Chapter 12
TWELVE
Charles pushes aside his phone and untouched breakfast, crosses his arms on the kitchen table and buries his face into the crook of his elbow.
He’s craving chewing gum. His upset stomach wouldn’t appreciate it, but he always craves gum when he’s hungover. Something to chew on until the motion of his jaws unblocks the jammed cogs of his brain.
‘You overindulged in champagne.’
Charles sits bolt upright and starts chewing on his saliva as his father walks to the worktop, a copy of the Financial Times wedged under his arm.
‘Slightly… Did I embarrass you last night?’
‘You would already know if you had.’ Milton pours himself a coffee. ‘You were particularly good at humouring the Griffiths.’
‘The trick is to let them lecture you on a subject they’re aware you master.’
‘Demeaning.’
Charles contracts his fingers around his empty mug. ‘No. I see it as a role play they’re too stupid or self-absorbed to interpret as such.’
‘And which am I, in your opinion? Stupid or self-absorbed?’
‘Sorry?’
Milton sits down in front of him, unwilling to repeat his question, which increases the tossing in Charles’ stomach.
‘Neither. Why?’
‘You believe I can’t interpret your role play as such.’
‘What role play?’
Dom Pérignon begins rehearsing a drum solo in Charles’ skull. When was the last time he and Elsy had to fake their relationship in the presence of Milton? Did they let their guard down?
‘Your appreciative act upon being congratulated for your admittance in business school, when it is painfully obvious that those accolades make you want to run away.’
‘Oh, that… Yes.’
That, Charles can explain. Thanks to Gareth, he came up with an excuse to justify his itch to be catapulted into a remote cave, in case someone noticed it.
‘The praise bothers me because anyone with half a brain can get in, it’s not that big an achievement. And you treating it as one, as if… there were a risk I wouldn’t do it, that’s demeaning to me.’
‘There was a risk you wouldn’t do it.’
‘Alright…’
‘But your intellectual capabilities were never in question.’
‘What was, then?’
Charles looks up from the traces of coffee at the bottom of his mug, then back down reflexively, because Milton’s stare feels like an iron pressed against his forehead.
But as his father drinks from his cup, Charles glances at him again, in search of a flash of hesitation that’s already gone.
It was brief, nearly imperceptible, but Charles spotted the crack in Milton’s unflappable confidence.
‘Your resilience. You exhibited a deflated temperament following the ordeal we all had to move past. You struggled to recover, and we feared that it could hinder your potential.’
Charles gapes internally. His father is acknowledging his grief and mental health. He’s the one role-playing now.
‘I apologise if our overzealousness led you to believe we think of you as half-brained. Rest assured that it comes from the confirmation that you are strong-minded. It isn’t lost on us that you had to work hard on yourself, and that we may have failed to commend that part of your journey.’
It would be an Oscar-winning performance if there were a category for stone-faced monotonic deliveries.
Milton is speaking with a forked tongue, to keep quiet about the true reason why he wasn’t sure Charles would start his MBA. A reason that must be even more shameful than emotional disorders in his parents’ book.
‘So, as a token of our appreciation…’
Milton pushes the newspaper towards Charles who loses the thread of his puzzled thoughts.
‘You had one of my articles from last year published?’
‘You are not good enough for the Financial Times yet, but I like the confidence.’
Charles swallows a lump of disappointment, then one of relief, then one of complete and utter confusion. What’s going on? Why is he disappointed? Why does he have to manage this conversation with a contaminated bloodstream?
He unfolds the newspaper and discovers a leather watch case, whose crown-shaped logo makes him jump. ‘No. It’s too much.’
‘It’s perfect.’ Milton flattens his hand onto the case, inviting Charles to wait and to spare them both an uncomfortable exchange. He stands and points at the plate. ‘Are you saving yourself for the roast or afraid to be sick?’
‘The latter… I won’t have dinner with you. Elsy is hosting a… tea party.’
‘Whatever it is code for, do not overindulge in it. Enjoy your day, Charles.’
‘You too…’
Milton grabs his newspaper and leaves Charles alone with the watch, an intensifying nausea and his phone vibrating on the table.
He sends Phil to voicemail and opens his chat with Loris before the drum kit in his skull evolves into an out-of-tune brass band.
09:52 I can’t today. I’m busy and too hungover to recall and analyse what happened. But for sure I didn’t have a panic attack so don’t worry!
He’s a Rolex-worthy coward, and there’s no chance he will get away with that. But he won’t take a reasoned Loris-decision until he comes to fifty Charles-conclusions. And right now, he can’t even assess if he will reach his bathroom in time or should make a beeline for the downstairs toilet.
***
Loris didn’t just refuse to let him get away with his answer, he chose the worst moment to reply.
Charles was entering the Buchanan property, impatient to recontaminate his bloodstream. Convinced it was a follow-up question from Phil about their ski holiday, he displayed the message.
18:05 WITH ONE L Cool but as soon as you recall initiating a make out session on my sofa I’d love your analysis on why your mouth wanted mine so bad
Charles has been frozen in the driveway for five minutes, his insides sizzling. He’s not recalling their kiss, he’s reliving it, and one of the main Charles-conclusions he had forged in the afternoon is falling apart.
The logical conclusion that his inappropriate impulse wasn’t about Loris, but about himself.
That he was lost, desperate to be held and to feel whole, and that he would have clung on to any anchor, regardless of its shape.
But the want engulfing him tonight has everything to do with Loris.
It has his face, his body and his hands leaving ember marks on Charles’ skin.
‘Trying to catch a cold, Chaz?’
‘What? No, I’m… Hi.’
Charles is lucky. He got caught in the middle of a steamy daydream by the most oblivious of his friends. No need to worry about the fire painted on his cheeks.
Spencer ushers him towards the front door. ‘Party time!’
‘I don’t mean to be unpleasant but—’
‘You’re about to be.’
‘—did Elsy invite you?’
‘No, but you’re bringing me. And I’m bringing fun.’
‘Fun?’ Charles comes to a stop. ‘No way. You’re not selling your shit at Elsy’s.’
He raises his hand, open and flat, but Spencer slaps it away with a chortle.
‘Chill, I know who to—’
‘Give it to me! I’m not in the mood.’
Spencer rolls his eyes and takes a sachet of pills out of his jacket. ‘You’re such a wet blanket.’
Charles snatches it and shoves it into his pocket.
‘I’m gonna get that back before I leave!’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’
Once in the entrance hall, Spencer makes a bolt for the front room, where house music and cheerful voices are coming from. But he’s not fast enough. Elsy spots him from the imperial staircase she’s climbing down.
‘You brought him? What have I done to you?’
‘I’ll make sure he behaves.’ Charles smiles, because she’s not just a vision, she’s one he needed badly. ‘You look great.’
She actually looks spectacular in a black dress whose see-through neck teases her cleavage.
Charles kisses her forehead and closes his eyes.
She also smells amazing. A hint of vanilla in her hair and the perfume he gifted her last Christmas on her skin.
Her lone instruction was that the perfume matched with vanilla, because changing her hair product was out of the question.
Charles trusted the saleswoman, and Elsy showed her appreciation in many ways.
He caresses the lace on her forearm. ‘Do you have a moment?’
‘Yes, I left Divya in charge of hosting while she’s sober. What’s up?’
Charles whisks her into the hallway on the right. The first room is Catriona’s study, secured with an entry code – the date Charles and Elsy made their relationship official. He presses the six figures and pushes the door with his hip.
‘Why are we hiding in—’
He muzzles Elsy with a kiss she instantly leans into, slamming the door shut with her heel.
She tastes like juice, which Charles suspects to be part of a cocktail she filled Catriona’s tea pots with. He drops his coat and leads her across the room, feeling for the slit of her dress. But when her lower back meets the pedestal Victorian desk, she places a firm hand onto his chest.
‘Hang on… Catriona has installed a camera in that corner. It’s connected to her phone, so she received a text when you entered the code and will… She’ll check what’s going on… and… Chips…’
‘Then let’s give her a show worth her while,’ he whispers around her earlobe.
‘What?’ Elsy stretches over backwards. ‘Who are you? And what’s gotten into… You know what? I don’t care. The floor is yours.’
She pulls herself onto the desk and clasps his waistband.
Ever since they broke up, and sleeping together became a perk of nights spent in the same room, they only had sex in bed.
A pleasing routine Charles makes a note never to go back to.
That would be like using his old hi-fi system again, when the new one increases the power of his favourite symphonies tenfold.
It’s different, yet familiar, and when his body spasms between Elsy’s thighs, he feels more composed than he’s been all week.
Why didn’t he rush to her when the letter from the business school sent him spiralling in all directions?
‘Don’t get me wrong, I love this energy, but where did it come from?’ Elsy asks, her fingers still tangled in Charles’ hair.
‘From nowhere… It had just been a while.’