Short Stack

by Lily Morton

  “Did you enjoy your dinner, Milo?”

  “I did, thank you very much. Your cook is very talented.”

  “He should be. I poached him from The Savoy.”

  “Sounds like an egg,” I say idly without thinking.

  To my relief he roars with laughter. “An egg. Ha, ha!” He rubs tears away from his eyes.

  I smile before pulling my jacket closer around me. He’s utterly oblivious to it, but the room is freezing despite a roaring fire. That’s because he has all the windows open. He insists on it in case there are intruders. I’m not quite sure how open windows guard against burglars but I don’t want to ask. It would be a lengthy answer because he’s obsessed with intruders.

  As if on cue, his head cocks to one side. “Did you hear that?”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” I say patiently and honestly.

  “Hmm. Bloody blighters are after the peacocks again. I’ll give them what for.”

  “Oh,” I say, my voice gone high as he retrieves the rifle from the side of his chair. “Oh, really. It’s blowing a gale out there, sir. Aren’t the peacocks inside?”

  “You have a lot to learn, Milo. The peacocks might be inside, but nefarious buggers are everywhere. The damned weather is no deterrent.”

  At this point, the butler, Angus, enters the room. He’s tall and thin with a sour expression, and he and Lord Ingram seem to have a love-hate relationship. They both seem to enjoy the vitriol they show each other. At first, I was taken aback when Angus called Lord Ingram a mad bugger, and he returned that Angus was a spawn of Satan, but now I hardly notice it.

  Angus takes one look at his lordship leaning out of the window with his rifle and shakes his head. He nudges me. “It’s not loaded.”

  “Are you sure?” I whisper.

  “Quite sure. That rifle hasn’t worked since 1858.” He makes a swirling motion next to his head. “The old bugger’s quite batty.”

  “What are you muttering about, you ginger fool?” Lord Ingram asks.

  “Just saying that you’re as nutty as a squirrel’s fart, my lord,” Angus says, bowing his head slightly.

  Lord Ingram huffs. “Imbecile. Surely we have better members of staff than the bottom of the barrel I appear to be scraping with you?”

  “No sir, or at least not ones who can accept the pittance you seem to believe is adequate recompense for dealing with you.” He pauses before bowing his head. “My lord.”

  “Never known a man who can imbue two words with so much disgust.”

  “That surprises me, my lord.”

  “Hey, what? Damn it, there they are.” He clicks the rifle a few times. “What the hell is wrong with this bloody thing?”

  “It doesn’t work, my lord.” Angus goes to stand by him and peers out of the window. “A fact that the housekeeper Mrs Dawkins will be eternally grateful for, as it’s her you’re shooting at.”

  “What’s the damn fool woman playing at, flitting about the grounds like a bloody ghost? Up to no good, I’ll be damned.”

  “Going home, my lord. Probably hoping to be set upon by thieves and bandits to really top her day off well.”

  Lord Ingram shakes his head crossly. “Go and load my gun, man. We can’t be undefended. Just because you’re the sort to cower under your bed when intruders come doesn’t mean that Milo and I are the same. Are we, young Milo?”

  “Oh erm,” I start to say, but he loses interest as Angus bows slowly and creakily while removing the rife neatly from the old man’s hand.

  “Hiding it under my bed might be problematic as the bed frame is woefully inadequate. I’d replace it if you paid me any more than the current pittance. I shall just have to hide under the mattress and hope for the best.”

  Lord Ingram waves his hand rather cavalierly. “Make sure you load the gun in my bedroom too and then Milo and I will have some brandy. Make sure it’s not watered down. I’m sure you’re drinking it.”

  “It makes my intolerable existence here just a little better, sir,” he intones and glides away.

  Lord Ingram gazes after him fondly. “Good bloke,” he says enthusiastically. “A bit salty, but what can you do?”

  I gaze up at him, at a loss for words, and make my escape soon after.

  “But no wandering the grounds, Milo,” he calls after wishing me a good night. “We wouldn’t want our backside peppered with buckshot, would we?”

  “Not without you buying me a drink,” I say.

  “What?”

  “I said I’m going to wash in the sink.”

  “Good God, man, I’ve no wish to hear about your ablutions.”

  I blink and wave goodnight.

  Once upstairs, I have a long hot shower and then settle down into the cold bed to watch an old episode of Suits. I must have dropped off because when I open my eyes, my iPad is playing a different episode and the fire has died down in the grate.

  I blink sleepily, wondering what woke me, and then hear the buzzing of my phone. I reach out and snag it, and when I see the name, I grin widely.

  “Hey, you,” I say sleepily. “I thought you’d be fucking your hand by now.”

  “Hey, sweetheart,” Niall says happily. “I was going to, but then I had a much better idea.”

  I sit up, propping myself on the pillows. “What idea?” I pause. “Oh God, you’re not decorating the study, are you?”

  He sighs. “No, I wouldn’t dare after the disparaging remarks you’ve made about my colour choices so far.”

  “They’re not colours so much as shades,” I say slowly. “And boring ones at that. Leave it for when I get back, and I’ll do it.”

  “What are you planning for this one? Purple with pink stripes? Maybe a bit of glitter?”

  “Fuck off,” I murmur, trying not to laugh. “My choices will be tasteful. Bold but tasteful. And you’ll love it.”

  “I suppose I will. I enjoy having you in the house far too much to gripe about yellow walls.”

  “Do you mind?” I ask suddenly. “I mean, it’s your house.”

  “Nope. It’s ours. And Lo, my darling, you do not suit bland colours. You’re far too quirky and gorgeous. So, decorate how you want. I don’t notice the colour of the walls and curtains when you’re in a room. Just you.”

  “Oh, I miss you so much,” I say fiercely. “I wish you were here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. This bed is huge, but it’s cold and horrible without you.”

  “That sounds terrible. I know what will make it better. Look out of your window,” he says with a thread of laughter running through his voice.

  Something warm unravels inside my stomach, and I race over to the tall window and fling it open. Peering out, I have a second to think I was wrong and then a shadow detaches from the shade of the trees, and I gape down at my husband-to-be.

  He stares up at me, his smile wide and white in the gloom. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” he calls out, laughing his head off.

  “Oh my God, what are you doing here?” I hiss, trying not to talk too loudly and glancing around quickly to see if we’re being observed. The last thing I need is my fiancé’s arse being an air rifle target for Lord Ingram.

  “I couldn’t wait two more days for you, so I came to you.”

  “Are you mad?” I hiss. “Lord Ingram has a gun.”

  “Never loaded,” he dismisses cavalierly. “Besides, I can move quickly if I have to.”

  He steps up to the wall under my window and pulls at the ivy in a meditative fashion.

  “Oh my God, you’re not thinking what I’m thinking, are you?”

  “Hope so,” he mutters. He grabs a handful of the ivy and sets a foot against the wall. “Especially if you’re thinking that I’m going to have you naked and under me, in the time it takes for me to climb this wall.” He gets a foothold in the ivy and starts to climb the wall.

  “Oh God, I can’t watch,” I mutter and gasp as his foot slips slightly. “Please be careful,” I call, as he grabs for
a firmer handhold. “Don’t damage anything that we’ll need in the next hour.”

  He pauses in his ascent. “Milo, I haven’t seen you for a week. It’ll be over and done with within twenty seconds. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  “Too late.” I snort.

  A few minutes later, his messy white-blond head appears at the tall window, and I heave him up until he tumbles to the floor. “Phew,” he says happily. “That could have ended much less romantically.”

  “You think,” I say caustically and then spoil the effect by throwing myself onto him. “I’m so pleased to see you,” I say, kissing him quickly and then returning for a longer one. When I pull back, my head feels cloudy, and he follows my mouth drunkenly until I push his face away.

  “Ouch!” he says sulkily.

  I grin at him. “Happy birthday.”

  He smiles, looking a little embarrassed. “Are you sure you don’t mind me coming here?”

  I kiss him again and hug him tightly. “Of course I bloody don’t. I’m so fucking happy to see you.” I pull back. “But you’ll still have to clear off before five. It’s only polite.”

  He looks at his watch and leers at me. “Well, that gives us five hours. Whatever shall we do?”

  I grin at him. “Presents and cake,” I exclaim, jumping to my feet and grabbing the bags and boxes.

  “That wasn’t quite what I was leaning towards,” he starts to say, but then he spots the brightly wrapped gifts. “Ooh, presents,” he says, sounding like he’s five.

  “And cake.” I cross to the sideboard and retrieve a couple of teaspoons. “I haven’t got a knife, so we won’t bother cutting it. We’ll just eat it from the box with the spoons.” I sit down in front of him. “Okay, close your eyes. We’ll just have to pretend that the candles are lit because there are no matches anywhere because Lord Ingram hates them.”

  “Why?”

  I shake my head. “Just be glad you don’t live here. He hates all sorts of odd things. Matches, Radio Two, Michael Ball.”

  “Okay, that’s not out of the park.”

  I nudge him. “Close your eyes.” He obeys, and I take the lid off the cake box and pull out the cake. It’s a lemon cake with a cream and lemon-curd filling, and it’s his absolute favourite. Left to his own devices, he could eat the whole thing on his own. “Okay, now you can look.”

  He opens his eyes, the blue looking very intense in the low firelight. “Ooh,” he says. “I’m blinded by the light from all those candles burning.”

  “Shut up,” I say. His face softens as he looks down at the cake. I break out into a very rusty chorus of “Happy Birthday.” When I’ve finished, I grin. “Okay, blow out the pretend candles and make a real wish.”

  Smiling widely, he obliges and closes his eyes in fierce concentration.

  “What did you wish for?” I ask.

  He smiles tenderly. “Well, Milo,” he says, pushing a strand of my wavy hair behind my ear. “I wished that I would always feel this intense love for you.”

  “Now you’ve broken it.”

  He leans forward and kisses me. “Doesn’t matter. I know I always will. I just couldn’t think of anything I want apart from what I have right here. You.”

  I put the cake down and throw myself into his arms. “It’s not my birthday, but I’ll wish it too. Wishes are funny things. They have a way of coming true,” I say earnestly.

  He hugs me tightly. Then he pulls my head gently up and takes my lips, softly at first and then harder as passion flares between us which is all the more intense for us having been apart for a week.

  “I wish we could have sex,” he says hoarsely. “For hours. Starting right now.”

  I smile and stand up, holding my hand out to him. “I told you wishes come true. Cinderella was right.”

  He shudders. “I don’t know whether it’s hot that you’re using a Disney film to tempt me to bed.” I smile down at him, and he grins. “What the fuck am I on about? It’s you. Of course it’s hot.”

  I never associated sex with laughter before Niall, but I’m still laughing as he takes me down on the bed, and sets about making his wish come true.

  An hour later, I stir from where I’m lying against him, my leg draped over his thigh, his cock damp against my skin, and my arm thrown over his broad chest.

  “What?” he murmurs, satisfaction rife in his voice as he strokes my hair.

  “Presents,” I murmur. “And cake.”

  “Can you get them without moving away from me?” His hand stops stroking.

  I laugh and extricate myself from his clinging arms. “No, but I’ll be quick.”

  I poke the fire to liven it up and then dash about the room gathering the presents. After tossing them on the bed, I grab the cake and the spoons and sit cross-legged on the bed next to him.

  “That’s the nicest view I’ve ever seen,” he leers.

  I shake my head and grab his jumper. “Don’t get used to it,” I mutter. “It’s chilly in here.” I pull the jumper on, feeling the softness of the cashmere against my skin and inhaling his woodsy cologne. I pat the nearest present. “Okay, start opening.”

  He sits up, and I smile because even though he has the hard-muscled body of an adult, his face is, once again, like a five-year-old’s. “Presents!” he exclaims and starts to tear them open. He reveals the usual gifts of socks and underwear and audiobook vouchers I’ve bought him, exclaiming over every one. When he comes to a stop, I extract the final present from the bag I’ve been holding back.

  “Last one,” I say somewhat nervously. “I’m not sure you’ll like it, but I wanted to give you something that’s just us.” I hesitate. “Only now I’m wondering what I was thinking about.” I pause again. “Oh my God, you’re going to hate it.”

  He pulls the present from my resisting fingers and tears off the wrapper. “Milo,” he breathes, looking down into the nest of coloured paper. “Lo.”

  It’s a line drawing I did with charcoal on expensive, cream-coloured paper. It depicts the two of us lying together in bed. It isn’t sexual at all. We’re curled in almost the same position as we adopted after sex tonight, but in this picture, I have my head resting on his chest looking up at him as though he hangs the moon, while his head is back and he’s laughing.

  His finger caresses the paper reverently, careful not to smudge the lines. “Lo,” he says again, and when he looks up, I’m stunned to see tears in his eyes. “This is the most gorgeous present I’ve ever had.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “I would,” he says firmly. “I didn’t know you could draw.”

  I shrug. “Of course I can. I went to art college and attended all the classes and everything. I’m not that good, which is why I don’t do it for a living, but I wanted to do it for you. I’d do anything for you,” I say earnestly.

  “I love you,” he says fiercely, holding the picture in one hand and pulling me to him with the other. Kissing the side of my head, he hugs me tight while still looking at the drawing. “I love this,” he muses. “It’s so us. I’m going to frame it and hang it in our bedroom where only we can see.” He smiles. “Because the way we are is just for us. Thank you for such a wonderful birthday, Lo. I’ve never had such a good one.”

  I kiss him. “It’s not over yet. We’ve got cake.”

  “After,” he says throatily, setting the picture down on the bedside table and tackling me onto the bed in a tumble of naked skin and colourful wrapping paper. “We’ll eat it in a bit.”

  We do eat it a few hours later — naked in bed, sharing the spoon.

  The knocking on the door wakes me, and for a long second, I stretch under the covers enjoying the warmth of his body against mine in the cosy nest of sheets and blankets we’ve made. Then reality intrudes as the knock comes again.

  “Shit!” I sit bolt upright.

  Niall stirs against me. “Mmm,” he says in a questioning voice. The next mumble is much lower and accompanied by a questing hand. I slap it
away and leap out of bed.

  “No time. No time,” I whisper. “We fell asleep, and there’s someone at the door.”

  “Motherfucker,” he mutters, displaying no real concern but seemingly occupied with pulling the covers back over himself. I aid him in the process by throwing the sheet over his head.

  “Stay there,” I hiss. “And don’t move.”

  “Not going to be a problem,” he says sleepily.

  I can’t help the smitten smile on my face as I look down at the mummified lump in my bed. Then the knock comes again, as does my panic attack.

  “Coming,” I say in a high, nervous voice. Racing over to the bathroom, I grab my dressing gown from the hook. I take a second to check my appearance in the mirror and give a despairing groan. If whoever is on the other side of that door doesn’t recognise I’ve been shagged senseless last night, they’re blind. My hair is standing up in a wavy mess like a bird’s nest, my face has severe whisker burn, and there’s a hickey visible in all its blush-coloured glory on my neck.

  “Motherfucker,” I hiss at him as I pass the bed. “You gave me a bloody hickey.”

  “You’re welcome,” he mumbles, pulling the sheet down at the corner and winking at me. I grab a scarf and wind it around my neck, and he snorts. “You look like something from a PG Wodehouse book. All you need is a cigarette holder and a cocktail.”

  “Shut up and get under the covers,” I mutter and, after checking to see that he’s done as he’s told, I race over to the door and open it to find the mournful face of Angus.

  “Oh, good morning,” I say, my voice high and slightly faltering.

  He blinks. “Good morning to you too, Mr Ramsay. I come with his lordship’s compliments and an invitation to a late breakfast.”

  “Oh my goodness. How late is it?” I ask, pulling my scarf tighter as he shoots a look at my neck.

  He smiles slightly. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, sir.”

  “Oh dear, I’m so sorry—”

  He holds up a hand. “His lordship has also expressed a wish to meet your young man.”

  “My… young man?” I falter and bite my lip.