Page 154 of Oleander

Gideon’s property was a large duplex which was accessed on the ground floor. Ken carried my suitcase to the front door, unlocked it, and led me inside to the entrance hall, where he set it down.

“There is one key for the front door, and for the bi-folds in the kitchen. One is for the mailbox in the concierge station.” He held up a small one. “But when Lord Gideon is not here, I collect the mail and leave it here for him.” He pointed at a neat pile on a console table.

“Oh, okay, well, I can do that then. No worries.”

Ken told me there was a black phone in the kitchen and sitting room that connected to the station, which I could use wheneverI needed something. I wasn’t sure if that meant first aid or takeout food, and I didn’t want to ask, so I just nodded. Then he left me alone.

The place was impressive. Huge doorways, high ceilings, and wide open rooms, large windows that looked out on the leafy streets of Chelsea. The kitchen was on the basement level, and stretched the length of the house, front to back. Beyond the wall of folding doors was a garden, and dominating the space was a pool. Even I knew a pool in central London was a rare extravagance. The pool wasn’t overly large, but it wasn’t small either. Feeling bold, I slipped off my trainers and ran at it fully clothed, plunging into the cooling depths. As I emerged, I realised I had a huge stupid smile on my face.

After stripping out of my wet clothes, I hobbled around the house, dripping wet, until I found a bedroom at the back of the house that I liked and which I was certain wasn’t Gideon’s. Then I went for a shower in the ensuite and changed into something light. The house had air con, but I hadn’t figured out how to work it yet.

Gideon had instructed someone to fill the fridge, and I found continental meats and cheeses, bags of salad, orange juice, milk, eggs, and an assortment of vegetables. I made a salad and poured a glass of wine I found in a separate wine fridge. I sat at the kitchen table and watched an episode of Taskmaster on my laptop while I ate.

I felt strangely content. At ease. Almost, but not quite, happy.

The next few days were similar. Lazy and warm. I woke late, ate, read, and floated in the pool. I turned pink and then brown. It was as close to near bliss as I could imagine. I wondered why Gideon ever left London. Imagined the sort of life I would lead if I were him. I missed Nathan and wished I’d known about this place before he’d left because maybe we could have come heretogether. I’d seen a few gay couples roaming around London when I’d ventured out for supplies, and put myself and Nathan in their places.

And then, because I was still me, I imagined me with Cas instead. Holding hands while we wandered the Waitrose food aisle, sitting eating a sandwich together on a blanket in the park, walking an excitable dog down the street. And the dark cloud would roll over me again.

I could barely stand thinking about the night in Oxford when he’d come to me. I’d just about convinced myself it hadn’t happened, that it was just a dream I’d had. One that had left me with a yearning so deep that not even Nathan hadn’t been able to touch it.

Cas was so offensively loud in my mind one night that I drunk two bottles of red wine and passed out on the sofa in Gideon’s living room. When I woke up briefly in the middle of the night, groggy and dry-mouthed, I saw him standing over me. He had such a soft, tender look on his face as he looked down at me, that I went back to sleep with a smile on my face.

“There you are,” I muttered before passing out again.

I woke up the morning after, sore everywhere on my body. Bright, brash, sunlight streamed in through the windows.

I wasn’t sure where I was, or what day it was, but I was very, very sure I was going to be sick. I made it to my bedroom, then to the ensuite, where I threw up lungfuls of bilious red liquid in loud, terrible gushes. It was the worst hangover I’d ever had. And to this day, I’ve never had worse. I can’t even look at red wine without wanting to heave, even now.

I blamed this on Caspien, too.

I’d dreamt about him, I remembered as I sat miserable on the bathroom floor. Of him standing over me, of him talking quietly, of his voice and the sound of him breathing.

I threw up again.

Then I went to lie down on my bed and passed out.

When I woke up, it was 3 p.m. I’d lost almost a full day. I’d make up for it by going for a walk, flush out my lungs and body with fresh air. My stomach protested with hunger, but I wasn’t confident anything I put in my body would stay there. I got out of bed and showered, dressing comfortably and loosely, and went to get a bottle of water for the walk.

I came down the stairs into the kitchen and froze. My entire body felt made of liquid – liquid I was going to throw up all over Gideon’s marble floor.

Cas sat at the breakfast nook, his laptop open in front of him and a tall glass of something luridly green next to him. He turned, giving me that very same, very uncharacteristic softness he’d had in the dream I’d had last night.

Except it hadn’t been a dream. It had been real. He was here.

Eighteen

Helookedlike a dream. His hair long but styled, bright gold in the late afternoon sunlight. He wore a loose, cream-coloured striped shirt, the neck open and a delicate gold chain nestled against his throat. Shorts showed off tanned legs I knew were dusted with fine gold hair. Then I noticed his arm. Bandaged in a sling tied across his chest; I’d thought it had been resting on the table.

“What happened to your arm?” I said as a greeting.

He blinked, clearly expecting another question, and tried hiding it beneath the table.

“It’s actually my hand,” he said evenly. “Two fractured metacarpals.”

I went toward him, or rather, my feet did. He closed his laptop and turned his body toward me as I took a seat at the nook.

“You won’t be able to play piano with that,” I informed him.