Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
The next morning, Charles realises that he can overwhelm Charland by attending six Christmas functions in a week.
He hurries to RSVP those that aren’t compulsory and, before each event, he sets a goal – proportional to his fickle ability to handle the urge to escape.
From swallowing a full course without throwing up, to vaunting his business knowledge to strangers, he achieves them all and tries to relish the subsequent waves of satisfaction.
Those social gatherings are good role-play practice. The next step will be to become one with his character, but that’s not something he can force. It will come over time.
He also parties with friends, volunteers for projects at the office and travels to Leeds to watch Tottenham play from the hospitality box. George sticks to his word and doesn’t bat an eyelid at his self-persuasive remarks about the firm and the business school.
Charles packs his schedule, but that doesn’t prevent him from thinking about Loris.
Forgetting him isn’t something he can force either.
He needs to grieve the relationships he put in the ground.
The one they had and the one it could have evolved into.
Although Charles curses himself when he envisions the latter, because chimeric possibilities are the stumbling blocks he’s trying to clear his path of.
He thinks about Loris when he passes by the Sofia room without going in, shunning the truths it contains.
Or when he follows streets that lengthen his journeys but keep him away from the green door or the pub.
He thinks about Loris every time he misses him and finds himself missing him the way Loris once said he misses his father – in random situations where he can’t help but wonder how he would have reacted.
Charles thinks about Loris in the shower and slams the thermostatic valve to the right, to cool off and stop his hand from wandering down.
He thinks about Loris as soon as he’s alone and feels alone whenever he’s unable to think about Loris.
Charles is thinking about Loris on his way back home from work. He used to spend those walks making up summaries of his days that would please his parents without impressing them. He doesn’t need to tell fables anymore, his days do just that, so he’s free to miss Loris.
He’s picturing him under the neon lights of the pub when he spots Phoebe on the other side of the pelican crossing, her coloured hair and clothes standing out in a crowd of dark coats.
She’s bobbing her head, probably to the rhythm of the music she’s listening to.
The pedestrian signal turns green, she steps forwards, their eyes meet and the song ends.
Or if it keeps on playing, she’s no longer enjoying it.
Charles stays still and grasps his pen in his pocket.
It would be easy to pass her in the middle of the road where they can’t linger.
Or to pretend he hasn’t seen her, like she’s now pretending she hasn’t seen him.
But they both know they’ve seen each other.
Charles can either pen-click during a short conversation or pen-click for days, imagining Loris’ friends criticising him for avoiding her. A dilemma he doesn’t need to spinach.
He speed-clicks six times and displays an uneasy smile that’s not meant to be anything else.
Phoebe seems captivated by the pink dots on her gloves, so Charles waves to catch her attention. She feigns neither surprise nor warmth when she looks up, but she stops and pulls her headphones down to rest around her neck.
‘Hi! It’s me. Charles.’
‘I know who you are.’
‘Yes, sorry, I… I’m really bad at small talk… How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’ Phoebe looks to the left, to the right, sinks her chin into her scarf and sighs. ‘You?’
‘I’m alright. Were you at uni?’
‘Christmas shopping.’
‘Oh…’ He points at her empty hands. ‘No luck?’
‘I’m about to meet the friends I bought presents for so I dropped everything home. Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Are you going to the North Haven?’
‘Is that okay with you, Dad?’
Charles fakes a cough and turns away to gaze at an estate agent window. Unfortunately, it doesn’t offer any housing option spacious enough to host his current discomfort.
‘Okay, thanks for the small talk, Charles, but—’
‘How is Loris?’
He gulps and multiplies the rent of a two-bedroom flat by three, then four, then—
‘Great. Why wouldn’t he be?’
‘Good… That’s good to hear. So you’re mad because… I’m wasting your time?’
Phoebe gapes, looking so appalled that Charles jerks away from the road where she seems ready to shove him.
‘I’m mad because you’re a little prick! And the fact that Loris isn’t guzzling ice cream because you’re a prick doesn’t make you less of a prick!’
‘True, but—’
‘And I’m not even mad! I’d like to be, I love unleashing my wrath at pricks who hurt my friends.
But I can’t be mad, because I get it and— But Loris isn’t hurt!
Okay? He’s not, he’s great, he— Ah!’ She groans and knocks her fists together.
‘This is why I was gonna avoid you, I have no filter once I’ve been provoked!
But Loris is fine. Get over yourself, you’re not that special.
Sure, your timing sucked, shutting him out the same week he had to deal with Enzo the Knobhead, but otherwise he’s living his best life.
We went to Ku Bar the other night and he was doing terrific, he…
And why am I still talking? Can’t you cut me off when I’m speechifying? ’
Charles was about to, afraid to be provided with a very graphic explanation of Loris doing terrific in a gay club. He blurs the one he’s already sketching and rewinds to an early point in Phoebe’s tirade.
‘You get it?’
‘Well, yeah. I’ve been there and I’m not a hypocrite.’
‘You’ve been where?’
‘The bi panic.’
‘It’s not that!’ Charles’ pulse switches up a gear. ‘I’m not— I’m not… there.’
‘Really? He’s not the first guy you’re pining for? That’s a scoop. Before you showed up to the pub all touchy-feely, your vibe was dramatically straight.’
‘Because I am! I’m not pining for any… I’m... I’m not into Loris.’
‘Sure... Why don’t you want to hang out with him anymore if it’s not that you’re scared to get a boner?’
Charles gasps and pulls her away from a group of people. ‘Please keep your voice down.’
‘I will, if you answer my question.’
‘I won’t! I’ve explained to Loris why I can’t see him. I won’t tell you anything. I’m— I just wanted to be polite and I’m sorry I provoked you.’
‘If you think I’m gonna share a single word of this conversation with Loris, you’re dead wrong.’
‘I think you’ll share all of it with him.’
‘You’re damn right.’
Charles exhales a nervous laugh. He will pen-click for days over this exchange, so it’s an epic failure.
‘Well, you can just tell him—’
‘Fuck no, Charles! I’m not telling him shit for you.
You either grow a spine and face him with your not-into-him excuses, or you let him move on from…
whatever you had going on. You know, that’s what sucks the most!
You guys had a nice connection, regardless of how straight you’re not for each other.
Loris wasn’t seeking your company because you look like a Burberry model, he loved that— Wait!
I’m the one saying you look like one, okay? He never said that. He never—’
‘Should I cut you off?’
‘Thanks! Bye!’ She spins around, then again because she’s heading the other way. ‘Let me avoid you next time. Or quit being a panicking prick. Up to you.’
‘Will do,’ Charles whispers, unsure about the option he’s choosing, which doesn’t matter because Phoebe’s headphones are back over her ears.
He crosses the road while the signal is green, to add an extra street between his racing heart and the North Haven, Phoebe and Loris.
Loris, who might not believe either that Charles isn’t into him. After all, he never bought any of the fake-Charles he was sold. But for once, Charles viscerally wants to prove him right. So he curses himself and sprints towards his house. Towards all the reasons why he can’t do that.
But in the shower that night, Charles doesn’t rid himself of thoughts he shouldn’t be having. He doesn’t slam the thermostatic valve and doesn’t stop his hand. And lying on his bed afterwards, tears in his throat, he breaks into a fit of hysterical laughter.
Exorcising the desire he’s been burning from since the day he acknowledged it has been another epic failure. George gave him a shaky method to figure out what he wants, but he didn’t explain how to get over what’s off limits – because George redraws limits if his dreams stretch beyond them.
However, someone else could help Charles with that. He knows an expert at shattering his improper aspirations.
So Charles laughs and wells up, as he imagines telling Milton, ‘I’d very much like to be groped by Loris Joseph Harry Robson,’ with the same naive enthusiasm he was filled with when he shared his wish to be a nomadic novelist or a piano tuner.
***
21:14 ELSY The guy is so dull I’ll ditch him in 5. What are you up to?
21:16 I’m about to turn in. Early meeting tomorrow and I’m knackered.
Charles sends his reply and reopens Instagram, nibbling his cheek where the flesh is now incised beyond scarring.
Loris uploaded a digital drawing in the afternoon. The very same day Charles went back on his firm resolution to stay away from his account. He still doesn’t believe in signs, but the coincidence feels like a dangerous one.
He remembers that he’s not special and how terrific Loris is doing, except the post gives a very different impression.
Loris drew another frame floating like a cork in a turbulent ocean.
Not around a broken mirror reflecting a face, but around a drawing of himself ripping up a drawing.
He captioned it ‘Lost inspiration shouldn’t be wasted’.
Aliahnation left two lines of heart emojis and pheebs.calls.dibs commented, ‘Self-care = self-portrait’.