Chapter 5
FIVE
The football match was a snoozefest and dinner was more bearable than Charles feared.
His parents had plenty to disparage after the brunch they went to earlier in the day and didn’t expect him to partake in this conversation.
As a result, Charles spent the match and the dinner replaying his encounter with Loris.
At first, he felt sick, analysing his own behaviour in hindsight.
Then he found relief in imagining worse scenarios in which he acted like a complete nutcase in the park.
Later, he moved on to ideal versions of the exchange.
But ultimately, sprawled on his bed, The Mind of Wonders open on his chest, Charles concludes that he’s devoted too much headspace to a storm in a teacup.
Why is he letting a guy he doesn’t have to rub shoulders with give him grief?
Loris’ opinion is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter one bit.
Except that it does. It matters so much that Charles hasn’t clicked his pen about anything else since, which is why he leaps up to slip on trainers and a wool overcoat.
He hurtles down the stairs and jumps over the last two steps, as always, put off by the quicksand aspect of the striations on the oak flooring.
Next, he usually slaloms between the odd black tiles of the entrance hall, but he fails to avoid one after a jerk of surprise due to his mother’s presence underneath the arch leading to the lounge.
‘Shit! Sorry! You scared me… Hi.’
‘Where are you going?’ Alice asks, tightening the belt of her silk dressing gown.
‘For a walk…’
‘Haven’t you been invited to an early board meeting tomorrow?’
‘Yes, but it’s nine and I’m not twelve.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sorry, I… I won’t be long. I want to see Elsy. We were chatting on the phone and she sounded like she had a rough day.’
‘Did she?’ Alice mellows. ‘Nothing serious, I hope. Let me know if you spend the night at her place. I will have work clothes brought to you.’
‘Thank you.’
Charles bolts out of the house before his nose starts growing and unlocks his phone to type a message as fast as he can.
21:09 You had a shitty day so we’re going for a walk.
21:09 Credible?
21:09 ELSY I lost an earring horrendous day!!! All good I’m not home
21:10 ELSY What are you up to?
21:10 Just needed some fresh air but I panic-lied.
21:10 ELSY Boring xx
Charles pulls his collar up and quickens his pace. The cold is already nipping his limbs. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have to go far.
Not even a mile, through streets he’s ambled along hundreds of times, towards a building he’s passed by twice as often without ever contemplating going in.
The North Haven didn’t seem to be an actual place.
Just like the deli, the charity shop, the launderette and many more frontages that are just that to Charles.
Frontages. Familiar elements in the setting of his daily life, that he sweeps with his eyes but never truly sees.
Elsy only advised him to wait in that pub on Tuesday to avoid meeting any acquaintances.
She didn’t want her parents to hear about her medical misfortune through the Hampstead grapevine.
Before that, Charles wasn’t actively snubbing the North Haven, unlike his friends, who wouldn’t be caught dead in there, because it’s cheap, naff and known to attract an elderly boring crowd.
Charles never went because his friends wouldn’t. Which means he was passively snubbing the North Haven.
This conclusion could lead to an unpleasant self-examination if he weren’t busy silencing his inner voices. Fluent in second-guessing, they’re debating whether or not polite invitations from French people are meant to be ignored.
No. Loris told him to come. Asked him to come? Gave him the option to—
‘Shut your brain, Charles.’
He can’t afford to get cold feet last minute, that’s what got him flustered in the park. He needs to gather the poise that will fortify his knockout Olwinski arguments.
Two women in parkas are sitting on the patio and interrupt their conversation to give Charles baffled looks.
He pushes the door open and understands their perplexity.
The pub is empty. The neon lights above the bar are still on, but most chairs are upside down on the tables and no one stands behind the counter.
Charles walks in anyway to escape the wind. ‘Hello?’
His voice echoes dismally in the room. He would welcome this sinister vibe if the place were disused.
He could come up with a thrilling ghost story based on the oil portrait of a moustached horseman on the left wall.
But the North Haven isn’t haunted. It’s closed, and there’s nothing fanciful about that.
It’s frustrating and perhaps a sign that none of it should have mattered.
Charles doesn’t believe in any form of higher power that would cost him the little control he has on his choices. But once in a while, it’s convenient to blame fate for his mistakes, in order to feel less of a twit for leaving his room without checking opening hours.
What kind of pub closes this early, though? That, for sure, has to be illegal in—
‘Mind your back!’
Charles shrieks and waves goodbye to the semblance of poise he had found. ‘Shit! Are you a ninja?’
Loris emerges from a dark recess, carrying a case filled with bottles, bar snacks and cleaning sprays.
‘Sort of. I’ve mapped the creaking spots to make the supply rounds to the basement more entertaining.
’ He plunks the heavy case onto the counter and passes behind it, flexing and kneading his biceps.
‘I wasn’t expecting you to stalk me anymore. ’
Charles flexes his mind to not let this embarrassing start crush his confidence to a pulp. ‘Were you sad about it?’
‘Devastated. Drink?’
‘You’re still serving?’
‘Yeah.’ Loris scowls, throwing the snacks into a display basket. ‘It’s against the owner’s religion to close before ten, even when I’m paid to chart the floor.’
‘It’s really quiet, yes.’
‘Sunday night. And we don’t serve food.’
‘You don’t? I never realised. Or wondered, to be honest.’
‘Shocking revelation.’
Loris sneers, but Charles hates it less than in the park. He deserves to be called out for his passive yet blatant elitism.
‘So you survive on crisps and nuts?’
‘I get free food from the deli. They love me there. Beer?’
‘Please. No, a pale ale.’
‘Really?’ Loris moves the glass away from the lager tap. ‘So you’re not a complete creature of habit.’
‘Who said I was?’
‘The stool you picked. Again.’
‘Do you remember every customer’s seat and order after their first visit?’ Charles asks, hoping to shift the awkwardness away from him.
‘No.’
Clearly not feeling awkward at all, Loris hands Charles his pint and moves the box aside, using his heel to open a drink fridge.
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘About two and a half years.’
‘And how long have you lived in England?’
‘Same plus three days.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah.’ Loris squats in front of the fridge to align the wine bottles. ‘Why is it a shocking revelation?’
‘I would have said longer, because of your accent. It’s mild for… Well…’ Charles facepalms internally and dissolves the end of his cliché in ale.
‘For a Frenchman? I know. Now, I’m done restocking and I think there’s a conversation you need us to have.’
Charles tongues the flesh of his cheek, where it’s sore from the bite in the park.
Perhaps he should let it go. He feels good, sipping a great beer in an empty pub, making small talk with someone who sort of matters because he doesn’t matter.
A debate about Olwinski could ruin the mood, turn Loris back into an infuriating stranger.
But how can Charles justify his presence otherwise?
With a fake admission of real stalker tendencies?
He unbuttons his coat, chugs a few mouthfuls of liquid composure and finds some more in Loris’ eyes. They’re mocking and unnerving, but Charles enjoys the challenge.
‘First, I’d like to apologise for the way I lectured you, presuming you couldn’t possibly know about Olwinski and the Lands. It was wrong. But in my defence, even in my circle it’s impossible to find someone who’s heard of him, so I didn’t imagine that you… That you would… And I’m making it worse.’
‘If the goal is to sound less of a twat, your defence sucks, yeah.’
‘I’m sorry. Twice now.’
‘I don’t offend easy.’
‘So I can switch hats from defence to prosecution?’
Loris leans against the back worktop underneath the neon lights, which array his highlighted brown hair in golden shades. ‘Hit me.’
‘You played along. You led me on.’
‘And you offend easy.’
‘No, I…’ Charles laces his fingers around his glass. ‘I don’t believe I do. But it was important to me to talk about my passion, so to realise you were just waiting to mock it was offensive, yes.’
‘I couldn’t miss this opportunity to outwit you. I’m a bit of a smartarse.’
‘You don’t say.’
Loris laughs, massaging his arm again. ‘I apologise in return, for mocking you, but I’d never mock how important Olwinski is to you.
I hid my knowledge at first because I was super intrigued.
Finding your collector pen was a bombshell.
And I saw your reaction when you got it back, but I wasn’t sure if it was a pen thing, a Lands thing, or a bit of both.
I wanted to check what Olwinski means to you before turning into the biggest fanboy. You would have mocked me.’
‘I’m not a smartarse, I don’t mock, and you fanboy over Olwinski?’
‘I want a tattoo of his coat of arms, but I’m scared of needles.’
‘Alright… Colour me shocked.’
Charles assumed the worst when he labelled Loris as an Olwinski detractor. He needs to process and assimilate this shift in the situation – as well as the discovery that the placid smartarse is squeamish about something, which is reassuring.
‘In that case, why did you…’
Charles trails off and turns around when the door creaks open. A woman with white bobbed hair plods in and puts empty glasses collected outside onto the first table.