Page 9 of Gideon (Finding Home #3)

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’s lovely ,” 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.”

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. They are passengers,” 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.