Take My Breath Away by Ali Ryecart

Chapter Eleven

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.

That’s a matter of debate…Instead, I say, “I think you should stop working for Elliot and stay here as my full-time live-in housekeeper and cook. What do you reckon?”

His eyes open wide, almost as though he’s considering it, before he throws back his head, and laughs. I could always coax laughter out of him whenever I breezed into Elliot’s office. It was all part of the fun, making him smile, making him blush, making him laugh. It’s a light, almost sing-song sound, and it weaves its way around me, and I know without any doubt that I want to hear it over and over again.

* * *

The food’s delicious and even though I’m not much of a cook I recognise his skill. It’s every bit as good as food I’ve eaten in high-class restaurants.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

Perry smiles, but there’s a tinge of sadness. “My granddad got me interested.”

“The one who used to read to you?”

He nods. “He was a chef before he retired, in a big London hotel. He believed being able to cook well was an essential life skill — like knowing how to swim, or drive. Or the Heimlich Manoeuvre, just in case anybody choked on a poorly filleted piece of fish, as he always put it. His speciality was cake making, more specifically cake decorating. He made quite a name for himself, and even after he retired he used to undertake commissions, for weddings and such like.”

The books on sugarcraft suddenly make sense. I open my mouth to ask him about them, but there’s a faraway look in his eyes, as his much loved grandfather fills his thoughts. I snap my jaw closed.

“Anyway,” he says, coming back to the present, “the cooking gene bypassed my mum, who’s terrible, and from a young age I cooked most of the family meals. Granddad gave me the basic training, which I added to by reading cookbooks and watching all the cookery shows on the telly, but when I was eighteen I took an intensive course to really up my skills. I wanted to work the ski season when I took a gap year before university, so if I was going to cater for a chalet in one of the top resorts, I had to have the credentials.”

“Where did you work?”

“Verbier. In Switzerland.”

Verbier… I’ve been going there for just about every season for years. We may have walked past each other on the street, stood in the same queue for the ski lift, drunk in the same bars. Our paths could so easily have crossed but I know they never did, because I’d have remembered.

With a thought that’s so hard it’s a thump in the chest, I can only thank God we didn’t because I know exactly what I’d have done: sweet talked him with the sole purpose of getting him into bed, before walking away without a second thought, the way I have with just about every other man in my life. A bitter taste coats the back of my throat, my tongue, my teeth, my lips, and I drag my hand across my mouth as though to wipe it away.

“…a friend of my parents own an upmarket travel agency. It was her who got me the job.”

He’s looking at me, waiting for a response, and I scramble to catch up.

“Did you enjoy it? Being a chalet hand’s hard work.”

Perry’s face flushes an alarming shade of red.

Oh, I see.

A teenage Perry, away from home for probably the first time. Young, innocent, clueless and fresh faced, and very, very pretty. It’s easy to see where this story’s going.

“It was hard work, but, erm, warding off the drink induced advances of the guests was the really tough part. Chalet hands are often seen as one of the perks, as I soon found out.”

I’m just about winning the fight not to cringe. It could be me he’s talking about, and something that feels very much like shame fizzes in the pit of my stomach.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, “when the season was over, I transferred to a small cruise ship and spent the next few months working in the kitchens assisting the pastry chefs. Again courtesy of the family friend. There wasn’t a guest under the age of seventy, I reckon, so I wasn’t having to fight off wandering hands.”

“So much easier if those hands are gnarled and arthritic.”

Perry’s eyes widen for the briefest of moments before he bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, plus at least they couldn’t chase me around the kitchen — not easy with a Zimmer frame.” He goes red again.

Chased around the kitchen, brandishing a wooden spoon to protect his honour…

“Why didn’t you go to catering college? Becoming a professional chef would seem the natural step.”

He shakes his head. “I love cooking, and baking in particular, but working in a restaurant or hotel kitchen as a career isn’t what I wanted, and still don’t. Cake making and sugarcrafting is my thing, just like it was for granddad.”

He hesitates for a moment, running his top teeth along his full lower lip as though he’s considering what to say next. From one side to the other, all I can do is follow the movement of teeth scraping across lip, completely transfixed.

“What I ultimately want is to have my own business specialising in high-end patisserie and specialist celebration cake making and decoration. The luxury end of the market.”

It explains the books on advanced sugarcraft, the love of cooking, the influence of his much loved grandfather. His admission doesn’t come as a surprise.

“Aiming high, and why not.”

“Exactly. I’ve taken specialist courses, as it’s where my interest and skills converge. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for quite some time, but the recent changes in my situation,” he says with a grimace, “have kind of sharpened up the idea, brought it into some kind of focus. If there’s a time to try and make the dream a reality, it’s now. I’ve got photos of some of the cakes I’ve made. Would you like to see them?”

Hesitancy threads through his words, as though unsure whether or not I’d be interested. Of course I am.

“Yes, I would.”

His smile’s big and bright as he pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls through. Without a word he hands it over. To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but it’s not this.

“Perry, these are incredible.” And it’s no more than the truth.

I take my time going through the photos. Traditional wedding cakes festooned with sugarpaste flowers, through to a child’s birthday cake with fairies and unicorns and mermaids. There’s even a rainbow PRIDE cake, edged with hearts. He’s got a talent that deserves to be unleashed on the world. I hand him back his phone, which he takes with a self-conscious smile.

“I’ll need to speak to my parents, as they’ve always said they’d help me out when the time comes — they’ve always run their own businesses, so they’ll be supportive. Don’t get me wrong,” he says, concern creasing his brow, “I enjoy my job and Elliot’s great to work for, but it’s not what I want to be doing in five years’ time.”

I give him a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, but you really mustn’t keep it too much of a secret because—”

My phone rings, cutting me off. I don’t want to take any work calls, because I’ve no doubt that’s what it is. I want to hear all about Perry and his ambitions. It crosses my mind to ignore it, but I’m not in the kind of job where that’s possible.

“Sorry, but I’d better.” I fish out my phone and hold it up. Perry nods as he pushes himself to standing and gathers up the used crockery and cutlery.

“Campion,” I bark.

There have been some issues at work in the last few days and I’m half-expecting to receive calls. Weekday evenings, weekends, Christmas Day, Easter Day, the Queen’s bloody birthday, I’m on call 24/7. Official or not, it’s the way it is.

“That sounds very butch and in command. Are you wearing one of your fuck off suits with maybe the tie a little loose?”

I swallow a sigh. Aiden. He’d got a thing about me being suited and booted, all buttoned up, as he puts it. The guy’s got a serious suit fetish and I seem to feed him until he’s full. I throw a quick glance to where Perry’s stacking the dish washer, because I really don’t want him to hear me talking to Aiden. Getting up, I make my way to the living room, and close the door.

“I know you’re there because you’re breathing hard. Have I caught you doing something you shouldn’t be? Maybe we should switch to a video call.” Aiden laughs and I hear the intake of breath as he draws on a cigarette.

“I’m busy. My friend, remember? I told you about him. He’s still staying with me and we’re finishing up dinner.” In other words, you’re disturbing us.

“Still with you? Ah well, I was hoping we could meet up to have a little fun. The offer’s still open for him to join in.”

“I really don’t think that’s his kind of thing.” There’s a hard snap to my voice. No way is that going to happen, not a hope in hell. Silence stretches out between us.

“So, we’re putting our arrangement on ice for a while?”

There’s a tentative edge to Aiden’s words. It’s a valid question because this is the second time within less than three weeks I’ve given him the brush off. I don’t have an answer for him.

“O-kay, but let’s not leave it too long. Although we’ll have a lot of catching up to do when you’ve finished being the perfect host,” Aiden says as he laughs. “Anyway, thought you might like to know that Harry’s having a party at his place tomorrow. Interested? If you can manage to tear yourself away from your friend for a few hours, that is.”

Party. It’s a euphemism, a handy piece of shorthand. Yes, it’ll be a party all right, with sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll. Except for the rock ’n’ roll. It certainly won’t be pricey nibble food from Waitrose and polite chat over glasses of white wine. Ordinarily, would I have gone? There’s no doubt about that, but now the thought leaves me feeling vaguely queasy. A home-cooked meal and Perry smiling shyly as we sit huddled in the kitchen…

“James? Are you still there?”

“Yes, yes I am. And no, I won’t be going.”

“Because of your friend?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” My words are brusque, and there’s another silence.

“Right, I think I’m sensing something here. If you’re trying to find an excuse to step back—”

I close my eyes, telling myself I’m not hearing the faint edge of disappointment in his voice.

“That’s not what I’m doing.” I’m not sure if that’s true. “Look, it’s just that circumstances have cropped up that I’ve had to respond to. I’ll be in touch.” The words feel hollow in my chest.

A moment’s silence, before he answers.

“Okay, sure. Maybe speak in a few days’ time?”

“Yes, let’s do that.”

We end the call and I let go of a long breath. I like Aiden and we have, or had, I’m not really sure which it is as I slump against the wall, an arrangement that works for both of us. But the whole tone felt off, in a way I can’t quite put my finger on.

I switch my phone off and shove it in my pocket. I don’t want any more calls. Work can bugger off too; if they really need me, there are other ways of getting hold of me. I make my way back to the kitchen where I find Perry pouring coffee and opening a box of chocolate mints.

“I thought, to round off the meal…”

“Perfect.” That’s exactly what it is, and all thought of Aiden disappears like a puff of smoke. “And I’ve got a very good brandy we can have after as a nightcap. Feet up and a film?”

Perry answers me with a wide smile which makes me forget about everything that exists outside the walls of my home as, with a tug deep in my chest, I know that there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.