To: Dylan Mitchell

From: Gabe Foster

 

A week later I dump my messenger bag onto my desk and hang up my coat. Switching my computer on, I wonder what new tortures Gabe has devised for me today.

The morning after the club I’d sat at my desk, picking at my nails nervously and wondering how we were going to get through the oncoming conversation. An hour later I knew, and the answer was complete avoidance of any subject matter that might bring it up.

Gabe had strolled in dressed in a black suit with a black and tan polka dot tie. He’d looked cool and collected, and nothing like the tousled, turned on version that I’d seen the night before. His outer appearance, however, was matched by a bone-deep coldness that didn’t invite any conversation.

He’d then spent the entire week in an icy shell, levelling scorn at anything I’d done, his tongue more cutting than it had ever been. It had been like the first week that I’d worked for him, as if we were complete strangers.

Initially, I’d understood his need to get us back into our clear compartments, with no chance of overlap. However, I’d grown steadily angrier with him until finally, I’d lost my patience yesterday. I had snapped, and I snort under my breath at the thought of his face by the end of the day.

In the morning, I had examined his diary with forensic attention, and then systematically moved his appointments around until there wasn’t even a minute’s break between them. I had switched his usual strong coffee that you could stand a spoon up in, for a hazelnut blend from the staff room. Smiling happily, I’d then spent the day patching calls through to him from the very people who were on our tacit list of ‘no fucking way will I ever talk to them again’. After that, I swapped the cards on the two bouquets of flowers that he wanted to send out. His mentor’s wife had therefore got a card thanking her for a fantastic night between the sheets, and Fletcher had got the one congratulating him on his pregnancy.

At that point, I had taken the coward’s way out by leaving for home after putting Fletcher through to him. Giving him a cheery wave, I had manfully ignored Fletcher on the speakerphone demanding to know if Gabe was trying to say that he had put on weight. Pretending not to notice the look of apoplectic doom on Gabe’s face, I had sallied home. Jude and I then spent the following couple of hours drinking beer and plotting fresh new tortures.

Becoming aware of the ominous silence from his office I sigh, feeling distinctly too hungover to deal with whatever retaliation he has planned. Squaring my shoulders, I run my suddenly damp hands down my dark grey, skinny trousers. I’ve teamed them with my v-neck black jumper, worn over a white shirt and grey and black striped tie. The clothes make me feel good, and I need the pick up today.

Taking a swig of my green tea, I knock on the open door and stick my head around, only to come up short when I see that the room is empty. There is no sign of occupation at all. You can normally tell when Gabe has been in his room, as his coat is usually flung on the sofa, and his chair will be pushed sharply back as if he’d stood up in a massive hurry. Books and papers are usually everywhere, along with half empty coffee cups. Even when he isn’t there, he has a way of filling his room with a thrumming energy.

Not today though. Today it’s completely silent. Pursing my lips, I pivot and go back to my desk, grabbing my tablet to access his diary. I’m sure he has an eight o’clock appointment, and he’s usually in the office an hour before them as he likes to be prepared. There is every chance that he’s cancelled it on the calendar that we both have access to, as he’s done before. However, when I check the appointment, it’s still green lit.

Dismissing it, I head for the kitchenette attached to my office and start up a pot of the sludge that he calls a hot drink. His guests will have the more palatable stuff from the staffroom. Once done, I’m just about to get the paperwork out of my files for the meeting when my phone rings. Picking it up, I see to my amazement that it’s Gabe. He usually prefers to text me, saying that there is less chance of my arguing with him that way.

Clicking the button, I offer a hesitant, ‘hello’.

There is silence for a second, which is enough time for me to wonder if he’s arse dialled me. He’d done it once before, and I’d been treated to the audio of him fucking Fletcher somewhere. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t click end for a good couple of minutes, and the sounds had entered my spank bank for quite a while.

“Hello,” I say again, more loudly. “Gabe, can you hear me? You’ve arse dialled me again.”

The only answer is very heavy breathing, so I try for humour. “Mother, is that you? I’ve told you not to do this in work hours.”

“Very funny,” he grouches, and then I tear the phone away as a terrible hacking noise comes through.

When it finishes, I say hesitantly, “Gabe, is that you?”

“Well, of course it bloody is,” he says grumpily, but it’s so hoarse it’s hard to understand. “Who else would it be ringing you on my fucking phone - Gary Barlow?”

“Hmm, I’m thinking that might be a better option. Gary looks like he might be a very charming boss, unlike some people.” I draw my head back as he makes the noise again, and I realise that he’s coughing.

“Gabe, you sound bloody awful. Have you got that nasty virus that’s doing the rounds in the office?”

He sighs heavily and then coughs again. “I think I must have it.” He sighs again, and then says morosely, “I feel absolutely terrible.”

“I take it that you’re not coming in. Do you want me to cancel your meetings?”

He coughs again, making me wince at the awful sound. “Yes, please.”

“Why don’t you go back to bed, and I’ll handle everything here, and clear the diary for a couple of days.”

“I won’t be ill for a couple of days.” He sounds so horrified that it makes me smile. The man resents even having to take Christmas off.

“I think you will,” I say cheerily. “It seems to be a forty-eight-hour thing.” I hesitate. “Is Fletcher there? He might need to keep an eye on your temperature. Maureen from Accounts said that her husband’s temperature spiked so badly he ended up in hospital.”

He sighs with a rattling murmur. “Fletcher’s not here.”

“So you’re on your own? How long for?”

“The week probably. Listen, Dylan. I hate to ask, but if I’m going to be cooped up here today I’m going to need the Roper file. The meeting’s on Friday and I’m not ready for it.”

“You can’t possibly be thinking of working today!” I sound embarrassingly like Hattie Jacques from ‘Carry on Nursing’.

There’s a silence and I prepare myself for an earbashing, but instead, I hear what sounds like a snotty sigh. “Please,” he finally says, and my heart melts slightly because he sounds grumpy and vulnerable. It’s a combination I never would have thought would work for me, but obviously it does.

Relenting, I sigh. “Okay, I’ll be round in a bit. Give me time to clear your diary, and take notice because I’m clearing it for three days.”

I wait for the argument, but it’s a sign of how bad he’s feeling that I only get a low ‘thank you’ before he hangs up.

A couple of hours later, I emerge from the tube at Highgate Village. The tube had been almost pleasant outside rush hour, and I suppress a wish to work part-time with the knowledge of the pay packet that accompanies it. That, and the fact that Gabe likes me at his beck and call far too much to deprive himself.

I look around curiously. I like Highgate. When I first moved to London, I’d spent a happy day with my boyfriend at the time, tramping around the wonderfully gothic cemetery, peering at the gravesites of its notable occupants including Karl Marx. We’d spent a less happy evening splitting up over his dislike of Jude, but it hadn’t spoilt my fondness for Highgate. I like its funky mix of leafy green streets and red brick Victorian houses with their village feel, interspersed with stunning buildings like St Joseph’s Church with its eye-catching, copper dome.

As I walk along the High Street, a row of shops with Georgian facades catch my eye. I hesitate outside the chemist, before sighing and going in. I snag a basket and start to chuck Lemsip and various other cold remedies into it. Gabe might be a bastard, and more so this week, but I’m unable to ignore that he’s ill.

To further my stupidity, I then go into the next shop, which is an artisan deli that caters a lot of our events. I buy a load of his favourite foods, along with some bits that he’ll be able to eat if his stomach is upset. I’ve only been to his house once, but I still remember opening one of the kitchen cupboards to look for a glass. I’d found them and enough alcohol to set up as an upmarket bar, but that was it, and the fridge had been bare of everything apart from takeaway boxes.

Finally, laden down with carrier bags, I make my way up the street to Gabe’s home, enjoying the odd stunning glimpse of London laid out like a magic carpet before me. Eventually reaching his house I look up, paying more attention to it than I did last time.

It surprises me now, just as much as it did then. I’d expected him to live in a converted warehouse, full of stark, designer pieces of furniture and modern art. The reality is dramatically different, in that his home is a three-storey, red brick, Victorian house. It sits comfortably on a quiet, tree-lined avenue, its bay windows gleaming in the sun. It’s unusual because it’s still a house, rather than having been converted into flats, which has happened to a lot of these big, old properties in London.

I’m drawn from my musings by the navy-painted front door opening and Gabe appearing. “Are you coming in, or hovering outside like a tourist?” he asks grumpily, and I immediately regret my purchases.

My carrier bags burn a red flag in my imagination. I imagine them calling out, ‘Look what he’s done now. You asked for a folder, and you got Nurse Dylan and a metric ton of snacks’. The worries die away, however, as I walk up the front steps to him, and notice how he’s leaning against the door for support.

He holds the door open and I edge past him, trying to ignore how very fine he looks in the navy and white checked pyjama shorts and white vest that he’s wearing. They show off the sleek, muscular lines of his body and his olive skin.

Once I’m inside, I put down the carrier bags with a thud while he closes the door. I look at him with concern. “Jesus, you look a very funny colour, Gabe.” Ignoring his muttered objections, I put my palm on his forehead. “And you’re really bloody hot.”

“I know,” he mumbles, and to my alarm he sways slightly. “I know I’m hot, because I’m me.”

“Okay.” I elongate the word, and he shakes his head wearily and holds out his hand.

“Never mind me. Have you got the folder?”

“I have,” I say calmly, bending to gather the carrier bags and moving past him in the direction I remember the kitchen being. “But you’re not getting it.”

His mini explosion is completely spoiled by a massive coughing attack, which follows me as I make my way down the long, Milton tiled hallway, catching glimpses of a large, airy lounge to my right. Finally gathering his breath, he comes after me, standing in the doorway of the kitchen as I deposit the carrier bags on his central island. I step back with a sigh of relief and try to massage the feeling back into my fingers.

“What are those?” he asks cautiously, pointing at the bags.

“Some medicines and some food and bits.” I take off my grey, wool pea coat and fling it cavalierly onto a bar stool, before looking around appreciatively.

The room is part of a big extension on the back of the house. It’s full of sunlight as one wall is completely filled by bi-folding doors, giving a glimpse of a green, leafy garden. A long table sits by these doors with enough chairs to seat ten people, and there’s also a huge, central island that doubles up as a breakfast bar, if the steel bar stools are anything to go by. The kitchen units themselves look extremely expensive. They’re made of a white gloss lacquer, and have been matched with a black granite work surface that sparkles in the light from the low hanging pendant lights.

The flooring is made of wide, white wood planks, and the whole effect is sleek, modern-looking, and expensive. However, to me, it looks sterile and empty, like a film set. It’s crying out for a pop of colour, and in my mind’s eye, I picture one wall painted a deep, hot pink with a big sofa in front of it. I could just see myself sitting there with a cup of tea in the morning. Shaking my head clear of thoughts which are perilously close to imagining him with me in that scenario, I turn back to him.

“Jesus, Gabe. This kitchen is bloody lovely, and completely wasted on you.”

He snorts slightly which develops into some more of the hacking coughing, and I wait him out patiently while trying to hide my concern. He’s a putty colour with red flags of colour over his cheekbones. When he finishes and is wiping his forehead, I move over to the kettle and switch it on.

“Have you seen a doctor?” I throw over my shoulder, and he scoffs.

“For a cold? No, I bloody haven’t.”

I sigh. “It’s not a cold. It’s a virus, and it’s nasty. Bernard from Acquisitions had it, and he said that he’d never felt so bad.”

“Touching as these stories are about my co-workers, and much as I want to know how you can possibly know all that you do about the people that we work with, I’m actually more interested in what you think you’re doing.”

He’s making a valiant attempt to be his usual irascible self, but failing due to his white-knuckled grasp on the counter. I smile at him. “Exactly. The people we work with. The operative word being with. They’re people and very interesting. You could maybe try a conversation one day. That’s if you can manage to catch them before they employ their ninja strategies to get out of your eyesight.”

He scoffs. “I know all that I need to know about them because you tell me. It cuts out the middleman business.”

“Ah, that pesky middleman business, usually called conversation. How it does interfere with everything,” I say lightly.

A smile crosses his full lips as he sits down on a bar stool. However, it vanishes quickly, as he leans his head on his hand and sighs heavily.

“Seriously, Gabe, you look awful. Where’s Fletcher? Is he on a shoot?”

He looks down at the counter. “No, not a shoot. I presume he went back to his flat.”

“Why?” I don’t even try to stem my interest. I have to grab these titbits of information when I can.

“Well, because I’m sick. He can’t be catching it. He’s on a shoot next week.”

I’m flabbergasted, and it must show on my face. “But you’re ill.”

He shoots me a sidelong glance, rubbing his back absently. “So? I’ve been ill many times in my life. I’ve never needed anyone to hold my hand before.”

“Gabe, were you listening about Maureen from Accounts, whose husband was taken to hospital?”

“Yes, I found it hard to rest after that, with all the concern flooding through me.”

“I’m ignoring your attempt at sarcasm, because the moral of that story is that he might have been seriously ill if he hadn’t had someone with him. Shall I ring Fletcher and he can come back?”

He shakes his head, a move he obviously immediately regrets, judging by the white knuckles that he massages into his temples. Then he looks up, showing red-rimmed eyes and wild-looking hair. “Fuck no, don’t ring him. I really don’t need that, on top of being ill. He’d drive me mad. Then I’d end up having to do something to appease him, and then feel worse. It’s easier being ill on your own.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Who doesn’t want their partner around when they’re ill? It’s nice to have someone look after you. Shaking my head, I open a few cupboards before finding the mugs. Taking a large, silver-coloured one down, I upend a Lemsip packet into it and then pour hot water over it. Stirring the bright yellow mixture, I push it across the counter to him.

“What’s this?” he asks suspiciously.

“Lemsip. It’ll bring your temperature down, and help with the aches in your back and your headache. Drink it while it’s hot, and then you can go back to bed.”

He seems almost surprised that I’ve noticed his aches and pains, and when I catch his eye I nod at his mug determinedly. Looking at it suspiciously, he brings the mug to his lips and takes an experimental sip, before screwing his face up like a little boy. “Ugh, it’s really fucking sweet.”

“Well, it’s not a dirty martini or a whisky sour, but it’ll do the trick.” I reach into the carrier bags. “I’ve bought you some Lucozade and some lemon barley water because it’s important to keep your fluids up.” I pause and then smile. “Now I know you’re really ill when you can’t make a remark about fluids.”

He shakes his head tentatively, still taking disgusted, little sips of the drink. “I thought of it, but the idea of semen just makes me feel sick.”

I laugh, and while he drinks, I drag more items out of the bags, as he watches me with a sort of feverish apathy mixed with a little interest. I look up at him. “I’ve bought some things from Harpers Deli that I know you love, like the stuffed bell peppers. You always make a beeline for them when they cater events. However, I think to start with, once you’re hungry, you should have something light, like scrambled eggs. Are you hungry now?” He shakes his head immediately. “Okay then, I’ll put everything away until you’re ready.”

I look at the cupboards, all concealing emptiness, and think back to the takeaway containers in the fridge, and a thought occurs to me. “Can you actually cook?”

He finishes the drink with a shudder and pushes the empty mug at me. “No, of course I can’t. That’s what restaurants are for.”

“But this is such a gorgeous room.”

He shakes his head. “Of course it is. I wanted the best, and this was it. The designer said it was a chef’s wet dream.” A salacious smile crosses his lips. “I don’t know about a chef, but the designer gave me several wet dreams.” He pauses. “And awake ones.”

I shake my head and look around. I can’t picture either him or Fletcher bustling around in an apron. Now myself, I would love it, because I like nothing better than cooking. I would rather have friends over for dinner than go clubbing. I feel suddenly sorry for him, because the kitchen seems evocative of his life – expensive, yet sterile and empty.

He must catch something on my face, because he says hurriedly, “I’m out too much to use the room. I make coffee in here, but that’s about it.”

I look at the ranks of glass bottles on one of the counters, all bearing the labels of expensive spirits, and I sniff. “And you pickle your liver in here too, I suppose?”

“Only in my off time.” A smile crosses his face before he leans into his hand with a weary sigh.

“Come on,” I say briskly. “Why don’t you go and get into bed and try to sleep?”

He nods tiredly and stands up, but I exclaim as he sways worryingly. Rushing to him, I slot my shoulder under his arm and prop him up. “Okay, that’s decided me. I’m going to help you upstairs and into bed, and then I’m going to stay for a bit until I’m sure that you’re alright.”

“You can’t do that,” he immediately, and predictably argues.

“Yes, I can. Gabe, you’re sick, and as much as you’re a shithead sometimes, I’ve trained you to be a fairly acceptable shithead to me. If you died, I’d have to go to all the effort of training someone else.”

“If I died, maybe you should consider a change of career into the nursing profession. With your lovely bedside manner, you’d be a shoo-in.”

I snort out a laugh, and we somehow manage to bump our way up two flights of stairs to the top floor, then down a hallway to the open doorway that he indicates.

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, as he loses his balance and shoves me sideways into a wall with his weight.

“Don’t apologize,” I wheeze. “You can’t help being ill.”

“I could help smelling like this,” he mumbles. “Good grief, I stink.”

“You don’t smell at your best,” I admit, thinking of his normal spicy orange scent. “But I repeat, you are ill.” I pause. “Do you want to have a shower? I think if you could manage it, it might make you feel better to be cleaner, and you’ll sleep better if all the sweat’s off you.”

“You are not giving me a bed bath,” he mutters in a very alarmed way, and I sniff haughtily.

“You should be so lucky, Gabe.” He huffs what sounds suspiciously like a laugh, but then coughs again, so maybe not.

We make our way into his bedroom, and I stop briefly to appreciate what a gorgeous room it is. In the old days, the top floor of these houses was usually set aside for servant’s quarters, but he’s knocked all the rooms into one big suite. Two walls are painted navy blue, the others a bright white, and the oak floorboards have been refinished and varnished.

It’s full of light from a big window, and sunbeams play over the massive, oak bed which is set back against one navy wall. It’s made up with pure white sheets and a thick, blue and white patterned comforter. The other side of the room is a seating area with a large leather sofa and a coffee table on which I can see a mass of papers. Through one door I can see a dressing room fitted with light oak shelves, and I inhale the citrus scent which seems to be embedded in the walls.

Then I look at him. “Shower?”

He nods determinedly, moving towards a door that I presume leads to an en-suite bathroom.

“Leave the door open,” I say sharply. “I need to hear if you need me, and don’t hesitate, Gabe. If you fall over, you could really hurt yourself.” I pause. “That would make my day a lot harder, having to pick you up.”

He pauses at the door and gapes at me, his grumpy exterior not hiding the smirk that he always gets when I snark him. “You know, illness brings out a real Nurse Ratchet side of you.”

I raise my eyebrow. “You have no idea.”

He moves into what I can see is a gleaming white bathroom with blue, metro tiles and modern oak cupboards. I try really hard to avert my gaze as he lifts up his tank, showing off that amazing, hairy chest and six-pack. He has always lacked modesty, and I’ve seen him half-naked more times than I want to count, as he changes in his office regularly. This explains why he doesn’t even try to close the door, as he drops his shorts. I swallow hard at the sight of his bare buttocks, tight and high and drool worthy, before he moves out of sight.

Turning around I look at his bed which looks like he’s fought World War Two in there, with the sheets and duvet wrinkled and tossed about and the pillows dented. Shaking my head, I roll up my sleeves and start to strip it.

A search of the immediate area locates a tall airing cupboard full of spare sheets and towels, and when Gabe comes out, it’s to find me smoothing out the duvet cover and plumping the pillows in their soft, navy cotton.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he mutters, and I exclaim as he sways slightly, going white.

“Yes I did. It’s horrid to get into a sweaty bed. Gabe, you look really bad. Get into bed now and do as I say.”

I put out my hands to help him if he needs me, but then freeze at his next faint words. “I’ve imagined you saying that a few times, Dylan, but never when I feel this crap.”

I shoot a glance at him, trying to analyse what he means, but it’s useless as I’m not sure that he even knows what he’s saying at this point. “Get in the bloody bed before you fall down.”

He accedes to my urging and slips under the duvet I hold up for him, settling into the fresh sheets with a throaty murmur of happiness.

“This feels nice,” he says sleepily, smiling at me. His thick black eyelashes flutter on his cheeks and make him look young and vulnerable for a second.

“Of course it does,” I soothe, as his eyes grow heavier. “Sleep now, Gabe. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

His hand suddenly shoots out and grabs mine, but his grip is lax. “You promise?” he says, opening his eyes and looking up at me.

I’m confused, and trying very hard to ignore the sparks I feel in my wrist under his warm clasp. “Promise what?”

“Promise me that you’ll be here.”

“Of course I will,” I say softly, giving in to the crazy impulse to stroke his hair back from his forehead as he falls asleep. It’s warm and heavy, and feels like rough silk on my fingers. I want to move away, but something stronger keeps me static by his side, stroking his hair as he falls asleep with a small smile on his face.

It’s only the threat of him waking up his normal grumpy self, and demanding to know what the hell I’m doing, that makes me move at all.