Page 7 of The Making of Jonty Bloom
“Good morning, Major,” Jonty said. “Good morning, Dottie.”
“Morning, Jonty. End of the world today, young man.”
“Today? Oh dear. A spot of whisky and a copy ofPlayboythen instead of your usual tea andTheTimes?”
The major laughed. “Maybe later. Tea and my paper please.”
“Won’t be a moment.”
Jonty broughtThe Timesover to the major, then hurried to the kitchen. He wasn’t going to risk an accident with the new coffee machine in the lounge and another dry-cleaning bill. He had just one suit and could only stretch his money so far.
He knew the top floor suite reserved for Mr Difficult wouldn’t be ready. The cleaners had barely started work this morning. Guests didn’t have to leave until eleven and the couple in that suite hadn’t checked out yet. Unless he’d somehow missed seeing them. Really, he should have sent this guy away, but something stopped him. Probably because he didn’t want to get reported to Vincent for the Flake incident, the personal comments, the sarcasm, the twitch in his cock. Though there was no way that had been seen. Had it?
You just want him to smile at you.
Tay was right. Jonty felt uncomfortable not to be liked. Though being liked too much was worse.Don’t think about Brad.
Don’t let him into your head. The guy was a wanker.
Jonty bit his lip.I miss you.
I miss you too.
Maybe it wasn’t healthy to have imaginary conversations with his best friend, but Jonty missed him so much.
When he sidled into the kitchen, Wayne, the sous-chef, was banging pans around in a foul temper, yelling at Xander and Martin, his two assistants. Jonty didn’t dare ask either of them to put the kettle on, so he did it himself, then grabbed two trays. He put a couple of amaretti biscuits on a small plate with one of the wide cappuccino cups. The other tray got a plate with a chocolate biscuit, the last one in the packet, and Jonty added a small dog biscuit from a box he’d bought and left in the pantry.
“What are you doing?” Wayne snapped at his ear.
The tall, bald black chef towered over him like an anorexic bat.
“Making tea and coffee for guests.”
“There’s a fucking machine in the fucking lounge. They can make their fucking drinks themselves.”
Thank you, Gordon Ramsey.“The major’s not—”
“Oh, fine if it’s the major.”
Foul-tempered Wayne had a soft spot for Major Bagshott. Everyone did. He was a sweetie and so was Dottie, always at his side.
“I couldn’t tell one guest to do it himself and not the other,” Jonty muttered.
“Hmm.” Wayne went back to yelling at Xander and Martin for not working fast enough, and Jonty finished making the drinks.
He was able to carry both trays at the same time because after he’d reversed through the kitchen door, there were no more barriers. Back in the lounge, Jonty put the major’s tray in front of him.
“Thank you, Jonty. Ooh, a chocolate biscuit and a special one for you, Dottie.”
“If the end of the world is nigh, why not treat yourself, that’s what I say. I’m going to fit in as much as I can today. Eat an entire bar of chocolate without being interrupted, go surfing, then find someone to dance with, all the way to eternity.”
The elderly man chortled. He thought dance meant dance, not the horizontal tango Jonty was thinking about. If the world reallywasgoing to end, he’d like to die while he was fucking or being fucked. Either would do, as long as he came hard enough to see stars before he returned to the stars.
He carried the other tray to where Mr Impossible sat staring through the window, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.Black socks. How boring. Jonty’s were pink with white spots. He put the tray on the table.
The guy turned. “Instant coffee in a cup for cappuccino?” He raised his eyebrows, then glanced across to the gleaming Italian contraption on the side table. “Is the machine broken?”
“No, but it spits at me. I thought you’d like a large coffee, that’s why I gave you that cup. I did give you two biscuits.”
