Chapter 10
TEN
On Friday, Loris’ message was in Italian. On Saturday he went for Spanish, on Sunday he picked German and, yesterday, Charles had to use Google Translate to recognise Swedish. Each time, he replied ‘Yes Sir’ in the language of the day, beaming at his phone.
But today, even their polyglot ritual won’t help him hold a smile.
A new message appears on his screen.
11:36 PHIL According to the parents grapevine we’ve got a great excuse to paint the town red!
11:37 PHIL No surprise here but congrats Ledwell!
11:37 ALEX What are you talking about?
Spencer is typing…
Charles clutches his pen to click it at a fair clip. His mother didn’t waste any time before sharing the news with her entire contact list.
She called him around 10am, to let him know that she opened the acceptance letter from the business school.
Half an hour later, she had flowers delivered to the office.
They’re on Charles’ desk, obstructing his view of the Pollock painting.
The smell of lilies is getting to his head, and Gareth can’t stop sneezing.
Hopefully, he will soon ensure that an accident happens to the bouquet.
Charles takes a halting inhalation and closes his fist around his pendant, trying to conjure the soothing effects of Loris’ blown mind.
He feels sick, trapped and awful for ignoring his friends.
George must know exactly how he feels and sends him a private text.
11:40 GEORGE You should have all your compulsory ‘well done’ toasts this week if you want to go back asap to pretending it’s not happening
11.40 GEORGE What would you hate least?
11:42 Short. Intimate. Spotlight away from me.
11:42 GEORGE On it!
‘The report won’t write itself.’
‘I’m double-checking the figures,’ Charles mutters without a glance at Gareth.
‘That’s my job and it’s done.’
‘Should I ignore your mistakes, then?’
Gareth sneezes, panic-stricken. ‘What mistakes?’
Charles passes him the printed version of an Excel file that he’s started marking in red.
His phone is buzzing from notifications, because both George and the parents’ grapevine work fast, but he reopens the only conversation that’s safe.
11:44 Oui Monsieur, but in Polish.
11:45 I might take you to see Her in exchange for another massage.
11:45 WITH ONE L My hands are yours!
‘Charles!’ Clifford grins at him from the doorway to his office. ‘Why don’t you come in for a cheeky scotch and a couple of pointers about the MBA?’
‘I’d love that, Sir.’
Charles would rather swallow one of the lilies, but he gets up, caressing his neck to conjure the soothing effects of Loris’ touch.
***
George gathered the squad in his flat around the latest Xbox prototype and snacks they could nibble at while they played.
This programme limited lengthy conversations that would have revealed the screws driven in Charles’ throat.
George also broke prolonged silences with entertaining accounts of his own feats, and he kicked them out before they got tired of the video games.
George did a fine job.
‘Earth calling!’
Charles turns away from the dark scenery going by outside the window. By the sound of it, it wasn’t Alex’s first attempt at bringing his mind back into the taxi driving them to Hampstead.
‘I’m listening.’
‘I didn’t want to ask earlier and risk encouraging Spencer’s fucked up fantasy, but is everything okay with Elsy?’
‘Everything’s perfect, yes.’
Sitting at the front, Phil looks at him through the rear-view mirror. ‘His innuendos about Elsy stopped being funny after the very first one. I’d punch him if I were you. Doesn’t matter that it’s Spence. Actually, maybe because it’s Spence.’
‘I really don’t care. Why do you ask, Alex?’
‘You’ve looked down in the dumps all night despite your good news.’
‘Work was stressful.’ Charles rubs his temple, fighting a losing battle against a headache. ‘I’m just exhausted.’
He’s sweltering. The warm air heating is oppressive. Being in the car with them is oppressive.
Welling up, he presses his forehead against the cold window.
He’s unfair. His friends would drop everything to support him if he screamed the way he feels like screaming. If they knew him at all. It’s his own fault that they don’t, and he despises himself for dreading their company.
He wipes the steam off the glass, to focus on his neighbourhood and get a grip.
Christmas and street lights are blurry through his tears, giving a bokeh effect to the background frontages. Some he still doesn’t see and some he notices every time now.
Like the North Haven and its front patio, where Loris is clearing glasses from a table.
Charles twitches and twists his neck, but they’re going too fast and the sight is gone before he can blink. Yet, a couple of screws pop out of his throat.
‘Could you please stop the car? I’ll get out here.’
‘What?’
‘Why?’
‘You know I love my walks.’
‘It’s minus twenty,’ Phil says with a grimace.
Charles shrugs and opens his door as soon as the driver pulls over. ‘Thank you for tonight, guys. I had a great time.’
‘Sure you did…’
The cold instantly pierces through Charles’ peacoat, so he tucks his scarf into his collar and whirls around to sprint down the pavement.
He’s not questioning this urge to go to the pub. He spent three days held down under muddy waters by the lead in his stomach, but he resurfaced the second he spotted Loris.
If there’s an explanation for it, he certainly won’t find and process it now.
Once on the empty patio, Charles dries the tears that the wind has drawn out.
His breath is coming out in clouds, and he exhales a full sky of them before marching to the door to push it open.
It resists, so he pushes harder, but it doesn’t budge.
It’s locked. The outside lights that allowed him to see Loris have been turned off.
Charles clenches his pen and exhales more fog to remain composed. It’s alright. He can hear muffled voices inside the pub.
Six clicks, and he knocks against the frosted window.
The voices go silent for a couple of seconds, then a chirping one shouts, ‘Too late! Come back tomorrow!’
Charles pounds on the door again.
‘It’s closed, dude!’
The glass is too obscure for Charles to make out the features of the person who’s approaching, but the purple hair swinging around their face is enough of a clue.
‘Phoebe?’
‘Wow. That’s freaky.’
‘It’s Charles. I’m… I’m a—’
‘Oh.’
‘—friend of…’
A taller silhouette appears in the square of light, the latch slides with a creak, the door opens, and Charles congratulates himself for not wasting a second trying to make it make sense.
There’s no rational explanation for the warmth that rushes through his veins, melting the lead and drying up the muddy waters.
‘Is everything okay?’
Confused and worried, Loris is the polar opposite of the teasing smartarse Charles prefers to hang out with. But tonight is different. He didn’t come here for Loris’ brightness and the answers it provides. He came here because Loris seemed to be the only answer.
‘I’m… Well, I was—’
‘Wait,’ Loris tugs him inside the pub, ‘you’re freezing.’
Phoebe is stepping back towards a table where two people are sitting. ‘Sorry I called you freaky!’
Charles manages to smile, but the presence of several of Loris’ friends puts a dampener on his relief. He’s crashing a lock-in. He should have texted first to make sure it was—
Loris shifts in front of him and takes his hand, eclipsing the group and erasing his doubts. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I needed to see you.’
Loris’ concern visibly deepens, so Charles clears his throat to lighten his tone.
‘I wanted to check that you were alright. It’s late and I haven’t received my daily language lesson.’
‘I thought you got tired of it. You didn’t answer my Arabic attempt last night.’
‘Sorry, I was…’ Charles was lying in bed, recovering from a guilt-tripping phone conversation with his grandfather, and incapable of conjuring any power. ‘I wasn’t having a very fun evening.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing, but… it’s not a scoop that I can be a bit of an anxious mess. And sometimes it’s too much. But I’m fine now.’
‘You’re fine?’
‘I’m better.’
‘Okay… I’m not sure I’d help, but you can call me, you know? Or show up. Anytime.’
‘Yes, I know. Well, I guessed I could. But I don’t need help, I need… You… You do help. I like the Charles who turns up when you’re around. He’s easier to handle.’
‘I can’t compare, he’s the only one I’ve met.’ Loris moves closer and rests their foreheads together. ‘But I like having him around. Can he stay for a drink?’
‘You’re with your people, I don’t want to impose.’
‘My people are all people’s people. You’re welcome to stay, really. If you’re comfortable with that.’
Charles is incredibly comfortable, floating in a bubble where Loris’ voice sounds deeper than ever and the honey scent of his shampoo is heady.
‘Yes, alright.’
‘I need to finish up behind the counter, but make yourself at home.’
Loris faces the table and lets go of Charles’ hand. The bubble quakes but doesn’t burst. It expands and swallows the room.
‘Friends, this is Charles. Charles, this is Andres. Enzo. And Phoebe, but that’s been established.’
Charles waves to reply to the collective greeting he receives.
He recognises Andres, whose FC Barcelona hoodie confirms the Hispanic origin he had deduced from his accent last time.
Charles doesn’t recall meeting Enzo before, and his aleatory memory isn’t at fault.
He wouldn’t have forgotten his looks and rockstar style.
Elsy used to have posters of guys like him on her walls.
‘And this is Aliah.’
A young woman has emerged from the toilets, shaking droplets of water off her hands, her sooty hair dancing across her shoulders. Charles has never met her either, but he’s familiar with her stunning face and figure. She’s Loris’ art model.
‘What did I miss?’
‘This is Charles,’ Loris replies. ‘We like him.’
Aliah smiles. ‘Hello, Charles. I like you.’