Chapter 2
TWO
Charles becomes aware that he’s misplaced his pen twenty-six hours after using it in the pub.
Twenty-six hours of serenity, otherwise he would have realised sooner.
A record he could be proud of but, sadly, missing his pen results in a sleepless night spent ransacking his room, tidying it back to perfection and searching through it again.
In the morning, he sprints to the office where his pen is nowhere to be found either.
He sets to work on autopilot, tapping the piano arrangement of Ravel’s Boléro onto his thighs between each of his tasks.
It’s less efficient than clicking his pen, but it makes it a little bit easier to ignore his nausea – amplified by the impression that he’s continuously tripping on a staircase.
Charles exits the building and scuttles away, hopelessness sweeping over him.
He’s at one with his addiction to a stick of plastic.
Among all the anxiety relievers he can afford, this has to be the healthiest. But he feels hopeless, because he didn’t need his pen for twenty-six hours and can’t pinpoint why.
Did nothing trigger him for a whole day or was he tranquil enough to ignore the triggers?
If he recalled what his peaceful bubbles are made of, he would shape some by himself. But the thorns bursting them are the only memories that remain vivid.
Like his father’s comment last night.
They were halfway through the main course when Milton Ledwell stopped gushing about the next sculpture he will splurge on. He slapped his embroidered serviette against the table and shifted gears.
‘You should be doing fruitful work for Clifford. I will call him tomorrow. He needs to notify your supervisor that you are not there to be a secretary.’
Charles’ heart plummeted.
He plays stupid at the office, afraid to be given responsibilities that would entail expectations and pressure.
He’s crafty in the way he acts stupid, though, and Clifford – the CEO of the wealth management firm – seems pleased enough.
But admonished by Milton Ledwell over the phone, Clifford would inevitably bristle, ‘Your son shies away whenever we try to involve him!’ A truth that wouldn’t go down well at home.
Charles started fiddling with his fork, in search of a mechanism to push and click. He stammered that he’s still proving his worth, but his father discounted this argument with withering eyes. Fortunately, Alice Ledwell chimed in between two sips of wine.
‘Milton, dear, you wouldn’t tolerate being lectured on how to run your business, would you?’
Charles’ mother wasn’t coming to his rescue. Fundamentally, she agreed with her husband. But her socialite’s brain had zeroed in on the risks of laying into Clifford, the man blindly trusted by their closest acquaintances with their fortune.
Milton mused on the hypothetical situation, then admitted to it. He agreed not to call the firm for now but reminded Charles that opportunities have to be created, not expected. Charles nodded, apologised and skipped pudding, in dire need of clicking his pen that turned out to be MIA.
Charles comes to a blunt stop on the front patio of the pub. A note, written in barely legible scrawl, is taped on the door.
‘We will open at 4pm today. Thanks for your understanding.’
He switches the Boléro tempo from an allegro to a presto. What kind of pub opens this late? Is it even legal in the UK?
‘Get a grip, Charles,’ he murmurs, teeth gritted. ‘It’s only twenty-six minutes.’
Twenty-six minutes. Twenty-six hours. He doesn’t believe in signs, but it has to be one. His pen is in there.
Out of skin to scratch around his nails, he paces between the outside tables, multiplying twenty-six by itself, then again, and again.
He’s just reached a seven-figure number when he spots the barman from the other day crossing the street. The guy’s amused brow costs Charles the thread of his arithmetic.
‘Someone’s thirsty.’
Charles swallows his desire to be swallowed up by the ground. ‘No, I’m… I didn’t expect to find the place closed, and I’m not great at patience.’
‘Sorry about that. We’re super short of staff.’
‘Don’t worry, I know what it’s like.’
Charles has no idea what it’s like, but he’s sleep-deprived and on edge, so in no condition to analyse where that comment came from.
‘I’m gonna need a minute to set up, but have a seat.’
The guy wedges the door open with a rubber block and disappears inside. Charles rubs his forearms six times and falls into step behind him, squinting to make his way through the darkness.
‘I’m not here for a drink.’
‘Great. You’re hired!’
Charles snorts. The idea of making small talk with strangers all day long is quite appealing, but Milton and Alice would find means to foreclose the place before letting their son pour a single pint of beer.
Already behind the counter, the barman turns on neon lights above the bar and background music, making the fusty room a smidge less fusty. ‘When can you start?’
‘I said I’m not great at patience.’
‘What makes you think you’d need some to work here?’
Charles puts his bag onto a stool. ‘The way you handled us two days ago.’
‘It was a one-off nightmare. We don’t see many snotty twats here. They tend to avoid this place.’
‘It must be peaceful.’
‘Heavenly.’
Have a seat. You’re hired. Heavenly. The barman’s Hs are overly forced and reawaken Charles’ cheese craving.
‘What can I do for you, then?’
‘Well…’
Now that Charles is about to find out, he would rather make small talk with this stranger first, to delay the answer and its devastating potential. But the stranger has a pub to prepare, so he takes the leap.
‘Did you find a pen after we left?’
‘Cracked? Empty? With a weird inscription?’
Relief engulfs Charles like a gust of wind during a heatwave. It’s over in a second and leaves him more oppressed than before.
‘Did you throw it away?’
‘Not sure.’ The guy squats behind the counter and reappears with a Guinness glass filled with retractable and lidless pens. ‘Have a look. I’m gonna grab the cash float.’
Charles breathes an abstracted ‘Alright…’, his complete focus already on the bottle-green pen propped against the edge of the glass.
This time, the draught of relief lashes his face so hard, it makes his eyes sting.
He plops down onto a stool, unbuttons the collar of his shirt and takes the pen.
At first, he holds it with care, deciphering the Cyrillic letters on its side, making sure it’s his and truly his.
But soon, he closes his fist around the pen and brings it against his chest.
He doesn’t need to click it. He knows he could, which is enough to flatten the staircase he was stumbling on into a smooth slide.
‘Found it?’
Charles ducks his head and untightens his grasp. ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Cool. You sure you don’t want a drink?’
‘No, I can’t stay.’
He will go for a stroll on Hampstead Heath, the local wild park that has become his favourite shelter. It will help him recover from this emotional rollercoaster before he joins his friends for dinner.
He massages his neck and looks back at his pen rescuer, who’s pouring a pint of cask ale. Puzzled, Charles is about to repeat he can’t stay when a chesty cough resonates in the room. The old drunk who was asleep in the corner on Tuesday is doddering through the door.
‘How are you today, Jack?’ The barman walks by Charles with the beer and whispers, ‘All the better for seeing you, Loris.’
‘All the better for seeing you, Loris,’ the elderly man replies, a lilt to his voice.
He drops into the worn-out armchair with a contented moan followed by another coughing fit. The barman must have expected it, because he only approaches to hand him the pint once it’s over.
‘Thank you, my boy.’
Charles smiles. He loves habits. Not his own, but strangers’ habits and the stories behind them that he’s free to make up. Jack retired from the air force. He squanders his pension on drowning traumatic ordeals in ale and brought the armchair from his place, haunted by—
‘Jack illustrates children’s books during school hours. Then he comes here to rest his eyes.’
So Jack is neither traumatised nor a drunk, and Charles should stop with the stereotyping.
He sets the pen down, parallel to a crack on the counter. ‘Your name is Loris?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Like France’s goalkeeper? Hugo Lloris?’
‘Just like him, except it’s my first name and it’s spelled with only one L, so not like him, no.’
The speed of Loris’ comeback proves that he’s well used to the comment and slaps Charles with a blast of embarrassment.
It’s similar to the second-hand awkwardness he squirms through whenever his mother declines sugar with an enthusiastic ‘I’m sweet enough!
’ The waiting staff always guffaws with Alice, because in the places she frequents, employees are compelled to make customers feel like one-of-a-kind.
But Charles notices the flash of exasperation in their eyes that says, ‘Thank you, Lady Original, I never heard that one before.’
‘And I’m more of a rugby guy,’ Loris continues, his eyes devoid of exasperation as they glitter in the neon lights – like a blue version of Elsy’s flaked nail polish.
Charles seizes this rope out of his self-consciousness. ‘You play?’
‘Not anymore. But I coach kids on Sundays.’
‘For Hampstead RF Club?’
‘No. They can’t afford me.’
It’s not clear whether it’s a joke, so Charles exhales a laugh that works as a reaction either way.
‘I’m Charles.’
‘Yeah. You third-personed yourself last time.’
‘It wasn’t me, it was the tequila. Also responsible for leaving this behind.’ Charles places his hand over the pen and gets off the stool. ‘Thank you for holding on to it.’
‘Every pen pot needs a few useless pens. Why is it meaningful to you?’
‘Sentimental value...’
‘It’s Russian, right?’ Loris grabs a chopping board and a couple of limes. ‘The inscription?’
Charles nibbles his cheek, unsettled that he considers explaining.