by Ali Ryecart
Georgie glared back at him, but a fizz of triumph, as delicious as the fizz of champagne, tingled in Roland’s chest as a flush rose up on Georgie’s cheeks.
Nicholas tilted his head. “I’ve taken the liberty of setting dinner up in here. I hope that’s acceptable?”
Nicholas indicated the space in front of the bay window, beyond which was an Earth-bound Milky Way, as snowflakes glowed white against an ink-dark background.
Roland stared at the table set for two. A tingle crawled up his spine and spread out over his scalp. There’d been no table. He’d stood next to Georgie, at the window, and there had been no—
“I brought the table in and set up when you and Mr. Forrester were talking, sir. I had no wish to interrupt.”
“No. I mean yes.”
Do I? Roland had no idea. It wasn’t a big room, so how had he, and Georgie, missed the old man lugging in a table, spreading the tablecloth, arranging the place settings? And the trolley, next to the table?
The alcohol, the low lights, the warmth of the fire. That’s all it is. And I’m tired.
They took their places and Nicholas indicated the trolley.
“It’s a set menu which I hope will find favour with you both. A rich beef casserole cooked in red wine and served with creamed potatoes and winter vegetables. To follow, sticky toffee pudding and custard.” The man smiled down at Roland.
Roland’s stomach clenched down on itself. Overwhelming hunger consumed him, and his mouth watered. It did find favour with him. He’d spent a lifetime eating the finest foods, but slow cooked beef casserole had always been his comfort food of choice.
“Excellent. Thank you,” Roland croaked. The old man’s smile grew wider, and he turned his attention to Georgie.
“And for you, sir?”
“Sticky toffee’s my favourite. Especially with hot, sweet custard. You can’t beat it.”
“Indeed you can’t sir, indeed you can’t. Especially in the depths of winter.”
Nicholas began to serve. Roland’s mouth watered as his stomach rumbled; he hadn’t realised how hungry he was, despite the afternoon tea that had been delivered to their room.
The rich aroma of a winter casserole, heady with garlic and herbs, was a full-scale assault on his senses.
He glanced across the table at Georgie, who watched wide-eyed as Nicholas heaped his plate high. Roland’s lips threatened to twitch a smile. And then he remembered. Georgie had gone without breakfast and lunch because he’d been scrubbing out the cold store and re-rinsing glasses, when everybody else had been tucking into the festive themed breakfast and lunch buffets he’d personally set out for his staff. An assortment of dainty sandwiches and pastries would have made only the smallest of dents in Georgie’s hunger.
No wonder the boy looks like he’s starving.
“I trust this meets with your approval, sir?”
“I’m sorry?” Roland said, jolted out of his thoughts. He gazed down at the bottle Nicholas was holding out for his inspection. It most certainly did meet with his approval. It was a perfect match for the casserole.
Nicholas poured a small amount into Roland’s glass for him to taste. Liquid silk coated his tongue. Roland resisted the urge to purr with pleasure, as instead he nodded for Nicholas to fill both his and Georgie’s glasses.
“Bon appétit, gentlemen.”
A moment later, Nicholas was gone.
Chapter Ten
“This smells amazing.”
Georgie breathed in deep, filling up his senses. His nose twitched. Lots of garlic, so it was just as well he wasn’t on a date, not that he’d been on any of those in recent months.
Opposite him, Roland forked a little into his mouth, narrowing his eyes, his face a study in concentration as he slowly chewed then swallowed, groaning his delight as he slumped back into his chair and smiled.
I wonder what he looks like when he comes…
Fucking hell, where did that come from?
With a hand that wasn’t as steady as he’d have liked, and with his head bent down so he wouldn’t have to look at Roland and think about that again, Georgie picked at his food, his appetite blunted suddenly.
But, he couldn’t unthink the thought, not when Roland was just a couple of feet away across the table and going on about how succulent and unctuous and juicy the meat was, how seductive the wine, as it slipped its silky way down the throat. And he really couldn’t unthink when Roland emitted little gasps and sighs of pleasure. But most of all, Georgie couldn’t unthink how Roland would look and sound at the moment of release, not when the man was making those noises, not when the man was as hot as the kitchen at the height of dinner service, not when—
“Don’t you like it?”
“What?”
Georgie didn’t want to look, he really didn’t want to look up and meet Roland’s eyes across the table. His cheeks were throbbing with heat, and if he did, Roland would read every single one of those deliciously dirty, and completely weird thoughts, with one glance at his face.
The man’s a dick. He’s bad-tempered and as cold as a freezer stuck at the North Pole. He makes my life hell, and he doesn’t stop everybody else from making it hell, either. I’m only here with him because of circumstances… But wasn’t he also the man who was determined to give him a lift to the station as he’d promised? Who insisted he’d pay for their stay at the hotel, and who was giving him a second chance to prove himself at Pendleton Manor?
Georgie dragged his head up.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fletcher Jones, what did you say? I was thinking about something, and was miles away.”
Please don’t ask me what I was thinking about.
Roland snorted. “I think we can dispense with the Mr. Fletcher Jones. We’re not at work, and circumstances are, let’s say, somewhat unusual.”
“Oh,” Georgie said, his eyes widening. Unusual? That was one way of putting it. “Then, erm, what should I call you? Chef? Like at the Manor?”
“We’re not at the Manor. I think Sir will suffice.”
Roland picked up his glass, his face expressionless as his hand paused at his mouth.
“Sir?”
Roland’s lips lifted in a smile, before breaking into a laugh, as rich and warm as the casserole.
Georgie rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help laughing too.
“I’m not calling you Sir. Not unless you are a Sir. Are you?”
Maybe Roland was serious. The man was haughty enough to be Sir Roland of Fletcher Jones, or whatever Sirs were Sirs of.
But he’s not being haughty and cold and Chief Bastard now, is he?
“No, I don’t have a title. I’m plain Mister. Call me Roland.”
“You want me to call you — Roland?”
Had he ever said Roland’s name out loud? Georgie wasn’t sure. At the Manor, he was always Chef, while in his head Roland was every term of abuse, real or made up, Georgie could think of.
“I hear it’s the latest thing to be addressed by one’s name. I’m not convinced it’ll catch on, though,” Roland said, taking a sip of his wine.
Georgie laughed, and shook his head. The wine. That was why Roland was so mellow. Plus the champagne. It was the only reason Georgie could think of.
“Okay. Roland.” The name slipped from Georgie’s tongue, smooth as butter. “And you can call me Georgie.” It would make a change from boy, or you. But that was back at Pendleton, and like Roland said, they weren’t there now.
“Oh, but I already do. And I don’t need to ask permission.” Roland smirked.
No, you don’t call me by my name… But Georgie wasn’t going to quibble. It was the wine and champagne, the warmth, and the good food — which he’d barely touched. It was all about now, and he’d take what was being offered, because when they were back in the kitchen in January, Roland would be Chef, and he’d be the kitchen boy again. The status quo would resume.
“If you don’t like it, I’m sure Nicholas can bring you something else.” Roland
nodded to Georgie’s almost untouched plate.
“No, it’s good. And it’s a set menu.” Georgie dived in, his appetite back with a vengeance. “That was great,” he said a few minutes later, his plate clear of everything except a smear of gravy which he really, really wanted to lick from the plate.
Perhaps not a good idea…
“There was a soft sweetness to it. Was it the smoked garlic, do you think?”
“Excuse me?” Roland stared, brows arched high in surprise, from across the table.
You didn’t expect that, did you?
Georgie couldn’t resist a satisfied smile at the shock on Roland’s face.
“Yes, it was. I suppose you would have picked up on things in the kitchen, even though—”
“I spend all my time washing up and polishing glasses that don’t need it?”
Roland inclined his head. “If there was no washing up, there would be no plates for the food. I accept it’s the worst job in the kitchen, but it’s a vital one. And I will speak to Bernardo.”
Georgie nodded. He wouldn’t say anything more because he didn’t want to upset the fine balance of the evening, which was turning out to be better than he could have imagined.
The only thing he’d picked up in the kitchen at the Manor was a bad case of dermatitis. He knew what he knew from reading foodie magazines, when he could get his hands on them, and from the term he’d spent at catering college before his life went down the drain. Roland would have known that, from his application, and he’d told him too, when he’d—
Georgie buried his face in his glass as his cheeks throbbed with humiliation at a memory he thought he’d shoved aside.
Alone in the kitchen with Roland, something that never happened, he’d believed it had been meant to be, and he’d seized his chance. He’d stood before Roland, stammering out his hopes and dreams, only to have them thrown back in his face. At which point the kitchen had filled up with the rest of the staff, and he’d slunk back to his never ending mountain of washing up, followed by sniggers, tuts, and contemptuous smirks.
Roland had forgotten, and he wasn’t going to remind him.
“Gentlemen, may I clear?”
Georgie jumped, blinking hard as he stared up into Nicholas’ smiling face. Sure, he’d been caught up in memories he’d rather not have, but how had the man appeared without him noticing? Because it was impossible to miss a large, round, white-bearded man, wasn’t it? He looked across at Roland, and their eyes met, holding each other’s gaze for a heartbeat.
He didn’t see Nicholas come in, either.
“Thank you,” Roland said, slowly, still holding Georgie’s gaze.
“I hope the casserole met your expectations?”
“Yes, it was excellent. I would like to meet the chef. Would that be possible?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. The chef has left for the day. If I may, I’ll serve—”
“So, the roads are open?” Georgie cut across Nicholas.
The snow ploughs had been out, they’d cleared the roads — which meant he could get to the station in the morning. He looked over at Roland, who nodded.
“If you’d be so kind as to give me directions to town, Mr. Forrester and I will be leaving in the morning, as soon as it’s light.”
“Ah, I’m afraid the roads haven’t yet been cleared—”
“But you said the chef had left for the day,” Georgie said. “He, or she, must have driven here, so if they’ve gone, the roads must be drivable.”
Unless… Oh.
“That’s right, sir, it’s a live-in position. They have a small cottage in the grounds. But please don’t worry, because everything will be taken care of.”
“Taken care of? Will the roads be cleared overnight, is that what you mean? So, we will be able to—what the—?”
With a bang, the lights went out, plunging the room into darkness.
Chapter Eleven
“I’m so sorry, gentleman. It’s the weather, you see. It affects the power grid in these parts.”
The only light came from the glowing embers of the fire, and the moon, shining its cold light through the bay window.
Georgie blinked hard to accustom his eyes, when a flash of bright light made him flinch. Nicholas had struck a match, lighting a thick, squat candle in a storm lantern, transforming the room into a kaleidoscope of shadow.
“We’re well stocked with candles, so I can set some out for you.”
“No, thank you, that won’t be necessary,” Roland said. “Or not for me. Mr. Forrester may wish to stay up.”
Georgie shook his head when Roland looked over to him. There was no way he was going to sit up alone in a pool of flickering candlelight as the edges of the room faded into shadowy gloom. His gaze found the plaster Santa, and an involuntary shiver tumbled down his backbone.
It did smile, it did move its arm…
Don’t be so fucking stupid, it’s a bloody piece of painted plaster…
It did. And it looks just like Nicholas…
“No, I’ll go up too,” Georgie squeaked.
“We intend to leave early tomorrow. Perhaps I can settle the bill with you now?”
The bill. Georgie’s stomach shrank at the thought of how much it would be.
“We can sort it out tomorrow, Mr. Fletcher Jones. Now, let me light you to your room.”
“Are you sure you don’t have another room? I mean, I’ve not seen any other guests,” Georgie burst out, stopping Nicholas in mid-turn.
A big four poster he wouldn’t be sleeping in, the only option the hard, cold, stone flagged floor. Or maybe he could kip down—no, he wasn’t going to be sleeping down here on his own.
“I’ll take a broom cupboard if there’s one spare.”
“The situation with the room, it’s not acceptable. You must have a foldaway bed,” Roland said. “I’ve worked in hotels for years, and they always have some set aside.”
“I’m terribly sorry, but I regret I am unable to accommodate your request.”
Nicholas gave a regretful shrug as he turned, and led them out into the hallway.
Georgie glanced at Roland. He didn’t look happy, far from it, but then he was used to getting his way. He’d been thwarted by an old geezer who looked like he could get a good supply of seasonal work playing Santa in a shopping mall. Georgie suppressed the sudden urge to laugh, but it soon fizzled away when he realised no foldaway bed really did mean he’d be sleeping on the floor.
It would be a story to tell if there was anybody he could tell it to. The only person he could think of was his friend, Ned, who was somewhere in Southeast Asia, and he could hardly tell Julia about this whole strange experience, and about him and Roland sharing a room.
“Let me give you this, sir.” Nicholas handed a spare lantern over to Roland. “There’s enough light for you to see by. I’m very sorry for this inconvenience. Everything should be sorted by tomorrow. Goodnight, gentlemen.”
Nicholas inclined his head, and retreated into the room behind the reception desk, shutting the door behind him.
Should be… What would be sorted? The roads? The power? Georgie sighed. He’d believe it when he saw it, but whatever the morning brought, he and Roland would be heading out and making for town.
“If they have trouble with the power, you think they’d have a backup generator. Come on, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough for one day.”
Roland strode towards the staircase, and Georgie scuttled behind him, making sure he was within the pool of yellow candlelight.
Will I be sorry to leave?
Georgie looked at Roland, a couple of steps in front. The man had surprised him, letting slip a more relaxed, and a decidedly less rusty-spike-stuck-up-his-arse side to him. And as for calling him Roland? Georgie had almost passed out from shock.
It’s the booze, and the weird situation… That was all it was, and he needed to remember that.
They made their way upstairs, the wood creaking under each and every step
.
“It is like something out of a fairy tale. Or an old horror film,” Georgie muttered under his breath.
“What’s that?” Roland stopped and looked at him from over his shoulder.
“I said…” Georgie’s words died on his tongue.
Roland’s face was in shadow. All except for his eyes, reflected in the shimmering candlelight, glittering dark shades of jade and emerald, and boring into his own. Georgie swallowed. He’d always been a sucker for a man with green eyes.
He coughed, to clear his dry and raspy throat. “This place, just thinking how odd it is.”
Roland snorted as he turned and began to make his way back upstairs.
“It’s certainly eccentric. And I’ve never been anywhere where there’s no sign of staff and guests. Which is a little odd. I’m going to make enquiries about — whatever it’s called, which I’ll find out tomorrow. I want to have a discreet chat with the pastry chef, because I want them at the Manor.”
They came to a stop outside their room, and Roland pulled the key from his trouser pocket.
“Here, hold this while I open up.”
Georgie took the lamp, and Roland jiggled the key in the lock. The tumblers fell back with a muffled click, and the door swung open.
“What the fuck?”
Georgie’s jaw fell to the ground as, blinking hard, he stared into the room.
Chapter Twelve
Candles. Candles everywhere. Tall, thick, creamy white church candles, every one of them alight, their quivering flames dancing in the air, sending twisting, writhing shadows scuttling across the walls.
“So much for there being no staff. There’s no way Nicholas could’ve done this, because he was with us when the power went down.” Roland led the way inside.
Georgie followed, and closed the door behind him, the thud of the wood making the flames elongate and shimmer. He thought it was beautiful. In a weird fairy tale kind of way. Georgie pressed his lips tight. He’d keep that thought to himself.
Roland fished out his mobile from his trouser pocket.
“I’m going to set the alarm for six-thirty because I want to leave by seven. It’ll still be dark, but I want to get on. That’s done.” He rummaged in his bag, pulled out a small bundle, and headed to the en suite.
