Chapter 6
SIX
Charles hates that the firm he works for is so close to home, exposing him to the neighbourhood’s prying eyes during his lunch breaks.
He also hates the desk arrangement of the office that forces him to face Gareth, his constantly stressed-out line manager.
The jarring golden frame around a Pollock painting reproduction.
The clock hung on the wall behind him. Charles doesn’t hear it tick, but every move of the minute hand feels like a scratch on the back of his neck.
He can’t stand this place, but he would bear the situation better if interning here were his own mistake.
When he initially thought about getting a year of work experience, between a soul-numbing economics degree and a soul-sucking MBA, it was just a desperate plan to postpone the last leg of a preordained journey towards a preordained future.
But his father unexpectedly signed off on the idea, and Charles got carried away.
He allowed himself to daydream about joining a stimulating company where perhaps he would find purpose, an escape route and the courage to take it.
‘I called my friend Clifford,’ Milton announced, twenty-four hours after Charles had shared his project. ‘He is expecting you tomorrow. Be at your best. You cannot waste such an opportunity, and I need you to impress him. Close your mouth, you look ridiculous.’
Charles closed his mouth and went blank until he arrived at the firm the next day.
Once in Clifford’s office, he switched on the part of Charland that enabled him to sleepwalk through his studies.
To write prodigious essays about bland topics, when his fictional ideas are nipped in the bud at the first headache.
To find solutions to any problems but his own.
He didn’t botch the meeting that day. He didn’t botch his interview with the business school either, a month ago.
His admission for next year is a done deal, the official confirmation is imminent.
It’s only November, but the clock is getting louder.
Every minute spent in this office pulls Charles farther away from an escape route.
A second clock is ticking this afternoon. It’s 2pm and he has yet to message Loris.
Charles is eager to discuss The Mind of Wonders, which is why he’s torn about meeting him again this soon.
The debate to come was a sanity-saving distraction two nights ago, when Charles arrived home after an hour spent in the cul-de-sac. When his brother’s voice, so clear outside, became unintelligible noise again as soon as he stepped into his house.
The prospect also entertains him during family dinners and at work, where he could be pen-clicking over the new responsibilities Clifford wants to give him.
It’s salutary to be able to look forward to a back-and-forth about Olwinski. Charles is afraid it might lose its diverting powers if he turns it into a memory.
But he’s tired of being afraid.
‘Do you think I could leave early? My friend scored tickets for—’
‘Whatever,’ Gareth mutters, his frantic eyes glued to his PowerPoint presentation.
His tendency to treat Charles like a cumbersome piece of furniture would be demeaning if Charles didn’t rely on it to hide his potential from their boss.
He unfolds the piece of paper Loris gave him at the pub. His handwriting is terrible. Charles can only tell his ones and sevens apart because the second figure has to be a seven and doesn’t look like his ones.
He ponders for a beat and creates a new contact.
14:06 Hi, it’s Charles. I’m sorry, it’s late notice, but if you’re still willing to be proven dead wrong, I’m free around 5 for an hour or so.
He sends the message – before second-guessing its form, content and consequences – and refocuses on his computer, to fake struggling on a task he completed twenty minutes ago.
He doesn’t doubt the form, content and consequences of his emails to anxious millionaires.
He doesn’t care, so they’re bound to be flawless.
14:11 WITH ONE L I better get out of bed
14:11 WITH ONE L Who’s the duck?
Loris is asking about Charles’ profile picture. A mandarin duck spotted on Hampstead Heath during a morning jog.
14:12 I used to stalk him to chat about Olwinski but he grew tired of it and fled the country.
14:12 WITH ONE L Weirdo
14:12 WITH ONE L The duck I mean
14:13 WITH ONE L Green door flat A. Bring beers!
Charles sends a thumbs-up emoji and enlarges Loris’ picture. He’s smiling widely, holding a rugby-themed birthday cake, his hair longer and fully bleached.
‘I suppose you’re done if you’re texting. Show me your drafts.’
Charles turns his screen towards Gareth with the apprehensive pout he now feigns to perfection.
***
If the door of Loris’ building has no intercom, it probably has no remote unlocking system either, which means Charles has to wait on a crowded pavement, holding a plastic bag that doesn’t conceal the pack of beers.
The stress that seized him in the supermarket notches up.
His parents would have plenty to say if he was seen drinking after work, and if anyone recognises him, they will have plenty to say to his parents.
The street lamps feel like spotlights pointed at him, so he stands very close to the door, his nose brushing the flaky green paint.
When it finally opens, he loses his balance and totters into a narrow hallway, forcing Loris to draw back against the wall to prevent a collision.
‘Is the mob after you?’
‘Sorry. It’s freezing.’
This excuse might not convince Loris, who’s only wearing flip-flops, loose sweatpants and a crumpled white t-shirt.
‘You didn’t get out of bed in the end?’
‘I did. I went for food at the deli.’
‘So it’s another cliché that French people get all dressed up just to take the rubbish out?’
‘No. This is me all dressed up.’
Charles smiles and follows him up creaking stairs, relaxing his shoulders now that he’s sheltered from gossipy acquaintances.
Loris stops in front of the lone door on the first landing, but Charles shifts to the side and twists his neck to look at the next flight of steps, climbing into darkness.
‘Spooky. What’s up there?’
Loris leaves the key in his lock and leans on the bannister next to him, observing the staircase like it’s a part of his daily setting that he doesn’t notice anymore. ‘Patty’s junk, I guess.’
‘Your boss lives there?’
‘That’d fit your witch stories, but no. She owns both flats, though.
She keeps the top one empty for some reason, and she only charges me half rent because of everything I do for the pub.
That she owns too. So forget about child cannibalism.
Your legend should be about the secret shady business she must be running to keep so many nonprofitable properties. ’
‘You never looked into it?’
‘I don’t question privileges. I couldn’t afford to live here without the discount.’
‘Don’t you work two jobs?’
Loris edges back towards his front door. ‘Yeah, but it’s Hampstead.’
‘True.’
Charles is absolutely clueless, and Loris’ little laugh indicates how evident that is.
After the austere oldness of the stairwell, Charles is pleasantly surprised by the modernity of the studio. Creamy white walls, grey vinyl flooring and a ceiling strewed with LED lights.
It’s also surprising that this one bright room that Loris couldn’t afford to rent is smaller than the Ledwells’ library. Charles truly has no clue.
Loris frees him from the plastic bag, sets down two beers on his desk and walks to the kitchenette. ‘Pardon the mess.’
Considering all his belongings must fit in a handful of furniture items, the place is shipshape, apart from dirty dishes on the worktop and a few worn clothes lying around.
It’s the perfect amount of messy for Charles, whose bedroom goes from being insipidly pristine to a complete disaster zone, no stage in between.
It’s been a while since he discovered someone’s home.
Last time was George’s new place, which was exactly what he expected George’s new place to be.
Charles loves uncovering or creating stories around unusual knick-knacks and choices.
Why did Loris break up two sets of pillowcases instead of matching those on the bed and those on the sofa?
How many family secrets would Charles read in the antique leather notebook that takes centre stage on the shelf above the desk?
What’s the memory behind the washed-out concert ticket stuck on the fridge with a magnet?
Charles has many ideas, in case he doesn’t find the nerve to ask, but he forgets them all when he notices a photomontage, hung on the left side of the front door.
It shows a young woman, dancing on a wooden suspension bridge that stretches from the second floor of the Eiffel Tower.
‘This is good.’
He moves closer and understands it’s not made of photos. It’s a colour-pencil drawing.
‘Correction, this is fantastic!’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Who’s the artist?’ Charles squints at the illegible scribble at the bottom, then starts and turns around. ‘You did this?!’
Loris’ smile increases the intensity of the LED lights. ‘Yeah.’
‘No. You didn’t.’
‘It’s a bit smug to display my own work, but my mum had it framed last time she visited.’
Loris places a finger underneath Charles’ chin to lift his jaw closed. Charles doesn’t flinch, trying to find in his eyes a hint that he’s messing with him. But there’s no mischief in Loris’ eyes. Just a touch of gloating, because he fried Charles’ brain again.
‘You draw? And you draw like this?’
‘On paper, yeah. I call it hyperrealism with a surreal twist. My digital pieces are more cartoonish.’
‘You’re the surreal twist.’
Loris lets out a laugh that Charles feels inside his own chest.
‘Did you take classes?’
‘Obviously. You should remove your coat or you’re gonna boil. The thermostat is fucked, it’s all or nothing.’