This is a work of fiction, loosely based on the very real person, Russell Crowe. No insult or invasion of his privacy is intended, but rather, it is a
way of expressing the author's delight in his work and his manliness.
I guess you could say, this is the film I wish he would make.

This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual situations and adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

©2001 by WILDBEARIES

FUTURE PERFECT - Section 15

"Just keep walking," Russell advised in a low tone. He had his arm around my shoulders as we came out of Customs at Heathrow and found ourselves surrounded by a sea of paparazzi and reporters, all shouting greetings, questions, commands to look this way or that, blinding us with their camera flashes. Mick and Jake cleared the way for us while two other security guards brought up the rear, keeping us effectively encircled by sheer dint of their size and the looks on their faces.

We made very slow progress until airport security finally took notice and involved themselves in clearing the group of clamoring reporters out of the terminal, off the sidewalk, and out of everyone's way. Russell never let go of me, even after we flung ourselves into the hired limousine and made our way out of the airport. "That was not fun," I commented.

"No shit," he muttered, peering out a window at the crowd of people we were fast leaving behind as the car accelerated. "I can hardly wait to get back home," he added.

I had to laugh - one or the other of us had been saying that almost since the moment we left home the week before. We had left Kate in the care of her grandparents, knowing this would be a stressful enough trip without subjecting our daughter to it, but I don't think either of us had realized how much we would miss her. He grinned at me, knowing exactly what I was thinking. I sighed and rested my head on the back of the seat. Seeing that, he pulled me close so I was against his shoulder instead, which is much more comfortable. "I want to be home, too," I finally said, looking out his window at the outskirts of London. Was that the entrance to the deserted race track? I shivered, remembering.

"Oldham Park," Russell said in a matter-of-fact tone. "I was hoping they'd flattened it by now."

"No such luck." I settled in again and dozed until we got to our hotel. We went in via an underground parking entrance to avoid the reporters, and for once our tactics worked and nobody snuck through to snap pictures of us. All the attention was because Ira Trenary's trial was going on, and Russell was going to have to testify some time in the next day or so. He was also here to present an achievement award to Ridley Scott, which was almost entirely overlooked by the tabloid press, to both Russell's and Ridley's great annoyance.

I would also have to take the witness stand, which was a daunting prospect, but after all, I reasoned, what could they ask me that I wouldn't be able to answer? The concierge provided us with an assistant to unpack our bags, so Russell and I changed and went up one floor to Ridley Scott's suite. The grizzled director was pleased to see us, and he and Russell quickly sat down to talk about the film they would be starting shortly. I was going to be Russell's assistant on this one, which would involve my being with him virtually twenty four hours a day - nothing I couldn't already handle, but getting paid for it was going to be novel, unless you considered that I already got "paid" to be his wife, only not in money. We'd already had a couple of good laughs over it, and I had left him a note on his computer monitor the day before we'd left home that read, "What are my fringe benefits?"

He had left me a post-it on my dresser mirror in the hotel that night that read, "My incredible self and all the fucking you can handle." This, of course, prompted a week-long exchange of silly notes that had finally descended into obscene stick figure drawings and a lot of giggling. I passed him a note while he was deep in conversation with Ridley about medieval weaponry. It read, "I'm still waiting for today's fringe benefits." As I expected, it got a grin and glance that promised revenge at a later hour, but it also got me drawn into the discussion because I had done quite a bit of research on Berengaria at one point, thinking to write a fictionalized story about her. It was an interesting discussion, and I could tell Ridley was really interested in what I had to say, which was not only flattering but satisfying as well.

Eventually Russell and Ridley stopped talking shop, mainly because we were all starving, so we ordered dinner, and were shortly enjoying Beef Wellington, tiny green peas and the most delicious oven-browned potatoes I'd ever eaten in my life. Russell, who was at last almost back to his normal appetite, cleaned his plate and swiped some of mine before I rapped his knuckles with my fork. "Get yer own, bub," I barked. Instead of doing that, he called down for dessert - chocolate torte with red raspberries and cherries. I rolled my eyes, "So much for keeping off the pounds."

"I'm not dieting," he informed me through a mouthful of the luscious torte. It's true, and eating was one of the things he was beginning to enjoy again now that his stomach was better. He fed me a bite of torte, smiling when I moaned ecstatically. "I never elicit that kind of moan," he complained.

I poked him in the side with my elbow, "You don't taste like Belgian chocolate," I informed him.

"You don't treat me like chocolate, either," he teased, knowing that was one of my favorites of his songs.

"Be glad," I said, shutting him up for the moment. I ate my own dessert, though granted it was a much smaller serving than his or Ridley's. They had a lot of things to talk over about the Lionheart project, so I went back down to our suite a little bit later and called home to check on Kate and everyone in Nana Glen. They were all fine. Kate was cutting a tooth, but was taking it in her usual cheerful manner. I hung up after promising to pass along some messages to Russell and asking Terry to be sure to exercise Posie for me. I missed her too. I was becoming a regular Aussie homebody just like my husband.

I had dozed off before he came downstairs, despite every intention to stay awake. He woke me by nuzzling into the hollow of my neck, and kissing his way down my chest onto my breasts, suckling each nipple through the fabric of my nightie before parting the soft fabric to nip and lick them. His beard rasping on my breasts is what actually woke me - before that I guess I thought I was having an erotic dream. "Mmmm," I said, "come to exact your revenge?"

He rolled more directly onto me and that's when I realized he was buck naked except for his gold cross and chain. "I love your outfit," I purred. "Ahh," I gasped when he used his teeth a little harder, pulling at my nipple. He still didn't say anything, just licked his way down my entire body, sliding my nightie off completely, kissing and nibbling, making little appreciative grunts when he got someplace he liked. He circled all around my pelvis, though, the rat, even to sucking my toes and kissing his way up both inner thighs, stopping just short of where I really wanted him to be. "Please," I begged him, lifting my hips toward him.

He parted my thighs a bit more and just looked, although in the dim lamplight I'm not sure he could see much, he just knew it drove me wild for him to do that. He finally flicked the pad of his right thumb over my clit, knowing exactly how hard to touch me, and how much I wanted it. I bucked under him and he chuckled. "You really are in trouble now," I told him in a breathy voice.

"Am I?" he wanted to know, his voice the exact honeyed tone that vibrated deep within me. He stroked me again, only this time he added one finger and then, slowly, two, sliding them deep inside me and moving them in and out. "More?" he asked.

I could only nod, then I managed to say, "More!" because I knew just nodding would make him stop. He rewarded me with another finger, and, almost immediately thereafter, he lowered his head and put his mouth over my clit, sucking and licking until I was groaning and rocking my hips into his face. He continued torturing me this way until I came. He sucked and licked my juices, then started all over again. I had hold of his head by then, pulling at his hair, trying to get him to slide up and put himself inside me, which was what I really wanted.

"No," he said, looking up with a wicked laugh. "I know what you want, and you're not getting it until you tell me."

"I want you inside me, now," I said, asserting myself, although I was pretty much past speech at that point.

"What do you want where?" He had gone back to using his fingers, circling and stroking. When I didn't answer right away, he took my clit in his mouth and scraped it with his teeth before sucking it in that maddening rhythm that made me come again, bucking and yelling, rocking against his face. When I had quieted a bit, he started in yet another time. "What do you want?" he asked again.

I don't know how he can stop himself from just climbing on when he does this. I could feel his cock against my leg, and he was as huge and hard as I've ever known him to be, and yet he wasn't going to oblige me or himself until I said what he wanted to hear. "I want your cock," I finally told him. He rewarded me with two fingers in my pussy, stroking and teasing. "Your cock, in my cunt," I gasped out. "Please."

He chuckled - the devil - slid up, and took my buttocks in his hands, lifting my hips and parting my thighs as wide as they would go, then he slowly and deliberately guided himself inside me, an inch at a time, fighting off my attempts to just get him to ram it in. When he was finally completely inside me, he pulled me up so I was sitting on his thighs, his cock so far up me I thought it must touch my tonsils, and he began pumping it into me, moving me up and down on it, while I held onto his shoulders and rocketed into my third orgasm of the evening, a long, continuous, rolling convulsion. He put me on my back then, thrusting hard and fast, grunting, eyes shut tight in concentration, then he shuddered and I felt the first hot jets of his cum bathe the mouth of my womb. Somehow, I managed one final orgasm, and he managed a couple more deep thrusts as he finished, then we both just lay in a panting heap of tangled limbs.

"God," he finally muttered, "I hope I'm in the right room."

"Mr. Jenkins?" I managed.

"No, but I'll tell him you were happy to see him," he answered, sitting up. "God, I'm rooted!" He stretched, arms flung wide.

"Somehow, I feel the same way," I said dryly. I got the covers untangled and flung my nightie onto the floor, and we settled into the bed snuggled together. "I heard you were insatiable," I teased him, stroking my finger tips up and down the inner crease of his elbow. I knew that was one of his ticklish-erogenous zones.

"Umm," he mumbled, "I can't possibly."

"I know you can," I insisted, turning to face him and stroking him.

"Now who's insatiable?" he wanted to know. He made a face of mock-exhaustion, but my stroking was having the effect I wanted.

"That would be me," I admitted, moving so he could throw one leg over my hip and slide that hard cock right up inside me, easy as pie. "There, see? That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

"No," he was forced to agree, "Besides, I sort of like it." That was the last coherent statement I got out of him that night, but I did let him sleep a little bit so he wouldn't look like we'd been doing exactly what we had been doing. I'm not sure where my own randiness came from, given that I was just as tired as he was, unless it was the aphrodisiac effects of that chocolate torte. Could be.

"And do you expect this court to believe, sir, that this man - this former employee of yours - masterminded a plot to kidnap you, carried it out successfully, and kept you prisoner against your will - "

The Prosecutor rose to his feet, "Milord, objection, the witness is not on trial here." In his black robe, sheepskin wig and formal, almost medieval manner, he was quite imposing. I had seen Russell studying him earlier, no doubt taking mental notes for some future role. Personally, I thought he wasn't old enough or stout enough to carry it off, but when had that ever stopped him?

The judge sustained the objection and asked the defense counsel to rephrase it.

Ira Trenary's barrister, as tall and thin as the Crown's prosecutor was short and round, harrumphed a bit, then asked Russell, "Is it your contention, sir, that Ira Trenary planned to kidnap you and carried this plan out with the help of his associates?"

"Yes, milord," Russell answered, the picture of proper demeanor. I think I'm the only one who saw the flash of mischief in his eyes. I just hoped he would keep it there and not unleash it on the court. I didn't think the staid English court would take kindly to one of his funny voices or a facial contortion that would have laid his Aussie or American friends out flat on the floor laughing.

"And when Mr. Trenary was employed by you, was he particularly adept at his job?"

"Yes, milord." Russell looked back at the man, still the image of well behaved deference.

"Yes?" The barrister looked slightly confused.

"Yes. Milord." The honorific was added so smoothly, I'm wasn't sure anyone caught it but me until Mick poked me surreptitiously with his elbow. I didn't dare look at him, I would have had to laugh.

"Perhaps you would enlighten us as to Mr. Trenary's duties while he was in your employ."

Russell outlined duties such as driving, coordinating traffic routes to and from events when needed, security duties, and occasional body guard work.

"How long was he employed in this capacity?"

"Six months, milord." Russell shifted in his chair a little restlessly, caught my eye and smiled slightly.

"And you discharged him after that time, despite your statement that he performed his job adequately?"

"Yes, I did, milord."

The barrister moved somewhat closer to the witness box. "Would you please tell the court the circumstances of that discharge?"

"Mr. Trenary was discharged because he offended a guest in my home."

"A 'guest' in your home? Isn't it true, sir, that you ended his employment because you were jealous of his attentions to your girlfriend at the time?"

Russell's left eyebrow rose and the court erupted in loud whispering. The judge banged his gavel and called for order, which was shortly restored. "Mr. Crowe," he said, "you will please answer the question."

"She wasn't my girlfriend," he answered, no particular inflection in his voice.

"Sir," the defense counsel, protested, "please answer the question I put to you. Did you terminate Mr. Trenary's employment because he paid attention to a woman who was staying in your home?"

"Yes, milord, I did."

The barrister looked confused. Had I not known the truth of the events, I would have been confused, but Russell was following the advice of his personal attorney and answering questions with as few details as possible. "So you did terminate him because you were jealous of his attentions to your paramour?"

"Paramour?" Russell repeated, and I hoped he would curb his normal instinct to mock, which he did. "She wasn't that either, she was a guest in my home. Mr. Trenary forced his attentions on her, and she protested to me, at which point I removed him from her room and terminated his employment."

"Noble of you," the defense counsel commented, prompting an objection by the prosecutor. The judge agreed that he was out of line and the nobility remark was stricken from the record.

"In any case, Mr. Crowe, you terminated Mr. Trenary's employment after that, uh, incident. I put it to you, sir, that you fired Mr. Trenary despite his performing his job adequately, merely because you were angry with him for flirting with your girlfriend at the time."

"You may put it to me that way, milord," Russell answered evenly, "but it is incorrect."

The defense counsel looked befuddled, "Was this woman not a guest in your home?"

"She was, milord."

"Did not Mr. Trenary flirt with this woman at a Christmas party during her tenure in your home?"

"Flirting is one thing, milord, this was not flirting."

"Well, what was it then?" The barrister looked at Russell over the tops of his glasses, hands behind his back, his robe billowing around him. He looked like a large, black owl. I hid a smile behind my hand. God knew, if I started laughing, Russell wouldn't be far behind. Mick poked me again, but I refused to look at him. Mick could read me as well as he read Russell, and I could tell by his breathing that he was stifling laughter. I was sure that there would be a devastatingly accurate portrayal of the defense counsel in our hotel suite that night.

"Mr. Trenary entered the lady's bedroom uninvited and had to be forcibly removed."

"Forcibly removed by whom, sir, you?"

"Myself, and my personal assistant, Michael Dallington." Russell looked briefly at Mick when he said his name, but then looked away, obviously aware that Mick was almost ready to break out in laughter because, if anything, he had an even more outrageous sense of the ridiculous than Russell did.

"My, it took two of you?" the barrister inquired. He looked pointedly at Ira Trenary, who was about Russell's size, though slimmer.

"He objected. Milord." Russell explained. There were a few titters, which the judge quelled with a stern look.

"Did the lady object?"

"She objected to his being in her bedroom, milord."

"And, Mr. Crowe, were you already in her bedroom when you say Mr. Trenary entered it uninvited?"

"I was, milord." The buzzing in the audience started again and the judge slammed his gavel down twice, halting it.

"Yet you say she was not your paramour. May I inquire then, Mr. Crowe, what she was if you weren't, um, keeping company with her yourself?"

"A friend, milord," was all Russell answered, which was the truth. I knew he was hoping the man wouldn't press him for more information, but that was a vain hope, which was about to be proved.

"A friend. As in lover?"

"No, milord."

"You're asking this court to believe you were in the lady's bedroom and you were not her lover?"

"Yes, milord. I was not and have never been her 'lover'."

"Harrumph, perhaps your reputation as a Lothario is a bit exaggerated then, wouldn't you say, Mr. Crowe?"

The Prosecutor was on his feet at once, "Objection - Mr. Crowe's reputation is not at question here."

"Sustained," announced the judge. "Continue, sir."

"Mr. Crowe," the defense attorney asked after studying his linked hands for a moment, "what is the name of the heretofore unknown lady?"

Reluctantly, Russell answered, "Jilly Weston, milord."

The courtroom erupted again. Jilly Weston, former child star then award-winning adult actress and film director, had not been considered one of Russell's conquests, although they had attended the Director's Guild Awards banquet back in 1999 and he had committed to make a film under her direction the following year, which never happened because of his shoulder injury while learning the acrobatics necessary for the role.

"Jilly Weston," the counselor repeated, "ah yes, a very attractive blonde actress, is she not?"

"Some people consider her to be that, yes, milord," Russell answered quietly.

"Do you consider her attractive?"

"Milord, I consider her my friend, and to answer your insinuation, we were never lovers, as you put it." I was afraid Russell was about to lose his temper and tried to send him calming vibrations, not that I pretended to have any sort of psychic ability.

"So why then does it appear you were jealous of your employee's attempt to flirt with the lady?"

"He wasn't flirting, milord, he entered her bedroom without knocking and propositioned her." Russell was having difficulty being polite.

"What happened then?"

"The lady asked him to leave. When he persisted, I asked him to leave."

"Whereupon you and your assistant, um, got physical with him?"

"You could say that, milord."

"I put it to you, sir, that rather than Mr. Trenary invading Miss Weston's room as you say he did, while you were present, that it was you who invaded her room while he was already there with Miss Weston, and further, that you took exception to his presence there and forcibly removed him from the premises."

Buzzing. Gavel banging. Silence.

The prosecutor rose, "Milord, might I inquire as to where the honorable defense counsel is going with this line of questioning?"

"Milord," the defense counsel said with an air of injured dignity, "I am attempting to establish the cause of Mr. Trenary's job being terminated, the truth of the incident that Mr. Crowe contends was an unwelcome attempt to flirt with his girlfriend, and thereby establish the fact that Mr. Crowe dislikes Mr. Trenary intensely, and that Mr. Trenary was unjustly fired from his job with him because of this incident."

Before the judge could rule, the Prosecutor inquired, "And that would be related to the charges of kidnapping, assault and battery, and unlawful harassment in what way, milord?"

The judge silenced the Prosecutor with a look, then glanced at the defense. "I'll allow the line of questioning, sir, but I advise you to temper the tone of your questions and to remember that it is your client, not the witness who is on trial here."

Ira Trenary smirked.

The judge looked at Russell, "Please answer the question, Mr. Crowe."

"I've forgotten it, milord," Russell said, looking apologetic.

Laughter. Gavel banging. Silence

"Restate your question, if you please," the judge instructed the defense.

"Did you or did you not remove Mr. Trenary from Miss Weston's room and then terminate his employment because you were jealous of his attentions to her?"

"No. Milord." Russell said flatly.

"Harrumph, then why, sir, did you do it?"

"Miss Weston was very upset - she was in tears - I took the action I did to get him out of her room and out of my sight."

"Miss Weston was in tears, you say. Was that because she was having an affair with you, Mr. Crowe, and didn't desire to be approached by Mr. Trenary?"

"It would not, milord."

"Why not, sir?"

Russell flushed red across his cheekbones. "She didn't care for him," he finally said.

"Why not, sir," the defense pointed to Ira, who was looking very natty in his plain suit and white shirt with black necktie. "Mr. Trenary is not a revolting man in appearance."

"I didn't ask her that, milord," Russell answered quietly.

"Isn't it because Miss Weston objected to his attentions because she, in fact, does not have liaisons with men, any men, Mr. Crowe?"

Damn. Just what he'd been hoping would not come up.

"Yes, milord," he answered in a very low voice.

"What, sir? I don't think the court heard you."

"I said, 'yes, milord'," Russell spoke up. He was no longer flushed, but icy calm, which I knew was a sign of far deeper anger than obvious heated emotions were.

"Why doesn't she have liaisons with men, Mr. Crowe?"

"Objection!" the Prosecutor interjected.

"I'm trying to establish the circumstances of the termination, milord," Defense claimed again.

"Please answer the question," the judge instructed Russell, who was looking decidedly bland if one didn't notice he was gripping the railing of the witness box so tightly his knuckles were white.

"Because she never has liaisons, as you put it, with men."

"Because she is a lesbian?" Defense wanted to know.

Buzzing. Gavel banging. Silence

Russell stared at Ira's counsel. "Yes, milord."

Loud buzzing, gavel banging, finally silence.

The Prosecutor rose again, "Milord, I don't see that this has any relevance to the charges against the defendant."

Russell looked sick; he had just been forced to effectively "out" a dear friend, and for no good reason. I sent him a smile, but he just frowned and shook his head slightly. He had his right hand inside his suit coat, unconsciously rubbing his stomach. He was dressed in a deep charcoal Armani suit with a white shirt and burgundy silk tie with tiny charcoal clocks on it. With his heavy gold cufflinks and gold Chaumet wristwatch flashing now and then, he was the picture of sartorial splendor in total good taste. It worried me that he was rubbing his stomach, however.

The judge answered, "Nor do I, counselor, the jury will disregard the entire line of questioning about the sexual orientation of Miss Weston."

Russell turned his head very slowly and gave the judge a look, which the judge missed because he was examining his gavel, presumably for cracks from whacking it on the wood block in front of him so hard.

"I put it to you, sir," Defense said, "that Mr. Trenary did not kidnap you last year because he was desirous of obtaining money for your release, but rather because he was working with you to fake this so-called kidnapping to gain publicity for the film you were making at the time."

"Objection, milord!" the Prosecutor thundered.

"Sustained," the judge responded, "The Defense will refrain from testifying and rephrase his statement as a question."

"Milord!" the Prosecutor interjected.

"I have ruled, sir," the judge warned the Prosecutor, who sat down, looking agitated.

"Mr. Crowe," the Defense asked, "did you or did you not plan this so-called kidnapping with Mr. Trenary as a way to gain some publicity for the film you were then shooting here in England?"

"I did not, milord," Russell answered firmly. He had stopped rubbing his stomach, but his hand was still pressed against his midsection. I was getting worried.

The defense counsel plowed ahead, asking a lot of questions about the circumstances of the kidnapping, going into minute detail of the when and how of Russell's being taken out of his limousine and kept bound and locked in a feed room, at Oldham Race Course. Russell answered everything he was asked with politeness and truth.

"So after you had spent some time in this feed room, Mr. Crowe, you say you began searching for a way out of the room?"

"I did," Russell answered.

"Why did you wait so long?"

Russell blinked, then responded, "I was drugged and physically restrained before. Once they left off doping me and tying me to the chair I mentioned, I could get the tape partially off my eyes and see what I was doing."

"So you claim you miraculously stumbled upon these loose cement blocks in the wall of the room, and by pressing them out of place, you were able to escape?"

"It wasn't miraculous, milord, in fact, I had given up trying to find a way out. It was only when I leaned my head against the wall and some blocks moved that I found there were several of them loose and I could shove them outside."

"Convenient," the defense counsel said.

The Prosecution rose to his feet and objected, which the judge sustained, and then abruptly adjourned for the night, leaving everything hanging in mid-air. Russell looked surprised, as did the Prosecutor, but he exited the witness box and made his way back to where Mick and I were waiting for him. When he got close to me, I could see he was much more disturbed than I had thought, but he merely said in a low voice, "Let's get the fuck out of here," and we did.

The court was surrounded by reporters, paparazzi, news teams, and fans. We exited through the basement garage, but it took forever to force a path through the throngs even with the London bobbies helping clear our way. Finally, the car was away from the crowd and speeding down the London streets toward our hotel.

Russell was tight-lipped and pale, and when I took his hand, his fingers were cold. I looked at him more closely. "Russell?"

Before I could say anything else, Russell snapped, "Stop the car!" to the driver. Jake, who was riding shotgun in the front, and Mick, who was facing us in the rear of the limo, both looked at him in surprise, as did I. The driver, evidently a talented man, whipped the long vehicle to the side of the residential street we were then traversing, whereupon Russell flung the door open, leaped out and was violently ill.

Jake, Mick and I all got to him at the same instant, but he waved us off, propped with one hand on the trunk of a large oak, retching into a patch of weeds by an empty lot. When the spasms stopped, he took the handkerchief Mick offered him, wiped his face, and turned to me. "Stomach's upset," he said hoarsely.

He looked terrible, pale faced with red blotches over his cheekbones, but he claimed to be just suffering some nerves after having to sublimate his anger in the court room, and having to "out" Jilly Weston, a long time friend, even though it was fairly well accepted and ignored that she was a lesbian. Russell didn't tell tales on his friends, and it had upset him to have to answer the questions about her. He climbed back into the car and we shortly arrived at the hotel. Mick and Jake went off to have dinner with some friends of theirs from way back during the Gladiator shoot, while Russell and I went up to our suite.

"Are you sure you're all right?" I asked him for the dozenth time since he had thrown up.

"I'll be fine," he said, evading the question. Sometimes the urge to choke him almost overcomes my natural reticence about committing violence on my spouse. My reticence won. This time.

I went to the bedroom, searched through my suitcase, and found his ulcer medication. I took the bottle back into the sitting room where he stood looking out at the darkening London scene. "Here, Dr. Forrester said this would help if your stomach acted up."

"Bah," he snarled, but he took the bottle. He knew I would hold his nose and force him to swallow the medication if he didn't. "I'm going to change clothes - at least I didn't chunder on my suit."

"Small blessings," I said to his back as he went into the bedroom. "What do you want for dinner?"

"Something pureed," he answered, then stuck his head around the door with a more normal expression on his face, "Forget the pureed part, let's have chicken or something."

"Okay," I said, looking at the day's room service menu. "They have chicken ala orange or broiled herbed chicken," I read to him.

"Broiled," came the answer, amid slamming of dresser drawers. "And dessert."

"No surprise there," I remarked to nobody in particular. "Custard with apricots and raspberry sauce?"

He came out of the bedroom dressed in his old faded blue sweat pants and a Grunts teeshirt. "Sounds like a good idea." He sat down and leaned back against the sofa, eyes shut. "Get something you like, though," he added.

"I like all that," I said, and lifted the phone to order dinner. "I'd like it all a lot better at home though."

"Too right," he agreed, then slid down to doze, head on a throw pillow, finally relaxed for the first time in hours.

I went in and changed into my own comfy clothes, and came out to sit stroking his hair until dinner arrived.

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