“Is this all ours?” I ask, looking around at the wooden deck which is filled with more wicker furniture, all with the same scarlet-coloured cushions. There’s even a hot tub and a bed under an overhang draped with gossamer-thin curtains. “I sincerely hope that Milo hasn’t arranged for us to share this with a happy band of passengers. I wouldn’t put it past him,” I say darkly.
“Nope, it’s private. I had a chat with Peter, the butler, while you were asleep. This is totally private and all ours.”
“A week ago I’d have been planning what debaucheries I could perform out here. Now, I’m just thinking how comfortable that day bed looks.” I yawn suddenly. “I still feel tired,” I say in amazement. “How is that possible?”
“It’s completely normal. You’ve been very ill. The body doesn’t bounce back after something like that.” He purses his lips. “Plus, Mr Russo the consultant spoke to me in a very dark tone about the lifestyle you’d been leading.”
To my amazement I flush.Me. I’m never embarrassed. Life and my patience are too short for me to bother with other people’s opinions. “Yes, well.” I clear my throat. “I’m thinking he got that information from theNational Enquirerand not theMedical Gazette.”
“I’ll have you know that theMedical Gazettedoes a lot of celebrity exposures,” he says primly, and I laugh suddenly. He amuses me when few people do. The coughing starts immediately, and he pats me on the shoulder gently while I cough. When I’ve finished, he reaches for a tissue from a box on a side table and hands it to me to mop my streaming eyes.
Standing up, he lopes into the lounge and I track his movements until he’s back in front of me carting his med bag. Pulling out a stethoscope, he smiles at me. “I want to listen to your chest,” he says. “And take your pulse, if that’s okay?”
“Why? Are you bothered by something?” I ask, trying to summon up some worry.
He shakes his head. “I just want to keep a check.”
I raise my t-shirt, realising for the first time how scrawny I look out here in the warm light, especially next to him with his taut body and golden skin. Then I shake my head. He’s my fucking nurse, not a new conquest. He’s also vaguely irritating with his sunny obliviousness to bad moods. Like he’s made of mood Teflon.
He listens to my chest, his expression concentrated, and I try to take normal breaths and not wind up with the scent of coconut in my nostrils that seems to linger around him as if he’s the personification of summer.
He steps back and starts to neatly coil the stethoscope. “All good,” he says cheerfully. “Now, if you’re okay on your own I’m going to pop along and see the ship’s doctor. He needs to go over the details of your illness and treatment so we’re all on the same page.”
“Of course I’m alright on my own,” I say peevishly. “I’m thirty-nine, not three.”
“Well, okay then, Methuselah. I’ll order you a nice cup of honey tea.” He steps back and checks himself before reaching over to one of the other chairs. Pulling a cream throw from the back, he wraps it around me.
“What the hell?” I say crossly. “I do not need a fucking blanket, and do you know why? Because my blood temperature still regulates itself and I actually have a circulation system.”
“According to Mr Russo, the consultant, that’s largely run by brandy.”
I pause. “Fair enough,” I say grudgingly. “But I’m taking this off as soon as you’re gone.”
He smiles at me and in the next second he’s gone, leaving me to the solitude of the deck.Which I’m perfectly fine with, I tell myself robustly.I’m used to being on my own.
But am I?I pause to think. I suppose since I was a child I’ve thought of myself as alone, but I’ve always surrounded myself with so many people and activities and noise that I couldn’t have been.Funny, I think lazily, and I inhale the scent of fabric softener on the throw. Made of the softest cream wool, it’s a chunky hand-knitted piece of nonsense, but I inhale again and snuggle down into its folds, letting it settle around me and make pockets of warmth which is offset by the briny breeze that blows my hair back.
I’ll just sit with it for a while, I tell myself.And throw it off before he gets back and thinks he knows everything. Or, more than he already does.
I settle back into my seat, looking up when the butler makes a soft-footed appearance. “Here you are, sir,” he says comfortably. “A cup of tea with honey. Eli says it’ll be good for your chest.”
“Eli is not the font of knowledge,” I say. I smile at him and for a second he looks slightly worried, so it must be more sharklike than I intended. I let some warmth through and he relaxes slightly. “Eli is not my boss,” I tell him and he nods earnestly as he puts the tea down on the side table.
“No, of course not, sir. Not at all.”
“Saying that twice doesn’t mean you believe it,” I grumble and take a sip of the tea. “Oh God, that’slovely,” I say, surprised.
His mouth twitches. “I won’t tell Eli, sir.”
“That would be good.” I pause. “In fact, tell him I tossed it over the side and had a brandy instead.”
“Of course, sir,” he says, picking up a trailing bit of the heavenly blanket and tucking me in. “I’ll tell him you smoked a cigar and swung from the decking too.”
My lips twitch. “I think we’ll be fine, erm?”
“Peter, sir.”
“Okay, Peter. I think we’ve reached an understanding.”
