Chapter 3
THREE
They had been sleeping together for four months when it occurred to Charles that Elsy is, more often than not, having sex with herself. She thrives on his participation, but he’s just an extra in a play that she writes, directs and interprets on her own.
He doesn’t take it personally. He’s convinced he’s not the problem. They’ve had enough pillow conversations about her tumultuous affairs with other men. Elsy knows how to optimise her pleasure, and when she wants something done, she does it herself.
Charles doesn’t mind. Given how frequently he lands a role, he’s a valuable extra.
What Charles does mind is utter deception. Being fooled into opening up by someone who’s just waiting to ridicule him.
Of course, he was wrong to pigeonhole Loris as an art ignoramus. But Loris could have brought up the subject with the pen pot or jumped in at any stage. Instead, he let Charles dig himself in deeper while he bided his time before trash-talking Olwinski.
The guy called Olwinski a fraud. The nerve. Convoluted made-up life story. This statement is convoluted. Outrageous, baseless, and what next? The Earth is flat? Climate change is a hoax? Cereal should be poured before the milk? What the actual—
Charles twitches and digs his nails into the clammy skin of Elsy’s lower back. ‘Fuuuck...’
‘Damn, Sir.’
‘Shit...’ He gulps and inhales deeply, quivering as she keeps waving on top of him. ‘I’m sorry, Els.’
‘Sorry for what?’ She tugs at the pendant on his chest and leans over, her mouth finding a soft spot on his neck and sending new shivers down his spine. ‘It was a soul-bending experience.’
‘Was it? Oh, excellent.’
‘My god, where were you?’
‘Uh?’
She pushes herself up to stare into his eyes through a curtain of messy hair. ‘You could have let me in on your fantasy! What part of Charland were you having fun in? And what’s her name?’
‘No, I wasn’t… I was… Leave me alone.’
He raises his hand to turn her face away and can’t help but smile when she fends him off with a chortle.
She’s a stunning picture he wishes he could paint.
Her hazel eyes, flawless masterpieces. Her bow-shaped lips, redder than usual from the kissing.
Her freckled turned-up nose that she blames for looking younger than she is.
Charles truly wishes he had the skills to depict her feline grace, the velvet feel of her skin and the inherent kindness she exudes when they’re alone.
But he would never do her justice. Elsy is gorgeous.
She’s also feisty, driven, hilarious, and Charles doesn’t deserve her.
But he’s coping with a great deal of hassle he doesn’t deserve either.
It’s only fair that Elsy Buchanan decided to stick with him, from the day they broke up, for worse more often than better, through dissociative episodes and surges of anxiety.
To adore and to cherish him, until true love do them part.
Elsy eventually rolls on her back next to him. She grabs the TV remote on his bedside table, as well as a pack of tissues that she tosses onto his chest. Charles takes off the condom, wipes himself and arranges the pillows behind them against the headboard.
‘How predictable…’
Elsy grumbles at the screen where Liverpool is leading against Norwich City three nil after thirty-two minutes.
She doesn’t really care about Norwich City Football Club. All she cares about when it comes to the Premier League is the top teams losing and underdogs pulling off miracle performances. She hardly ever gets satisfaction.
‘You’ll never guess what Catriona did earlier.’
‘Tell me.’
‘She— Come on!!’ Elsy sits up straighter when a player takes a shot, only to drop back against Charles because Liverpool’s goalkeeper catches the ball without batting an eyelid. ‘She showed me the castles she’s selected as potential venues.’
Charles jumps, hit by a mental cold shower that extinguishes the lasting effects of his orgasm. ‘She did what?’
Catriona is Elsy’s mother, but she demands to be called by her name, refusing to be anyone’s property. She’s a stone-cold matriarch who becomes blissful and mumsy whenever Charles is involved. And who appears to be planning their wedding.
‘She summoned me to her study, five tabs open on her computer, and she— Oi! Don’t start pen-clicking!’ Elsy grips Charles’ neck to shake him out of his sudden panic. ‘I laughed it off.’
‘She must have loved that…’
‘I said I won’t get married until I’m twenty-five, and she admitted to getting carried away. I’m just giving you a heads-up in case she talks about castles with your mother at teatime. We’re fine, don’t worry.’
The lump in Charles’ throat shrinks.
Elsy is right. They’re fine. They have a couple of years before the Buchanan clan gets frustrated by the lack of a ring on her finger.
Before having to confess that they don’t intend to merge their families’ wealth and produce an army of little Ledwells.
They were eighteen when Elsy broke up with Charles, on the terrace of a coffee shop. In a second, she went from delighting in the Oreo flavour of their shared milkshake to thrusting the glass aside with a solemn ‘We need to talk.’
She was bored, eager to broaden her sexual horizons and no longer in love with him.
Charles had never experienced boredom by her side. He had never looked at another girl wondering what it would be like to touch the hidden parts of her skin. Never defined the nature of his feelings for Elsy.
He loved that they were a team on all fronts. He loved how she brought peace and chaos into his life, alternately, depending on his needs. He loved the bubble she had created around him. He loved her, in many ways.
When Elsy fell silent, she took his hand, probably concerned about his impending reaction. Charles waited, expecting his heart to break into pieces he could never reassemble – what he presumed being dumped out of the blue should feel like.
He waited, imagining himself outside their bubble, and his heart didn’t crack, but a realisation curdled his blood.
‘So you won’t come to my grandfather’s birthday party…’
Elsy narrowed her eyes, visibly bemused by his priorities, but she was quick to placate him. ‘I can still come as your date. We’ll make our breakup official next week.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘You tell me when you’re ready. I’ll always have your back, Chips. That won’t change.’
He smiled, simmering down. ‘Thank you. I’ll always have yours. But I’ll miss it.’
‘My back?’
‘All the hidden parts of your skin.’
She found his thigh underneath the table. ‘Well, I’ve heard breakup sex is phenomenal.’
It was. It was all the more phenomenal that it could be the last time. That Wednesday night. Then on Friday afternoon. And on Sunday morning, before they headed off to the estate of Charles’ grandfather in Surrey.
All day, they played the part of the full-of-promise couple they had been for two years.
They wandered among the high-society crowd and giggled whenever a guest slobbered over the fairytale picture they formed.
Their mothers received rhapsodies of praise, as if they had in any way contributed to the success of their relationship.
As for Charles’ father, he introduced Elsy to every attendee who hadn’t had the honour yet, presenting her like a hunting trophy his son had beaten a legion to claim.
Milton’s smugness on this topic wasn’t new, but Charles truly noticed it that afternoon, because it would soon be ancient history. Swept away by the shameful understanding that Charles had failed at keeping Elsy. Replaced with belittling and venomous comments.
When they escaped for a walk by the river, Charles would have thrown up with angst had he eaten anything.
Elsy was fuming and, once certain that they were away from prying ears, she exploded.
‘Screw that! Let’s carry on acting the part.’
‘What part?’
‘Kate and William of Hampstead, or whatever fantasy they’re all getting off on.’
‘The one that infuriates you?’
‘No, I don’t care. If that floats their yachts.
I’m enraged because of Penelope, and Daphne, and Victoria!
I refuse to be in that position. Dragged from one boring douchebag to another by my parents.
Bitched about behind my back because I’m changing man every full moon.
And having my love life overshadow everything I may accomplish!
Penelope aspires to cure incurable diseases, but the one thing those backward boneheads discussed is whether she’ll find a good husband!
I can’t go through that! I’d never manage to bite my tongue, and that could cost me the lifestyle I need.
So it’d be sanity-saving for me, but also for you, if we kept on being Kate and William of Hampstead in public.
That would prevent Milton from using our separation to humiliate you more than he already does, and I wouldn’t lose my mind.
Unless… the idea of lying stresses you out? ’
‘Anything is better than a brand-new reason to dread dinner conversations!’
‘Yes? So we don’t tell anyone we broke up until… you find your Kate? Or until we don’t care about being cut off? Until we have the sufficient means to tell them to shove their absurd expectations up their arses.’
‘I can absolutely picture myself doing that,’ Charles said with a brittle laugh.
‘I want a front-row seat when you do! But, Chips, if it gets too complicated for you, we pull the plug, alright?’
‘Alright.’
As he hugged Elsy very tight, his stomach settled down and the shape of a new bubble draped over his shoulders like a bespoke coat. Nothing felt simpler than showing the world how much he adored and needed her.
Elsy stands up, answering a text. ‘You don’t mind if I join Divya in Soho?’
‘No, but what about the game?’
She groans and gestures at the screen where the score hasn’t changed. Charles leans on his side to fumble for his phone through his clothes on the floor.
‘You’re not going there, are you?’
Charles looks up at Elsy, then at the TV.
Sunday afternoon fixture: Manchester City v Tottenham. On the left, photos of Kevin De Bruyne and Raheem Sterling. On the right, Harry Kane and Hugo Lloris.
With two Ls.
‘Chips?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Is George flying you to Manchester tomorrow?’
The biggest fraud in art history.
‘No, we… We’ll watch the match at his place after our jog. We’re not welcome in that hospitality box anymore. He offended someone.’
‘Shame. I could have come with you. I love booing both teams.’
‘You can come and boo at George’s TV.’
‘Never. I’m not stepping foot into George’s Temple of George, it’s sickening,’ she mutters, before disappearing into Charles’ en-suite bathroom.
Charles throws his phone onto the mattress, not sure why he wanted to check it thirty seconds ago.
It’s irrational how deeply Loris’ remark is rankling with him. But his fixations never make much sense and they usually distress him more than they aggravate him.
It’s an enjoyable change, for want of a sensible reaction.
‘Go to hell. With two Ls. And a forced H.’
He crawls to the bedside table and takes a brown book out of the drawer. Its hardcover is crazed and faded, but it remains the most comforting sight. Olwinski’s self-attributed coat of arms and ‘The Mind of Wonders’ traced on a banner as if it were a motto.
Charles follows the outline of the title with his forefinger, like he always does. Then he opens the book to follow the lines handwritten on the first yellowed page, seven years ago. His heart stutters, like it always does.
Charlie,
In a world where you can be anything you want, try to be Batman. If you’re not into capes, be Pavel Olwinski, he’s the next best thing.
Fred