Page 20 of Take My Breath Away
JAMES
It’s been almost two weeks since I found Perry in Bert’s but we’ve not seen very much of each other at the house, as most nights I’ve been out until very late, all of it down to work.
Meetings with government ministers, senior police officers, and sometimes representatives from MI5. I’m officially a civil servant, but my speciality is in matters pertaining to the defence of the realm. It sounds glamorous, but it’s less James Bond and more dull and interminably long meetings, trying to broker agreement between factions with competing interests. It often keeps me tied up until late into the night. I could say it’s not always like this, but it’d be a lie. Whereas I’d almost always hit a bar afterwards, to wind down and find a way to relieve some of the tension, now I get home as fast as I can. In just days, my house feels like a home rather than the beautiful but empty place I’ve always done little more than rattle around in.
Each night, as I’ve walked through the door, I’ve sensed the changes that are happening in my life. Coming home, eager for the warmth of another’s presence, it’s a surprise, I’d even go as far to say it’s a shock. For so long I’ve lived my life in a way that’s kept anything hinting at cosy domesticity at arm’s length. That life’s for others, not me, yet when I close the door on the world those hard lines and certainties no longer feel quite so sure and clear cut.
Mostly, by the time I’ve got home Perry’s gone to bed, leaving only a note to say there’s some bolognese, or chilli, or something equally as delicious in the fridge, or in a pot on the hob, along with a freshly baked cake. His notes are almost apologetic in tone, which is madness. He’s a wonderful cook and he’s taken to that part of the deal we’ve struck with enthusiasm. Tucking in to something which I suspect has been made for me rather than being mere left overs, feels good even if I am eating alone in the small hours.
Thursday evening, and I’m trundling home on the tube. It’s almost the end of a long and gruelling week and for once it’s a reasonable hour and that means I can spend some time with Perry. I don’t think about which bar to go to, and about how the night might pan out even though they always pan out the same. There’s no savour to the thought, no sizzle of expectation, and I’m more than happy about that. Perhaps I can treat Perry to a takeaway, as a thank you for all the lovely meals he’s made. We could watch a film together on Netflix… The thought’s as warming and delicious as the food Perry cooks.
It’s a few minutes walk from the underground station to home, and as soon as I’m through the door my senses are captured by a rich and warm aroma. Garlic, oil, and herbs combine to make my mouth water and my stomach rumble. Setting my briefcase down, I make my way through to the kitchen.
Leaning on the doorjamb I watch Perry, half-humming, half-singing to himself as he moves between the sizzling pan on the stove and the chopping board piled high with vegetables. I spot a flash of earphone leads. He’s lost in a private world, happy and relaxed, and oblivious to my presence.
Perry’s been forced to restock his wardrobe — whatever that shit Grant did with his clothes, they’re long gone — and Perry’s restocking includes the tight jeans hugging his pert little arse and legs that seem to go on forever. I can’t help admiring, and smirking. Sugar on legs is how I’ve always thought of him, especially when red-faced and flustering, and as I drink him in now I’ve no reason to change my assessment.
The light blue T-shirt he’s wearing, as tight as the jeans, has ridden up a little at the back, revealing a strip of tantalising, creamy skin. Small and on the thin side, a little too thin perhaps, a puff of wind would surely blow him away.
He looks young, not much more than nineteen or twenty, and even though I know he’s older, a disquieting knot tightens in my stomach. I’m old enough to be his father, and it’s a sobering thought. Elliot and Freddie may have a similar age gap, but theirs is a different situation entirely. Perry’s here because he needed rescuing, which puts him in my care and under my protection, to a degree. It’s something I have to remember, but as I watch him, unaware of my presence, I know without any doubt that’s going to be a whole lot harder than it sounds.
I push my fingers through my hair, my hands not as steady as I’d like. He swings around and all but screams in shock as he wrenches the earbuds from his ears and stares wide-eyed at me.
“I didn’t know you were here.” The words rush from him. “I’m cooking dinner,” he blurts out.
“And very good it smells, too.” My mouth’s gone dry and I have to force the words out and paste a smile on my face as I walk into the kitchen. “You don’t need to cook every night.” Disappointment shadows his face, and I could kick myself. “It’s a lot to do, from scratch, after being at work all day,” I say, hoping it takes out the sting my comment’s inflicted.
“I enjoy cooking, and I’m more than happy to do it. It’s pork.” A frown wrinkles his brow. “I’ve not given you pork before. Do you like pork? I just assumed—”
“Oh, yes, I’m very fond of pork.”
Very fond indeed.
A smile lights up his face, all apprehension vanishing.
“I love pork, too, always have,” he says, brightly. “It’s so versatile. There are lots of things you can do with it. I used to have a book, which I found in a charity shop when I first started at uni.One Hundred Things To Do with Pork,it was called.”
One hundred and one, if you eat it…It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back.
“It’s going to be casserole. To make sure the pork’s nice and juicy, and not dried out, it’ll have to cook slowly in the oven for about an hour. Hope that’s okay?” Perry’s smile is wide and sunny.
Juicy pork…I clear my throat. “Yes, that’s fine. I mean, nobody wants their pork to be dried up, do they?”
“Oh, no. It’s got to be juicy and tasty or it’s not worth having.”
“No…”
He turns his attention back to the cooking.
I love pork… juicy pork…He’s not the only one, and I’m thankful I’m still wearing my raincoat which is hiding my pork talk inspired semi.
“I’m going to jump in the shower.” A hot shower, and a soaped-up hand…
“There’s also chocolate fondant. For afters.”
“Chocolate fondant?”
“Yes, because who doesn’t like chocolate? It’s almost as good as pork,” he says, laughing lightly.
