Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Charles is too busy braving the Fred storm and navigating his internal Loris winds to wonder why he hasn’t endured the most intense Milton thunder.
Alice clearly hasn’t told his father about the staircase argument, but Charles can’t bring himself to care about her motivations.
He doesn’t care either about the frequent edgy looks she now gives him, when she’s not involved in a family conversation and believes he is.
He’s done questioning his parents’ demeanour and second-guessing his sanity as a result.
He smile-walks through Christmas. Puppet smiles that give them the impression that they’re pulling the strings. He accepts the gifts, the impressed kisses and the praise. But once alone, he scrubs his hands, cheeks and mind clean, to fight the lies he’s been subjected to.
He doesn’t have a complete picture of the truth to embrace instead.
He’s missing too many pieces of the Fred puzzle, and some he’s in possession of are still pitch black.
But his conversation with Patty confirmed that he wasn’t twisted to have doubts about the Frederick portrayed in his house and has unlocked his capacity to sort out his memories.
He can’t necessarily pinpoint why they’re inaccurate but he knows when they are.
This ability to trust himself is the most efficient weapon he’s ever had to fend off his anxiety.
The night he packs his suitcase for Kitzbühel, he tips his three lampshades and lets his music application play a queue of unknown songs.
***
The ski trip is a far cry from what Charles had envisioned. George stands them up to celebrate New Year’s Eve with his family, Phil’s girlfriend tags along and Spencer breaks his leg on the first morning.
Charles spends most of his days in Austria with Alex, who’s doing some soul-searching of his own.
He no longer wants to be the surgeon he’s studying to become.
He aspires to work for a charity that accompanies survivors of modern slavery.
His parents wouldn’t oppose his wish, but he’s the one hesitating, feeling it’s his responsibility to rescue the reputation of his family name.
And even though both vocations are honourable, they wouldn’t carry the same weight in terms of social status.
‘But it’s your life, Alex.’
‘Please don’t hashtag-yolo me.’
Charles smiles and knocks his skis together to sprinkle powder snow on the pine trees their chairlift is passing above.
‘I know it’s my life, but I owe so much to my parents. I should give back now that they’re going through a hard time. The slander isn’t slowing down. Last week, my mum was uninvited to a gala because the host didn’t want to be associated with baby traffickers.’
‘And performing heart surgeries will change the mentality of those morons?’
‘It might, if I perform some on babies.’
‘Sadly, I don’t think so. And we’re all privileged, but we have to draw a line between our families’ needs and our needs. And yes…’ Charles sneers before his friend does. ‘Hi, pot, meet kettle.’
‘I’m the most privileged, though.’
‘Did you compare our pocket money?’
‘No, but I look at Isa, who’s dealing with a Disney classic type of stepmother.
Or Phil! So shell-shocked by that arsehole who used to wallop him, he’s now hellbent on proving he can be more successful than him.
Or you. Fred’s passing and your parents’ behaviour.
But me, I’ve always been shielded and supported, I’m blessed and—’
‘Exactly! This is why you should do it! Your upbringing moulded you into the perfect man for that job. Any clever idiot can learn how to fix coronary arteries. But you, you can make a true difference for those who’ve been abused, because you’re an empathic, big-hearted guy.’
‘Don’t make me blush.’ Alex nudges him with a touched smile. ‘I’m gonna sleep on it. Thanks.’
‘Anytime. And… I actually need your big-hearted guy’s perspective on something. But I won’t give you much detail.’
‘Intriguing.’
Charles nibbles his sun-protected lip, then clears his throat. ‘Let’s say someone, sort of a friend, stopped talking to you, without any proper explanation. So you’re mad. And hurt.’
‘Meaning I care?’
‘I guess. Well, you used to, for sure. And so… If they wanted to be worthy of you caring again, what would it take?’
‘Chocolate cake.’
‘They can’t bake.’
‘Then I’d want to understand what happened,’ Alex says, waving back at the kids on the chair in front of them.
‘Would you give them a chance to explain?’
‘Of course.’
‘And if their reasons were acceptable, would you let them back in? Or once your big heart is bruised, it’s over, and you stay away from people who can bruise it?’
‘Depends how much I care. Because past a certain threshold, self-preservation goes out of the window. I’m aware they’re bad for me, but they’re so good, I can’t resist.’
‘Are you thinking about cake?’
‘Sorry, mate, I’m so hungry. Last slope and we head back, okay?’
Charles scoffs and moves his skis away from the footrests, allowing Alex to swing the safety bar up.
How much did Loris care? Does he give second chances? Charles can’t even use Enzo as a point of reference, that’s another puzzle he’s missing too many pieces of.
The guy remains a complete waste of grey matter.
Charles slides around a kid, who’s fallen in the disembarking zone, and stops on the edge of the nearest slope to zip up his jacket. Alex skids next to him and sinks his poles into the snow between them.
‘Was your mystery person responsible for your actions?’
‘No.’ Charles chuckles nervously, fiddling with the corner of his ski pass. ‘All me.’
‘Then it doesn’t matter if they forgive you or send you packing. You need to explain yourself.’
‘But if they’re too—’
‘You need to do it, regardless of the outcome. You can’t do the right thing only when you might benefit from it. You do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do.’
Charles scowls. ‘You’re annoying.’
‘Go to Phil or Spencer if you don’t want to chat with the angel on your shoulder.’
‘Fair… Talking about Spencer, should we go off-piste?’
‘Your call.’ Alex switches on the GoPro on his chest mount. ‘You’re the actor, I’m just here to whoop like he would.’
Bored on the terrace of their chalet, his casted leg on a footstool, Spencer has entrusted them with his recording gear. He will post a holiday vlog on his YouTube channel, pretending he injured himself at the end of the week.
Charles fixes the straps of his poles around his wrists. ‘It looks safe until that grove.’
‘Lead the way. And think about what you’re gonna say to that poor piece of cake.’
‘Wasn’t I the cake in that analogy?’
‘Whatever. Your first and main 2019 resolution tonight should be to quit hurting dessert lovers.’
Charles smiles and propels himself towards a steeper zone.
He already knows what he wants to say to Loris. Every single time he pictures the scene, he finds the words. But every single time, his mindset has changed again, and the scene and the words are like night and day.
***
Charles wishes he could have stayed in Kitzbühel and spent more evenings on the balcony of their chalet, gazing at stars that only appear above mountains. He filled half a notebook with ideas for his novel.
But since he returned, two days ago, he’s been stuck. His mind is cloaked like the London sky, polluted by preoccupations he didn’t have to worry about in Austria: distracting Elsy from lustful intent, puppet-performing for his parents and making a definitive decision regarding Loris.
Patty said that he will be back at work on Tuesday, which at 11pm on Saturday no longer qualifies as a ‘next week problem’.
Charles collects his drink from the counter and moves away from a loud group of women comparing vibrator brands. Ordering a scotch wasn’t the smartest decision after two large glasses of wine and three cocktails, but he was craving one.
‘Chaaaaarles!’
Emerging from the toilets, Divya grabs him by the neck. She raises her phone for a selfie, then gambols towards the area of the bar that Elsy has reserved for her leaving party.
She’s only going to Chicago for three weeks, as part of a university programme, but she woke up in the mood for a messy gathering. She used her departure as a pretext and secured a place in Mayfair as well as a full attendance, because she’s Elsy Buchanan.
She’s flying tomorrow and Charles is fretting about the naked send-off she might expect from him later.
When she gives him an enquiring look from her seat, he shows his phone and points to the door. If she asks who he had to call, he will blame Spencer, who’s badgering him with questions about the ski trip footage, afraid observant subscribers could challenge his vlog.
In the next room, Phil is sitting at one of the three tables dedicated to poker games and, based on the piles of chips in front of him, he’s making mincemeat of his opponents.
Charles walks to the red-lit bar counter at the back. He masks a few messages from Spencer and opens Instagram. Divya has immediately added their photo to a story. He looks like he banged his little toe against a bed leg, but she didn’t care as long as she was dazzling.
He swipes through the stories, rotating his glass, clockwise.
Should he talk to Elsy? Confess to having someone else in mind while they’re touching each other?
She wouldn’t take offence. On the contrary, she would request to be involved in his fantasy.
Which would call for an explanation he’s not ready to—
He clutches his glass and swipes left, back to the previous photo, uploaded by Loris.
A shot of his hand, drawing an elderly man sitting on the other side of a carriage aisle.
The sketch is impressive, worthy of being screenshot and studied in detail.
But the one detail that sends Charles’ bloodstream coursing clockwise is that Loris was travelling by Eurostar five hours ago.
Charles downs his scotch in one and presses the message option. Is Loris back in London, then? Is he—