Page 12 of Gideon (Finding Home #3)

He makes a moue of disgust. “Yes, I notice that the script Frankie sneaked to me is unaccountably missing from my room. It’s a mystery.”

“Not really,” I say serenely. “I took it.”

“It’s like living with a fucking prison warder. Why?”

“Because you need to rest and recover and you can’t do that if you’re hyped up and focusing on work.

In case you’re wondering, I’ve also instructed Peter not to put through calls from Frankie.

If he rings on your mobile I’d like you to pass him to me because he was told very explicitly by your doctor that he was to leave you alone. ”

“How explicit? Did he carve it on a cheque? Because that’s the only thing Frankie pays attention to.”

I shake my head. “What a pearl amongst men.”

Gideon shrugs. “He is what I need, I suppose.”

“Frankenstein’s monster had more charm.”

He laughs. “And definitely better taste in clothes.”

I look at the papers. “So, if that’s not work, what is it?”

“Your CV.” He flutters the pages. “It’s very informative.”

For some strange reason I want to snatch it away from him, and my body actually tenses to do it. Why, I don’t know, because this is my employer. He more than anyone should know what my CV says. Gideon’s gaze sharpens, and I make myself relax. “Scandalous reading.”

He grins wickedly. “I had to read it one-handed.”

I shake my head and can’t stop the laughter. Then I sober. “Well, I suppose you never actually got to interview me. Any questions?”

He looks at the pages and fans them out in his hand. “No,” he says almost hesitantly. “It’s very impressive, actually.”

“You sound surprised.” I laugh. “Rather like my parents who think all I do is wipe rich people’s arses.”

“Tell me you aren’t going to be doing that for me?” he asks in a horrified voice.

“No, mate,” I drawl. “Not unless you ask me nicely.”

“That will never happen,” he vows. He pauses. “Don’t your parents approve of your job?”

“They’re surgeons.”

“So? How does that impact? You’re in the same profession.”

“Not in the same pay bracket or with the same responsibility. It’s like comparing a milkman with the owner of a big dairy company.”

Gideon shrugs. “If the world were made up of surgeons we’d all just have a lot of stitches and probably far fewer internal organs.”

I laugh and, to my amazement, I lean forward and talk honestly. “I was in medical school training to be a doctor when I decided that I wanted to be a nurse. They hate it with a passion. They think I’m wasting my talents and opportunities.”

“If I’d abided by that way of thinking I’d be working on Coronation Street .” I smile, and he carries on. “So, when you went to work for the Red Cross at twenty-three they weren’t impressed?”

He sounds amazed, and something about that honest and abrupt reaction soothes a little of my rough spot over this.

I shake my head. “Nope, because working with foreign people isn’t as financially rewarding as private practice.

” I shrug. “I didn’t care. That was what I’d dreamt of doing, and as soon as I qualified I was off.

I had a couple of very adventurous years.

My parents were horrified. Although my dad did like to brag about it at parties.

I think he made me out to be a bit ‘who dares, wins.’”

“Who dares gets shot, more like it,” Gideon muses. I flinch and he looks startled. “Oh my God, were you?”

I nod. “It’s not a totally safe job. It wasn’t aimed at me, but I was administering medical aid to a man and I got in the way of the gunfire.”

“Where were you shot?”

I fight back a grin. “Afghanistan.”

He sighs in a long-suffering manner. “I mean where on your body were you shot, smart-arse?”

I gesture at my shoulder. “Clean through, luckily, but it destroyed complete movement and shattered the bone. I had to have a lot of physiotherapy.”

“And then what?” He stares at me, his sunglasses down so I can see the cool grey of his eyes.

“And then I started this,” I say lightly. “An ex of mine was doing it at the time and he got me a job. I never looked back. And put it this way, for excitement there isn’t much that happens in this job that can rival being shot.”

“I’ll try and think of something to entertain you,” he says solemnly. “How about if I maim someone?”

“Only if it’s Frankie.”

Gideon laughs but then sobers. “Do you miss it?”

I consider that. It seems weird to think of it now, like it happened to someone else a long time ago.

“At first I did. I tried to go back, but I’d been out too long, and I think I’d have been a liability if anything happened.

So, I settled for safety.” I wonder if that comes across as ashamed, because sometimes that’s how I feel.

“Did you have therapy?”

I nod. “Lots of it.” I smile at him. “Don’t worry. If gunfire breaks out on ship, I’ll be okay.”

“I think that might happen if they run out of scones. The older people this morning seemed inordinately concerned with getting back to the bakery.” I laugh and he hesitates. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry that part of your life came to a stop.”

“Just that part,” I say, becoming caught in the troubled depths of his gaze. “I’d like to think there’s other and better times ahead.”

He doesn’t mutter platitudes like everyone else would have done.

He doesn’t say he’s sure I have better things ahead of me.

Instead, he just nods and shrugs and goes back to looking out to sea.

It’s strangely refreshing and somehow more comforting than anything anyone else has said.

Like fresh air blowing away the fugue of a party and making my brain clear again.

We sit in a contented silence until finally he huffs and hands me a tube of sun cream with an air of defeat.

“I knew you didn’t have it on,” I say delightedly.

“Shut up,” he mutters.