27. Nell
27
NELL
No.
No, no, no, no. No. This cannot be happening. Sadly, however, it apparently is happening.
Charlie is rattling the doorknob frantically, pulling backwards with all his might. But the door doesn’t budge. I heard it click ominously when those boxes knocked it shut a second ago, but I never thought . . .
‘Why the hell would you have a cupboard that locks people inside whenever the door shuts?’ I wail.
Charlie takes a break from tugging at the handle. ‘Maybe it’s broken. Maybe that’s why it was propped open?’
I walk over and give the doorknob a go myself. There’s no shifting it. We are stuck in this room.
I thump on the door and shout, ‘Hello? Hello?! Anyone? We’re locked in here!’
We listen for a second. Nothing. The door is made of thick metal – even if there was anyone outside, I’m not sure they would hear us.
‘I’ll message Bishi,’ I say, whipping out my phone. But my heart sinks when I clock the screen. ‘No signal down here. Try yours?’
Charlie pats his pockets. ‘Shit. I left it on my desk . . .’
‘Great.’
He gives me a sheepish smile. ‘I mean . . . it’s not so bad, right? Surely Bishi’s going to have to come and find us at some point? They do need those musical instruments for that sketch.’
‘I guess.’
‘So maybe we should just keep doing what we were doing until they come get us?’ He glances over at the trumpet in the far corner. I sigh and nod.
He’s right, obviously – it’s not like Bishi is going to leave us to die in here. Or, more accurately, it’s not like Bishi is going to leave the boss’s son to die in here. And since I happen to be with the boss’s son, hopefully that courtesy will be extended to me too.
Charlie is still grinning at me, and I feel a prickle of irritation. Is he enjoying this? I can feel the heat rising in my neck. It was already unbearably hot in this stupid cupboard before the door slammed shut. I’m not looking forward to how clammy it’s about to get in here over the next God-knows-how-long we’re going to be stuck in here. There’s one tiny window in the whole place, and it’s right on the other side of the room, near the ceiling. It’s shut and the sunlight is streaming through it. I can already feel sweat gathering under my armpits and boobs. Although maybe that’s just the proximity to Charlie.
Because, worryingly, the more time I actually spend with Charlie Francombe, the harder it becomes to hate him. Especially when I find myself suddenly pressed up against his surprisingly firm, warm chest. Especially when my hand still tingles from where he held it. From afar, I can file him away as an abstract concept – a nepo baby douchelord who is possibly in an unfairly biased competition with me for my Dream Job. In person though . . . he is proving annoyingly likeable.
Very worrying. Hence why I’m slightly freaked out to be locked in this confined space with him. But I need to keep my focus. Just because my body – or certain parts of it – seem to quite like Charlie Francombe, I need to remember that my head very much doesn’t. And my head is what I should be listening to right now.
‘Right, I’ll get that trumpet,’ Charlie says, shovelling his way through a hill of discarded costumes – pantomime-dame dresses, ballerina skirts and Robin Hood leggings raining down as he picks his way through the mess.
‘Here, let me help you . . .’
We both start rummaging our way through the pile. The whole thing is so ridiculous I can’t help meeting his smile as he looks over at me. When we get through to the other side, Charlie grabs hold of the metal shelves and shins up to the top, towards the trumpet.
‘Careful!’ I call out. ‘Being locked in here is going to be way more stressful if you break your neck.’
He chuckles and hands me down the trumpet. Like everything else in here, it doesn’t look like it’s been used for a good decade. It’s coated in a thick layer of grey dust. I grab a person-sized banana costume from the shelf nearest me and wipe it clean.
‘OK, one down,’ Charlie says, landing back on the ground with a thud. A lock of his sandy hair flops in front of his face and he blows it out of the way. ‘Can we see any others?’
I peer around the shelves. ‘That could be a guitar over there,’ I say, pointing to a definitely guitar-ish handle sticking out of a box high up on the shelf across from us.
‘Let’s do it.’
Charlie starts clambering up the metal frame again. I watch him go, trying not to notice how his arm and back muscles flex as he climbs. It’s quite hard not to notice though, since I can’t seem to stop staring at them. Muscles aren’t usually my thing, but Charlie Francombe’s muscles appear to be the exception to the rule . . . He glances back down to check his footing and catches me looking. I panic and avert my gaze by stealthily grabbing a Moulin Rouge-esque fan from a nearby box to cover and cool my presumably tomato-red face. I am properly boiling now. And also slightly concerned about any unsightly sweat patches that might have materialised on my jumper. God, I wish I could take it off. I really, really, really picked the wrong day to wear a sweater with only a bra underneath it.
‘Banjo!’ Charlie calls from up on the shelf. He waves the instrument at me. I give him a thumbs up, and he starts clambering back down. ‘That’s two in two minutes. We’re going to find a whole orchestra’s worth by the time we’re done.’
‘I think I can see a xylophone over in that far corner,’ I say, squinting over at something vaguely rainbow-coloured by the door. ‘But it could just as easily be a Pride banner.’
‘OK.’ He puffs his cheeks out. ‘God, it’s hot in here. Let’s just have a quick breather before we start looking for the next one. Unless you’re planning on doing any climbing, Nell?’
‘Think I’ll leave the climbing to you, Francombe.’
He laughs and leans heavily against the shelves. ‘Fair enough.’ He’s wearing a black T-shirt, and as he lifts the neck to dab his forehead, I get a split-second glance at the top of his boxers. And his surprisingly toned midriff. Did not have Charlie Francombe down for a gym rat.
I look away, but probably not quickly enough, because when I look back, he’s grinning his stupid dimply grin at me. God. Bishi needs to hurry up and let us out of here.
‘Are you not hot too?’ Charlie asks.
‘No. I’m fine,’ I lie.
‘You look hot.’ He double-takes and starts gabbling to correct himself: ‘I mean, not . . . like that. Although you are . . . I mean . . . Nothing. Just, you look . . . like . . . you are . . . warm.’
He sputters to a stop and winces. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
‘I’m honestly fine, Francombe,’ I say, my cheeks blazing. ‘If anything, I’m a bit chilly.’
Charlie smirks at me as if he knows I’m lying. An image flashes into my head: me, pressed up against his chest again – only this time we’re both topless. The thought knocks the air out of me for a second. I have to glance around the room again to stop myself looking at him.
‘Maybe we should just start going through all the boxes on the floor?’ he suggests.
Very grateful for a distraction, I nod and pull a box towards me. It seems to be mainly full of false beards. Charlie slumps down on the ground and inspects another box.
‘So . . . how was that lunch yesterday?’ he asks after a moment. ‘With Nate?’
‘Oh, erm . . .’ What with the whole locked-in-a-cupboard-trying-not-to-look-at-his-muscles thing, I’ve momentarily forgotten to feel awkward about seeing Charlie for the first time since he kind of, maybe, asked me out. I decide instantly that not mentioning the kind-of-maybe asking-out is definitely the best course of action here.
‘Yeah – lunch was good,’ I say, untangling a bright-red, Brian Blessed-sized beard from inside my box. ‘We just went to a pub round the corner.’
Charlie nods. ‘He seems cool, Nate.’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘What did he want to chat to you about?’
‘Oh, just . . . this and that. To see how I was getting on. Haven’t really spoken to him much, since I’m not sitting next to him, like you are.’
There’s a bit more spikiness in that last comment than I intended. But Charlie just nods again and carries on rummaging. It’s weird though. The mention of that lunch with Nate – and Charlie’s obvious interest in what we were talking about – makes me finally get my shit together. Because, yeah, OK – this boy is objectively attractive. And yeah, OK, it was nice of him to step in and save me from humiliation with Zach in Pret. And yeah, also OK, his chest pressed against mine definitely made me feel some . . . feelings. But he’s still the same guy who got his dad to conjure an Ed Sheeran video out of thin air just to overshadow me last week. He’s still the same guy whose dad is probably still helping him, still pulling strings behind the scenes, still talking him up to Nate. And if a job actually does end up being on the cards at the end of this internship, he’s still the same guy I’ll be in direct competition with.
Thatis what I need to focus on right now. Not the way his hair bounces in front of his eyes, or the tautness of his midriff.
But then I pull another box towards me, open it, and immediately forget about all of those things when I see what’s inside. ‘Oh my God! The Very Passive-Aggressive Caterpillar!’
I shout it involuntarily and at an extremely high volume. But I can’t help it. I have spent so many hours of my life watching this puppet – and now here he is, in the – not flesh, but . . . felt, I guess?
Charlie gives me an understandably confused look from where he’s sitting. ‘The Passive-Aggressive what?’
I pull the puppet out of the box and cradle it in both hands, like that bit in The Lion King. I can’t believe I’m actually holding it. ‘This is the Very Passive-Aggressive Caterpillar!’ I blurt again. Charlie’s still staring at me blankly, so I add, ‘There was a recurring sketch in the first season of Punching Up, which had this puppet in it. It was a kind of spoof of a children’s story, and this little guy would get into all these different scenarios and react really passive-aggressively.’ Charlie wrinkles his nose, clearly unamused. ‘It was funnier than I’m making it sound, trust me,’ I say. ‘The sketches were so, so good. And then for some reason, midway through the second season, they scrapped them.’
Charlie gives me a baffled grin as he shuffles closer to me. ‘How the hell do you know all this?’
I twirl the VPAC around in my hands. I’m secretly wondering if I could even take a selfie with it when Charlie isn’t looking. ‘Because I’ve watched every episode of this show,’ I say.
‘What, seriously?’
I turn to look at him. His smile has faded and he’s gazing at me with his eyebrows raised.
‘Yeah.’ I shrug. ‘It’s my favourite show. Always has been.’
Charlie looks at me a second longer and then goes back to digging through his box.
‘Oh man, I wish my dad could see this,’ I murmur as I place the VPAC carefully on the shelf in front of me.
‘I’m sure no one will miss it – just stuff the thing up your jumper whenever we finally get let out of here,’ Charlie says. ‘Then you can show him next time you see him.’
‘Yeah, can’t really do that, unfortunately. He’s dead.’
I’m not sure I even mean to say it out loud. But Charlie’s eyes are back on me now, wide and startled, so I definitely did say it out loud.
‘Fuck,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m so sorry, Nell. I didn’t know.’
I shrug, staring at the VPAC. ‘It’s OK. It was a long time ago. I was fifteen.’
‘That’s . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeats.
I nod. ‘Don’t worry about it, Francombe,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light. But I can already feel a tightness spreading behind my eyes, and all I can think is: Please, no. Not now. Being locked in this stupid closet with Charlie Francombe is already stressful enough. If I randomly start crying too, it might actually become unbearable.
But it’s so hard – because the sight of that silly little puppet has sparked all these memories. Moments I haven’t thought about in so long. I’m suddenly remembering all the nights Dad and I sat watching those VPAC sketches together, parroting our favourite quotes back and forth at each other while Mum and Will just shook their heads and laughed at us.
‘So . . .’ Charlie nods towards the VPAC. ‘How come your dad would’ve been so keen to see this little fella then?’ And there’s something about his voice – so warm and kind and tinged with gentle humour – that’s like a release. I blink hard and suddenly the tension behind my eyes dissolves. A soft laugh escapes me as I consider the question.
‘Well, he really loved the Very Passive-Aggressive Caterpillar sketches,’ I say, picking the puppet back up. ‘We used to watch them together when I was a kid. He was the one that first got me into Punching Up. It was one of his favourite shows too. When I was, like, eleven or twelve, it became this sort of secret thing between us. My mum and my brother weren’t really into it, but Dad used to let me stay up past my bedtime to watch it with him.’ I turn the little puppet over and over in my hands as the memories carry on flooding back. ‘He’s the whole reason I’m interested in comedy, really.’
I flush, suddenly aware of sounding stupid and geeky and childish. Of giving too much of myself away. But Charlie is still smiling that warm, kind smile at me. ‘How do you mean?’ he asks softly.
I shrug. ‘He used to show me the stuff he grew up watching – Blackadder, The Day Today, Smack the Pony. And stuff much older than that too: Laurel and Hardy and the Marx Brothers. Old black-and-white stuff. Buster Keaton. And then through that stuff I discovered Mabel Normand, who’s one of my biggest comedy heroes.’
‘Who?’ Charlie asks.
‘Mabel Normand. She was a comedian in the 1910s and ’20s – around the same time as Charlie Chaplin. She actually mentored Charlie Chaplin; she was much bigger than him for a while. Much funnier too, in my opinion. But history kind of forgot about her. All her stuff’s up on YouTube though. She’s amazing.’
‘Wow.’ Charlie laughs and scratches the back of his neck. ‘You . . . know a lot about comedy.’
I flush again and nod. ‘I am a massive nerd. I can’t deny it.’
‘That’s cool though,’ he says. ‘To have had a connection like that with your dad. This big thing you both had in common. That you both loved.’
‘Mm. Yeah.’ I stare back at the puppet again. ‘Though now he’s gone, it just . . . makes me miss him even more.’
‘I get that,’ Charlie says quietly.
Something about the tone of his voice tells me he actually gets it – he’s not just saying it. I glance at him, surprised. ‘You don’t . . . Do you not have anything like that with your dad?’
He puffs his cheeks out and gives a hollow laugh. ‘Not really, no.’
‘Oh. I thought –’
CLANG!
My train of thought is derailed by a loud, metallic noise from outside in the corridor. It sounds like something knocking against the door.
Charlie and I spring apart in shock. It’s only then that I realise how close we’ve been sitting. Our legs were almost touching. He must have shuffled closer as we were talking. Or maybe I did?
The noise comes again from outside as we both lock eyes.
‘Someone’s there!’ he hisses.