Chpater 11

Michael – Twenty Weeks

I’m enjoying the view. Looking over the sea, the sand and the dunes is pretty good. Watching Beth and Charlotte sitting together exchanging pregnancy notes and gossip is even better.

Then the peace is broken…

Raised voices…

No… not exactly raised… but determined… Angry even…

And without a hint that either party intends to back down.

Who is it?

I cock an ear…

James and… Ross??

What on earth would they be arguing about?

The girls both turn, Charlotte’s eyes wary, Beth’s worried.

Putting my drink down, “I’ll see what’s happening. You two stay here.”

I follow the palaver back inside, meeting Richard en-route, who looks as baffled as I feel. “What the hell would those two argue about?”

“Not a clue. We’d better see what’s going on.”

And together we track the racket to the kitchen where James and Ross are manoeuvring for position around the table like a pair of bull elephants with toothache.

Ross slams an onion down onto a chopping board. “I cook for Mr and Mrs Haswell.”

James brandishes a cheese grater like Zeus threatening the impious with thunder-bolts. “I’ve been cooking for them for months, whenever they’ve visited my home.”

“Exactly. Your home, Mr Alexanders. Your home. This is Mr Haswell’s property…”

“But this dinner is for extra guests. And I invited them…”

“Give me strength…” I mutter.

Next to me, Richard grunts agreement.

James slaps a garlic bulb onto his own chopping board, then comes down on it hard with the flat of a knife. The bulb shatters, cloves shoot off in all directions and I duck smartly to avoid the shrapnel.

Richard thunders in. “Oh, give it a rest, the pair of you.” They freeze. “James, you do the starter and the dessert. Ross, you do the main. That way we all get a bit of peace and quiet.”

The wisdom of Solomon…

“But…”

“I was just…”

“That’s the end of it. As you both just agreed, my house. So, it’s my rules.”

*****

I look over the place settings. “Seven? So, who’s the company we’re expecting?”

James sets napkins by each place, still chuntering under his breath. “We're celebrating Kirstie leaving hospital. I invited her and Ryan along. Help them get back into the social scene again.”

“Great idea. Do we know if they're actually a couple again?”

James straightens up. “Not sure. The last I saw she still wasn’t wearing his collar. But I think some normal interaction with friends may help smooth that one along.”

“You are playing matchmaker?”

“Yes, I am. I like Kirstie. She's been a good friend. More than a friend, considering what she's suffered. And... I've not forgotten that I fucked things up when she first asked me to help her with Ryan.”

“That wasn't your fault. Ryan was being a pig-headed moron, not accepting what it takes to be someone's Dom.”

“Well, maybe. Maybe not. I still feel responsible.”

*****

The sound of a car outside. Scruffy barks, running in excited circles by the door, his runty tail a-quiver.

Richard eyes him, sucking in his cheeks. “You know, if this house was ever going to host a dog, I'd have envisaged something rather more elegant than that. A setter perhaps, or maybe a deerhound. Something with a bit of style and aristocracy.”

“You mean you didn’t want something that looks like it was built from the bits all the other dogs didn't want?”

He gives me a dry look then make his way down the hall to the door. Somewhere along the route he paints on his best ‘Host’ face.

“Kirstie. Ryan. Do come in, the pair of you.”

Kirstie, tall and elegant as ever, not pretty, not exactly beautiful either, but striking, with her strong features and aquiline nose. In a loose summer dress, her dark hair long and free, she's linked arm in arm with Ryan and with just a hint of leaning on him for support.

But her long swan neck is bare of ornament.

I shake hands with Ryan then lean close to kiss Kirstie on the cheek. “Wonderful to see you back on your feet, Kirstie.”

*****

The meal is exquisite. The first course, French onion soup, arrives hot and fragrant straight from the oven. The cheese crust, bubbling and golden, floats atop a dark broth which is somehow savoury and sweet at the same time.

“Great soup,” says Kirstie.

James beams. “Glad you think so.”

The main course is rack of lamb. Crisp and succulent, there’s rosemary and… I chew, analysing the flavour… Normally I would simply ask James, but not today…

Charlotte pipes up to Ross, standing in the wings as waiter. “Lovely roast, Ross. What’s that fruity flavour?”

“It’s plum and clove, Mrs Summerford. I basted the lamb with preserve made from the fruit I picked in Mr and Mrs Haswell’s garden last year.”

She smacks her lips, marking out her words with an upraised fork. “It’s really good. Michael, I’ll have to plant some fruit trees in our garden too. Sally would love that for the restaurant kitchen.”

Thunder rolls over James’ face.

I bite into another succulent mouthful. “Great idea, eh James?”

Ross smirks, pointedly looking anywhere but at James.

Kirstie leans in, her head close to mine. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just James and Ross indulging in a little edge play.”

“Ah…” She hides a smile behind a glass of cava. “Oh, by the way, Charlotte. Did that doctor find you?”

Charlotte looks blank. “Doctor? What doctor?”

“Um, Ramora, I think he said. Yes, Doctor Ramora. He came by last week asking after you, just before I was signed out for the last time. I told him you'd moved out weeks ago.”

“Ramora?” Charlotte swings her head. “Doesn’t mean a thing to me. What did he look like?”

“Tallish, heavily built. Looked more like a bouncer then a doctor actually.”

Charlotte laughs. “Doesn't ring a bell. Maybe he was looking for my records and they’d got the departments mixed up.” She shrugs, dismissing it.

*****