Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings by Jodi Taylor Page A

turn it off. She had a stiff drink, I had a cup of tea, and we swore we’d never have sex again.’
    â€˜You’ve had sex with Helen Foster?’
    I managed a chuckle. ‘Not recently.’
    â€˜That’s better. Aren’t you going to open your Christmas present?’
    â€˜I have a Christmas present?’
    â€˜An early one.’ He grubbed around in his pocket, pulling out a huge red and gold striped rugby sock, which he dangled in front of me.
    â€˜Thank you, I said, wondering why, out of the two of us, I was always the one who was reckoned to be slightly odd. ‘Am I supposed to wear it?’
    â€˜It’s your Christmas stocking.’
    â€˜It’s an old rugby sock.’
    â€˜Not today it isn’t. Here. Merry Christmas. Sorry I didn’t have time for tangerines or nuts.’
    I took the sock. ‘Thank you.’
    â€˜You’re welcome.’
    I regarded the sock.
    â€˜Get a move on,’ he said, grinning.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Open your present.’
    The sock wasn’t as empty as I thought. There was something in the toe. I rummaged around, pulling out a small box, which, according to the picture on the front, should be full of paperclips. If he’d been an historian, I would have suspected a surfeit of Christmas punch. Or possible concussion.
    â€˜Well, go on. Open it.’
    â€˜Now?’
    â€˜I don’t think there will ever be a better time. I’m sorry it’s not wrapped, but I didn’t think you’d mind.’
    I opened the box carefully and stared.
    â€˜Well? Don’t you like it?’
    Nestling on a bed of cotton wool was a wedding ring. My wedding ring.
    I’m not often stuck for words but on this occasion, I just sat and stared, too afraid even to reach out and take it. Eventually, I dragged my eyes away to his face.
    â€˜How did you know?’
    â€˜Because I’m the dog’s bollocks,’ he said modestly. ‘Observing the big white mark on your finger, your guilty expression, and remembering Bashford and Grey’s recent jump, I leaped, gazelle-like, to the correct conclusion. Easy for a man of my talents.’
    â€˜You mean you checked your pod logs.’
    â€˜And that as well.’
    â€˜You went back for it?’
    â€˜I did. I simply retraced your jump and followed you following them. I made your stallholder an offer he couldn’t refuse and retrieved your ring.’
    Wild thoughts ran through my mind. What had he done? Had we substituted the problem of the gun for something even worse? What had we left behind now?
    â€˜Oh my God. Leon, what did you offer him?’
    He smirked. ‘Three rolls of toilet paper.’
    The afternoon began to take on a slightly surreal quality. ‘What?’
    He repeated it patiently. ‘Three rolls of toilet paper. You know – “Property of St Mary’s” stamped on each sheet. Although God knows why. It’s not as if anyone has ever queried ownership. Either before or after use. I don’t know why on earth you didn’t think of it. A clear demonstration of the superiority of the technical mind I think even you must admit. Anyway, he was delighted. When I left, he was pulling off the individual sheets, one by one, to the huge admiration of those around him.’
    Toilet rolls – enough of a novelty to be valuable and attractive and very biodegradable.
    â€˜Leon, you are …’ I stopped, unable to go on.
    â€˜Yes? Don’t stop there.’
    I shook my head.
    â€˜You’re not going to cry again, are you?’
    I shook my head.
    â€˜Give me your hand.’
    I stretched out my hand.
    He slid it on to my finger. ‘Max, I give you this ring – again – because I love you. You are all the world to me and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.’
    â€˜Leon, I take this ring – again – because I love you and …’
    I couldn’t go on. More