sound, and we look up as Billy bounds down the stairs. “Molly,” he says delightedly, looking at Gideon in awe. “You found her. You’re so clever.”

  “He’s the gerbil whisperer,” I say.

  Gid appears slightly disgusted at the title.

  “Why would you whisper?” Billy asks, his expression thoughtful. “Is it because they’ve got small ears, or do they not like loud sounds because the other day Mark Sanders came to play and he blew on my trumpet and Peggy said that…”