He inclines his head and glides away, and I take another sip of the sweet tart drink, feeling my chest settle and the soreness in my throat which is caused by coughing easing slightly. Then I go back to staring out to sea.What is it that fascinates him?
The light is dimming now and the water reflects hundreds of tiny golden gleams as lighting starts to go on in the ship. Some seagulls hover on the wind nearby, calling raucously to each other as if they’re squabbling.
A launch appears, bright orange with bunting flapping in the breeze. On board seems to be about five hundred old-aged pensioners, and their shouts of greeting to people on the boat are as sharp and high as the seagulls.
Sometime later the engines start suddenly with a deep throbbing and I startle, realising that I’ve been staring at the sea for – I check my watch – forty minutes. What the hell?
When I next look, there are some people on the quay waving furiously.
I hesitate, unsure of the etiquette of the situation, but in the end politeness compels me to raise my hand and wave faintly back.
As soon as they see me, they increase the velocity of their hand movements.
“Okay, Jesus,” I say out loud. “Goodbye already.” I wave back. “Go away,” I mutter as they start to shout something. “My hand’s getting tired.”
“What is going on out here?” An amused Welsh voice sounds from the door and I jump.
“What the fuck? You should wear a bell,” I say crossly.
“And I might if I was a cat, but I’m not, so maybe some people should learn to use their ears.”
“You’re extremely pert for someone who’s in my employ,” I observe.
He grins. “I can’t help it. I’m Welsh. I’m born to repress your English tyranny.”
I blink. “There’s so much in that statement that’s wrong.”
He laughs and, looking down at the blanket wrapped around me, his smile widens. “You look very comfortable,” he says demurely.
“And that is the only reason I’m wearing this blanket. Because I was too comfortable to remove it,” I say firmly and he nods, mirth brimming in those deep olive-coloured eyes, his face lit by the last red streaks of sunset.
“Of course.” He pauses as the ship starts to move. It’s smoother than I’d imagined somehow. He stares at me. “Why were you waving at nobody and muttering under your breath? Is there some history of mental instability I should know about in my position as your carer?”
“I think the mental instability is proved by my presence on this cruise,” I say sourly. I gesture at the dock. “No, I was waving at those people. They started off friendly but then they started getting a bit frenetic. Reminded me of when Niall met Geri Halliwell.” He laughs and I smile reluctantly. “They just kept waving and shit. Very enthusiastic. Do you think the ship pays them to wave bon voyage to passengers?”
He looks over at the dock and blanches. “They’re not waving farewell to passengers. Theyarepassengers,” he says, squinting at them. “I think they’ve missed the ship.”
“Why didn’t they say something?” I sigh. “Are correct diction and volume something that we now have to train people in?” However, it’s to empty air as he rushes off, muttering something about telling the staff.
I shake my head and snuggle back down under my blanket and go back to watching the sea slide past.
Chapter
Four
If you’re that keen to live so close to the edge I could always do a few wheelies
Eli
The next morning I knock on the door of Gideon’s room and stick my head around it, inhaling the spicy vanilla scent that seems to permeate the room. “Rise and shine,” I say cheerfully.
The figure on the bed buried under a mass of blankets stirs. “Fuck off,” he grumbles and burrows under the pillow.
“Tsk tsk.” I wander over to the window and press the button to raise the blinds. Light floods into the room and Gideon jerks like I’ve tasered him.
“What the fuck?” he says, sitting upright. The covers fall to his waist and I know I’m looking at a sight that people would pay to see in the flesh. Gideon Ramsay half naked, the white covers showing off the swarthy tones of his skin and his sleek chest. His grey eyes are blazing and his hair is sticking up as if he’s stuck his finger in a light socket and kept it there for a few days. My lip twitches and he scowls.
“It’s not funny.”
