Gilliflowers (21 page)

I was lambasted for my disgraceful attitude and he then stated my need to face up to the situation. I held my ground and stuck fast to the headache ploy. They couldn’t prove I didn’t have one.

Shane vented his disapproval in typical sadistic fashion. He said if I really had a headache then bed was the best place for me. He personally tucked me up in the single room without benefit of television, radio or reading material before going out.

It was a long boring evening.

I should have spent it trying to come to terms with my punishment, but I couldn’t overcome resentment long enough. One part of me warred with another, as I struggled with my desire to submit to the ruling and my anger against it. I ended up with a real headache because of the tense dialogue going round and round in my mind. The boil festered and came to a head on Friday.

Friday dawned fair and warm. I got up and went downstairs to begin my duties, turning on the radio in the kitchen to aid and abet the process. I got the tail end of the news and the weather report with the broadcaster cheerfully telling the nation to make the most of the warm spell, as another cold front was moving in bringing a return of wintry showers and sharp frosts. Spring, poor bitch, was having a tough time convincing winter to stay off her patch. The bastard kept coming back and challenging her.

I turned the radio volume up a little higher as the DJ introduced the song Hallelujah, as sung by Jeff Buckley. I often sing along to songs on the radio, but in this case I just listened, experiencing a slight hardening in the groin area as Jeff’s slow erotic interpretation of the song built to a climax. I’d read an article in a music mag where it was claimed he considered the song to be a hymn to sexual orgasm. He certainly sang it as such. His orgasm was cut short.

“Come on, Gilli. You haven’t got time to be staring into space. Turn that racket off and get on with my breakfast.” Shane strode into the kitchen bringing a tang of aftershave and an air of impatience. “I’ve got a busy day. I need to get a move on.”

Turning off the radio I got on with Sir’s breakfast, quickly juicing oranges and setting a glass before him. I spooned coffee grounds into a cafetiere instead of the percolator because it would be quicker and then whisked eggs and grated cheese to make an omelette. It was at a critical stage of cooking when Dick stormed the kitchen.

He was up earlier than normal because he had a pre-work meeting with his accountant. He doesn’t like early starts, especially those involving accountants. As such he was in a snippy mood.

“Did you actually iron these before hanging them up in the wardrobe?” He flapped a pair of black trousers in my direction. “Because they don’t look as if you have. They’re all creased and not in the right places.”

I had ironed them, as well he knew. He was being bloody pedantic because he felt harried. “Yes, I did iron them, Dick. Flapping them about is probably what creased them. Give me a minute and I’ll re-do them.”

“They should have been properly ironed in the first place, and where’s my blue shirt, the Yves pinstripe?”

“Gilli, is that omelette ready, only I need to be going soon?”

“It’s coming, Shane.” I slid the omelette onto a plate and set it in front of him. He attacked it as if he hadn’t been fed for a week.

“My shirt, Gilli, where is it?”

“It’s still in the wash.”

“I wanted to wear it today. It should have been laundered and ironed by now.”

“Is the coffee ready?”

“I’m not psychic, Dick.” I pushed down the plunger on the cafetiere and poured Shane a cup of coffee. “You should have let me know you wanted to wear that particular shirt and I would have made sure it was washed and ironed. What’s the big deal, you’ve got a wardrobe crammed with other shirts. It’s not like you have to go to work in your vest and underpants.”

“It’s your job to make sure everything that might be needed is available at need.

My shirt has been in the laundry for over a week. It should have been washed by now.

I really don’t know what you do with your time.”

Dick, like Shane, wears a clean shirt to work every day. They then change into something else when they get home on an evening. I often have as many as thirty shirts and tops to wash and iron in a week, in addition to a mound of other laundry. I put clean sheets on our bed every day. I have to otherwise we’d stick to them with all the sweat and other stuff that gets deposited when you have three sexually active males sharing a bed. Super king size bedding isn’t easy to launder. It takes ages to wash and iron. Then there’s the dozens of towels we use.

I touchily pointed out that going away over Easter and then having Leo over for dinner the previous weekend had mucked up my laundry schedule.

“You always have an excuse, Gilli.” Shane chipped in, waggling his cup to indicate he wanted a refill of coffee. The man’s a fucking caffeine addict. “If you spent less time gossiping and playing around on the computer and more time attending to your work, there wouldn’t be a problem. I don’t take time out of my workday to gossip and play around. The business would be in a fine mess if I did.”

“It’s all right for you two.” I topped up his coffee cup. “You work fairly standard hours, or at least hours you’re in control of. I don’t, not with all the demands you drop on me the minute you step over the doorstep. I have to take my leisure where I can or I won’t get any at all.”

Shane didn’t buy my argument. He reiterated his belief that less leisure and more attention to duty was what was needed from me, adding, “it’s not like your job is hard.”

He finished his breakfast and went off to work. I re-ironed Dick’s trousers, made his breakfast and then he left to attend his meeting leaving me with a pile of pots and a sense of being totally unappreciated.

So they didn’t think my job was hard. I was stung. Okay housework isn’t exactly rocket science, but it is hard in its own way. It’s demanding, repetitive and often tiring.

I see to all their personal needs. I tend to their home and garden so they can focus all their energy on their respective careers. When they came home they don’t have to worry about the basics of life such as cleaning, shopping, gardening, cooking, washing and ironing, because it’s all done for them and ready for them to enjoy. Not hard! Bloody cheek.

I seriously considered staging a strike and going off somewhere for the day.

Maybe they’d appreciate me a little more after coming home to a cold, empty, dinnerless house.

Common sense prevailed. I didn’t go on strike, but I did have a small rebellion. I spent an hour watching telly while drinking tea and eating a Malteasers Easter egg. I then got on with my job, doing what a houseboy has got to do. I cleaned. I changed the bed. I shopped. I caught up with laundry. Dick’s blue pinstripe shirt got washed, dried, ironed and hung in the wardrobe. I made dinner and set the table in the dining room.

They came home and went upstairs to shower, taking for granted there would be hot water and plenty of warm dry towels for them to use and discard without a second thought.

I showered and changed in turn and then I served dinner. I’d made a salad starter.

It was a mix of leaves with sliced vine tomatoes seasoned with a little fresh limejuice and black pepper, finished with grated Mozzarella. Shane forked some into his mouth.

I knew from the expression on his face as he masticated that he didn’t care for it. He swallowed and then spoke, disgust evident in his tone. “Have you put basil leaves in this?”

I confirmed I had and he grimaced.

“Thought so. You’ve used too many. It’s too strong.”

I was disappointed. I love fresh basil, the smell as well as the taste and I thought the salad was delicious. I offered a solution. “Pick out the basil then.”

“There’s no point. It’s tainted everything now.”

“There’s some pate in the fridge if you’d prefer?”

He nodded and I stood up, picking up his plate.

“Sorry, honey.” Dick also held out his plate, “but it is rather overpowering. Pate for me too please.”

Tight-lipped I took the plate from him, taking it into the kitchen with Shane’s to exchange for bought pate and toast. I stuck with my salad. I didn’t admit to it, but after a few forkfuls it did begin to wage war on my taste buds, overwhelming them. It was one of those cases where less is more. Basil is a flavour enhancer when used sparingly. Overused it becomes a herbal Rambo, a flavour exterminator killing all in its path. It was a lesson learned. Go easy with the fresh basil.

It wasn’t my night. For the main course I’d marinated chicken breasts in honey and mustard and roasted them along with a selection of vegetables. Dick made the first complaint this time. The chicken was dry he said, and a bit tough. I’d overcooked it. Fine. Next time I’d undercook it and then he could complain about having salmonella.

The final straw was a dual complaint about dessert, a strawberry cheesecake.

Sickly sweet was the agreed verdict, too sugary. It was obviously shop bought frozen fare and they wanted to know why.

My temper gave way. “I haven’t had time to fiddle on with fancy puddings that’s why, not with a ton of laundry to catch up on and certain shirts to iron.” I glared at Dick. “It tastes fine to me. In fact it’s probably better than anything I could make.

What’s the real problem with it?” I divided a look between the pair of them. “Are you worried in case I used the time saved to enjoy myself instead of working? If you feel short changed then take what you think is owed out of my wages.”

Shane coldly stated the only thing he felt short changed by was my manner. He pointed a finger at me. “You, my man, are heading for a serious fall if you don’t sort yourself out.”

They took their leave of the dining room and went into the lounge taking the bottle of wine that had been opened for dinner, as per norm on a Friday night when they relax and wind down from their week’s work. It’s a ritual. I used to enjoy being part of it, when I could share the wine with them or have a beer or two. It wasn’t the same anymore. I felt excluded.

I made a pot of coffee and took it into the lounge before going back to the kitchen to face the debris of a meal that had not been a success. What a waste of time, effort and ingredients.

“Shit!” I profaned aloud and ran a hand through my hair, not relishing the thought of cleaning up. I was sick of housework and cooking, sick of complaints. It was Friday night and all over the country young people would be out having a good time, or getting ready to go out and have a good time. They wouldn’t be stuck at home cooking and cleaning for people who didn’t appreciate it. Fuck it! I was young. I wanted to have a good time. I wanted to get lost in the noise and the heat of a crowd of other young people intent on having fun. I wanted loud music. I wanted to mindlessly dance, dance and dance some more.

Turning my back on hell’s kitchen I went upstairs and ordered a taxi from my mobile, citing my destination as Blades, a gay bar and nightclub. I got changed, ran some texture paste through my hair, put in my best earrings, slipped on my favourite bracelets and slapped on some cologne.

I posed for a moment in front of the mirror. I looked good, even if I did say so myself. I was wearing a pair of black low rider jeans and a cropped tight black t-shirt that left my navel exposed. It was a shame I didn’t have a piercing to show off. I love belly button jewellery, but Shane won’t allow me to have any.

I’d bought the clothes as my Easter present to the boyfriends, but hadn’t worn them on account of going to Penny’s and its aftermath. Tough. They’d had their chance. I was going to give gay Joe Public a hot treat instead. I felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect of being part of a throng with nothing on my mind except enjoying myself.

The taxi made known its arrival via a blast of horn from the end of the drive. I slipped my wallet, phone and keys into my pocket and ran downstairs to the lounge to announce I was off out for the night and I’d clear up in the morning. I wish I’d had a video cam to hand to record the look on their faces. Both quickly stood up. Shane asked what the hell I was playing at.

“I’m playing at playing. I haven’t been anywhere in ages. I’m entitled to some time away from the house. I’m going clubbing, to Blades. I fancy some dirty dancing.” I demonstrated a few dance steps ending with a seductive thrust of my hips.

“I want to have a good time with people my own age for a change.” I couldn’t resist adding, “people who’ll appreciate me regardless of whether I’ve washed the right shirt or produced a salad that isn’t too
strong.”

“You’ll have men queuing up to appreciate you looking like that.” Dick stared at me. “Are you actually wearing any underwear under those jeans, because from where I’m standing it doesn’t look as if you’re wearing so much as a thong?”

“I’m not.” I confirmed my commando status. “I don’t like the whale tail look.”

The taxi impatiently tooted again. “I’m going. I’ll see you later, don’t wait up.” I turned on my heel to leave, but didn’t get far.

Shane moved fast, grabbing the waistband of my jeans, holding me back. “Go send off the taxi, Dick, before the driver blares his horn again. He’ll have the neighbours complaining. Pay him for his trouble.”

“You have no right to cancel my bloody taxi.” I furiously tried to twist free of his grasp.

“I have every right.” He let go of my waistband, landing a slap to my rump. “You didn’t ask my permission to order it in the first place, or to go out.”

Taking my arm he marched me over to an armchair and thrust me down onto it.

Placing his hands on the arms he leaned towards me. “Even if you had my permission to go out dancing you wouldn’t be going with your cock and glory hole all but on display, sending out a message of availability. I consider those clothes fit for private dancing only.” He straightened up and folded his arms. “What’s this bit of theatre really in aid of?”

“I want to go out and have a bit of fun. I’m sick of my social life being dictated by what you and Dick want to do. You never ask me where I’d like to go or what I’d like to do. You both enjoy sailing and shooting, well I like dancing.”