Chapter 4
FOUR
His arms raised in victory, Charles reaches the top of the hill and wriggles away from George’s attempt at a frustrated swat on his back.
‘Not fair! I lost two seconds jumping over a stinky mutt. Oh, not yours, Madam! Your dog is the cutest little fella. Have a wondrous day! This bloody mutt,’ George mouths as soon as the woman he was simpering at turns her back on them.
Out of breath, Charles shakes his head.
His friend finds a lame excuse whenever Charles beats him at something, and Charles wins every time they sprint up a slope.
‘I demand a rerun!’
‘We can race to the playground.’
‘We’re not racing downhill.’
‘Cutting your losses. Wise call.’
Charles avoids a second swat and clutches George’s wrist to pull him away from the path leading to an overcrowded viewpoint.
They drop onto the grass, their legs stretched out towards Central London.
Charles will always have a biased preference for Hampstead Heath and the glimpses of the city he can catch from its highest grounds.
But he can’t deny that the unobstructed panoramic view offered by Primrose Hill is spectacular.
Especially when the sky is overcast and provides the buildings with a gloomy background in motion.
George prods him with the water bottle he unclasped from his running belt. Charles accepts it, even though he’s not thirsty. They’ve only run two miles, and the chilly wind penetrates his track pants and long sleeves, drying the sweat before it even oozes. It finally feels like November.
George is wearing shorts, but he doesn’t suffer from the cold.
He doesn’t suffer from hangovers, nightmares, doubts and setbacks either.
His skin hasn’t flushed from the run and his chestnut-brown hair barely moves in the draught.
If Charles hadn’t witnessed snot streaming out of his nose and blood dripping from his knees when they were kids, he would embrace the possibility that his friend is a sophisticated form of AI.
‘How’s Elsy doing?’
‘She thinks your place is sickening.’
‘My place is a concept.’
Charles picks up a bright yellow leaf and raises it in front of St Paul’s Cathedral, narrowing his eyes to change his focus back and forth. ‘She never recovered from that huge hologram portrait of you hung on the ceiling above your bed.’
‘It was a joke for the housewarming party!’
‘Once she’s forged an opinion…’
‘She was at Maddox last night, with Divya and some Italian blokes.’
‘I know. They called at midnight, and I helped them translate.’
‘I’m sure you know, Charlock. I’m saying I know about it too. Already.’
Charles spins the leaf stem six times. ‘Because you’ve planted robot spies all over the country. But yes, I’ll remind her to be a bit more discreet…’
‘Or you could just inform everybody—’
‘Don’t. I’m having a nice moment with London.’
George surrenders with a sigh but gives him a pointed look to make his feelings clear anyway.
He discovered Charles and Elsy’s secret about five months after their Surrey pact, which made them feel Oscar-worthy because his shrewdness is nothing short of sorcery.
George has no objection to the unusual relationship their deal entails – although he can’t fathom why Charles doesn’t see other women – but he finds it really messed up that they feel obligated to draw the charade out.
He’s met their families, yet he doesn’t get it. He never will.
George Downes is new money. His parents had just met when they envisioned the resort franchise that would propel them into the top 0.1% of the country.
Despite their ever-growing wealth, Mr Downes frequently fries fish and chips in a restaurant he doesn’t own, and George’s older sister Liv manages a shelter for at-risk teenagers in Manchester.
The Downeses turn down most invitations to exclusive events, and the only tradition they respect is the Wings for Life World Run.
They have both feet in the present, unlike the Ledwells and the Buchanans, who straddle two centuries to honour their ancestors while planning the future of their unborn grandchildren.
George never had to observe outdated etiquette and doesn’t bear his surname’s prestige on his shoulders. He’s free to become whoever he wants and he’s bolstered on this journey.
George is also a wilful genius who sold his first phone application concept when he was seventeen.
He’s already making enough of his own money to send anyone packing.
If he were Charles, he would stick two fingers up at his genitors or convince them to adapt to the decade they live in.
But George isn’t Charles. And crucially, Charles isn’t George and can’t handle being pressured to break free from the pressure he’s under.
Therefore, George doesn’t insist when Charles seems in a good enough place. Or when he’s in a terrible place. George never insists.
‘Let’s get going. The chicken roasting on the third floor is calling.’
After only two months in his new building, George enticed the private chef from the flat below to cook for him too.
Charles grimaces, stuffed in advance. He’s expected home at 6pm for another Sunday roast. He takes a mouthful of water to help digest the thought of a distasteful dinner to come and clasps his friend’s hand to get back on his feet.
They follow the path that zigzags down to the bottom of the steep hill, George commenting on every dog they jog past.
Charles prefers to run alone, symphony concerts blasting in his ears and fantastic stories blooming in his mind.
But whenever Tottenham plays on a Sunday, he and George plan a full day together around the football game.
Once in a while, it involves a private jet trip to the host city where George has secured access to the VIP box.
They leave Primrose Hill behind and enter Regent’s Park. With George’s stomach already grumbling, they will make a beeline for his place near Baker Street. Charles has given up on understanding how his friend does so well at charity marathons considering how little he trains. Another AI thing.
‘Hold on!’ George checks his smartwatch and grabs his phone. ‘I’ve got to get that. Hello? What’s going on? I see. That’s inconvenient...’ He sighs and moves the mic away from his mouth. ‘Might take a while. Do you want my keys to go ahead?’
‘No, I’ll circle around the sports pitches.’
George gives him a thumbs up and shuffles away in the dead leaves.
Charles resumes jogging without his earphones.
He hates the feeling of incompleteness paired with pausing music, and George will inevitably catch up with him in the middle of an instrumental piece.
Charles will observe people instead and stage them in a fantasy universe.
His mind creations are never completed, so it’s not as big a deal if they’re interrupted.
The football pitches are teeming with children who aspire to be the next Harry Kane. George used to dream of becoming Tottenham’s top goal scorer. Today, his dream is to own the club.
On Charles’ right, two teams of teenagers are facing off in a rugby practice match.
He follows the action for a beat, then redirects his attention in front of him.
On the next square of grass and mud, about twenty kids are playing a variation of tunnel tag, holding a rugby ball while crawling through each other’s legs.
Standing out among this tiny crowd, two coaches are encouraging them.
The one clapping in the corner looks different, away from the neon lighting above the bar, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, but his French-accented cheering rings a bell, and Charles comes to a dead stop.
He remains agape for six seconds, trying to accept that his eyes aren’t playing a twisted trick on him.
The stranger he’s been brooding over for days is right there.
Of all parks. Of all sports grounds. Of all people.
Six seconds, then Charles hunches his shoulders and scuttles away.
Loris can’t see him, it would be humiliating.
The feeling has sat heavy in Charles’ stomach since Thursday. A nauseating roast of well-done humiliation, sprinkled with a pinch of bewilderment, served with a side of bitterness and soaked in an overheated gravy.
What kind of Olwinski expert does the guy think he is?
Charles is actually livid, which is why he whirls around to retrace his steps. He deserves an explanation, an apology and a free glass of grenadine for his trouble. Who’s the real fraud here, if not the barman who offers a sympathetic ear only to—
Charles freezes again. He can’t jump down Loris’ throat in the middle of a park, in the middle of a kid group, right in the middle of a meltdown caused by an inaccurate book review. It’s absurd. He needs to retreat.
Unfortunately, a girl has decided to follow a sparrow skipping in his direction, and Loris darts towards the girl, the sparrow and Charles.
‘Asha! Get back here!’
Loris lifts her up to hold her over his shoulder like a sack and turns around. For a brief moment, Charles finds himself facing the girl’s toothy smile, then Loris pivots again.
‘Charles?’
‘I’m not stalking you!’
Charles bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood when the remark rattles in his brain. The girl flaps her legs, splashing mud around, but he’s stuck too deep in his abashment to dodge it.
‘Careful, Asha!’ Loris puts her down, pushes her towards the game area and looks back at Charles. ‘I didn’t think you were. Now I’m wondering.’
Plain absurd. To such a degree that there’s not much dignity left to salvage.
‘Do you have a minute?’
Loris juts his chin at the kids. ‘Not really. Why? You okay?’
‘No. I mean, yes! Yes, but we need to talk.’
‘About?’
‘The Mind of Wonders and how dead wrong you are.’
‘Ah.’ Loris’ mouth curves into a smirk that Charles instantly hates with a passion. ‘Sure. Happy to. My shift at the pub starts at five.’
‘When?’
‘Today. It seems urgent.’
‘No! It’s not urgent, it’s not— It’s not important,’ Charles retorts, aware that he’s made it sound like a vital necessity.
‘Whenever you want, then. You know where to find me.’
Loris turns on his heel, scoops up a loose ball from the ground and lopes towards the group.
Charles steps back, his fist pressed against his lips to squash a preposterous attempt at having the last word in what isn’t even an argument.
Once on the path, he wiggles his legs to ease the tension of his body and sighs in relief when he spots George, weaving in and out between ramblers.
Unlike Loris’, his friend’s placidity is familiar and comforting.
‘What’s the drama?’ Charles asks, adopting George’s steady pace to jog far away and never come to Regent’s Park on a Sunday morning ever again.
‘Investors chickening out and coders in a lather. Who’s that?’
‘Who?’
‘The rugby chap you were chatting with?’
‘No one. Just a guy I met at the North Haven.’
‘What were you doing in that dump? Looking for hair-raising inspiration?’
‘Long Elsy story… And the place isn’t that bad.’
As they’re about to pass through a grove of trees, Charles chances a glance over his shoulder. Loris is following them with his eyes, so Charles hastens to scan another pitch on his left, to pretend he’s looking for something.
‘Ten-year-old me will always and forever be traumatised,’ George says, surprisingly oblivious to his discomfort.
‘Hmm?’
‘By the witch who runs the pub! That day Liv and Fred sent us there.’
‘Sorry?’ Charles slows down, confused enough to forget his urge to flee the park. ‘Liv and Fred sent us to the North Haven? Why?’
‘To create a diversion while they swiped beers from the delivery van, remember? They picked that place so nobody would recognise us.’
‘Makes sense…’
The fog that envelops Charles’ memory thickens as he tries to recall that day. For a second, he grasps a sense of pride. The next second, a pang in his temple, harbinger of a headache, leaves him with nothing.
‘Anyhow,’ George nudges him, ‘is he fun?’
‘Who…?’
‘Rugby chap. Are we making a new friend?’
‘No!’ Charles blinks himself back into the tangible present. ‘I don’t know him. We have divergent opinions on Pavel’s book, that’s all.’
‘Blimey! You found someone who knows your painter!’ George shifts in front of him. ‘Run back there and make an art buddy out of him. I beg of you, ChaVinci!’
‘You’re a moron.’
George snatches Charles’ beanie and takes off like a shot. Charles chases after him, jaded yet amused by his friend’s idiotic laughter. His oldest friend, who would misspell Olwinski.
George doesn’t get fine arts, Gothic literature or philharmonic music.
He lets Charles yack about his latest discoveries because his AI brain allows him to develop projects while holding a conversation.
But given the choice, George prefers to develop his projects while discussing manga, space conquest and new technologies.
Outside of their support for Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, their taste in Scottish whisky and a handful of friends, Charles and George don’t share much anymore.
They’ve also settled in two very different emotional lands.
If they met today, they probably wouldn’t bond.
But Charles and George met when life’s biggest question was whether they should trust their respective elder siblings, Fred and Liv, regarding the existence of Father Christmas.
The day a school bully jumped George to steal his backpack, Charles rushed headlong.
He ended up with a shiner, his arm broken and the bag secured between his shaky legs.
Later that afternoon, when he got out of his father’s Bentley with a fresh plaster cast, he found George waiting for him in the driveway, armed with his pirate sword, Captain America shield and homemade Saint Seiya helmet.
‘You saved my life, Chartagnan. I shall now take care of you until I build a spaceship to move to Neptune.’
And George Downes is a man of his word.