Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Charles is waiting for a lift in the entrance hall of George’s building when his phone chimes. Elsy’s timing isn’t ideal, as the football match is about to begin, but if she’s willing to speak to him, which wasn’t a safe bet, he will stay downstairs to—
It’s not Elsy. It’s a message from his mother.
He puts his phone back into the pocket of the red quilted jacket he borrowed from Loris and steps into the lift, shoving his nauseating feelings towards his family out of it.
He’s already a bit queasy now that his digestive system is reacting to his excesses, and he has a more pressing preoccupation. He’s three floors away from justifying his behaviour to George.
Charles rehearses one more time.
He went to Loris after Liv shared shocking facts about Fred.
It made sense to go to Loris, whose presence has been helping him clear up memories of his brother.
Charles already told George about that. It’s a coherent explanation, close enough to the truth not to trigger his friend’s bullshit detector.
And if Elsy reaches out, Charles will give her the same, with additional background information.
He won’t say more and doesn’t want to analyse why he doesn’t want to say more. The mere idea of talking about what happened, is happening and may happen with Loris is disquieting, which is a valid reason not to. He won’t risk the precious amount of bliss he managed to sneak out of the flat.
He will just watch the match and daydream about what happened, is happening and may happen with—
‘Hello, dickhead!’
Elsy punches his arm, slaps his head, then kicks his bum when he shrinks away from the shower of blows.
‘Ow! Els! Stop! No, not my hip!’
‘Why not?’
‘I hurt myself and— Damn it!’
She struck the bruise so hard, stars take up most of Charles’ field of vision. He lurches aside and makes a beeline for the open door of George’s flat.
His friend walks out of his kitchen. ‘No, I’m not getting involved.’
He’s wearing a silky dressing gown and carrying a bowl of cereal so soaked in milk, it would turn Charles’ stomach if he weren’t too busy running for his life. He takes shelter behind the sofa and raises his hands as a shield.
Elsy’s tired eyes are throwing the sharpest daggers.
‘I will behead you!’
‘Yes, with a fork, but hold on! You’re inside George’s temple of George?’
‘See what you make me do? See how bad it is?’
‘What about your flight?’
‘My ride to the airport is waiting downstairs. So, in fact, I have to postpone the beheading.’ She grabs the scarf Charles left at the bar last night and clenches its ends together to form a thicker lash. ‘I’ll settle for flogging.’
‘Let me—’
‘Stop ducking!’
‘I’m sorry!’
‘Are you?’
‘I know I worried you and—’
‘Do you? Do you know, really?’
Charles was about to retreat behind the dining table, but the distress now tempering Elsy’s anger stops him.
‘I don’t think you understand what you did!
Liv hit you with the darkest truth, that being drunk and livid at your father led Fred to…
And you vanished! Drunk and with plenty of reason to be livid at your father!
Thank god you don’t drive, otherwise...’ She covers her teary eyes with her hand. ‘You prick.’
‘Oh, Els… I’m so sorry.’
His heart cracking, Charles joins her and takes her in his arms. She knuckles his hip one more time, but lets go of her weapon to grip the back of his jacket.
George is in his armchair in front of the screen, where the teams are entering the football pitch. When their eyes meet, he shrugs with a moue that says, ‘She’s got a point.’
She does, yes, but Charles had never considered that Fred’s accident could add weight to Elsy’s concern for him. She wasn’t around when it happened. She composed a puzzle with everybody’s opinions, but she knew even less than Charles about the circumstances.
‘I’ll never do that again, I swear.’
‘I know. George will make a tracking chip that I’ll stick in your neck before I sew your ugly head back on.’
‘I will?’
‘Where were you?’ Elsy wipes her cheek and slaps Charles’ padded chest. ‘And what are you wearing, but where the hell did you go?’
‘I was… I went to…’ Charles coughs, his coherent explanation losing pertinence now that both his best friends are staring at him. ‘You know the rugby guy?’
George nods and shovels cereal into his mouth.
‘Who?’
Charles looks back at Elsy’s upset face and grasps for a non-existent pen in Loris’ jacket pocket. ‘The French guy who works at the North Haven.’
‘Uh?’
‘The day you went to the hospital, we met in a pub, and there was a guy behind the bar...’
‘Maybe?’
‘Well, he and I, we… We’ve bonded over shared interests and, last night, I needed someone neutral on the topic of my family, so I went to him. I was… I was with him.’
Elsy seems deeply confused, but she waves him off. ‘I don’t have time to discuss your secret friendships. I’ll do that with your headless body when I come back.’ She unlocks her phone and tugs him beside her. ‘Try to look cute and alive!’
‘Sorry?’
‘All my friends saw the state you put me in, so you better William the hell out of this!’
She raises her phone in selfie mode, kisses his cheek, and Charles manages to draw a smile from the relief of escaping this confrontation nearly unscratched.
Elsy uploads the photo to Instagram and mutters as she types, ‘I wish he fitted in my suitcase, sad face, hashtag I will miss him, hashtag my everything, hashtag—’ she smacks the back of Charles’ head and walks away, ‘—jackass. You should enable being tagged in a story, for once. And you should share it.’
‘That’d be more suspicious than anything, don’t you think? I’ve never posted a thing…’
‘Maybe. True. George, shut up.’
‘I haven’t said a word!’
‘Your contempt is so loud, Chicago can hear it.’
‘I can’t help it if your subterfuge gives me—’
‘Shh! Charles, there’s a copy of your tab receipt in your coat. I want my compensation in gold. If that’s not enough for hoop earrings, sell your phone, it’s clearly useless.’
‘Yes, alright...’
Elsy strides to the door. ‘I like your place a tad better, George. It’s less narcissistic. How come? You fancy Hannah, so you don’t fancy yourself as much?’
‘I made changes in the burning hope that you’d come back! Your visits are always so pleasant, Elsy. Peaceful and—’
‘You two behead each other! With those silly samurai weapons!’
‘Those are priceless manga artefacts, and such disrespect won’t be tolerated in my—’ George drops his spoon into his bowl after Elsy slammed the door behind her. ‘Outrageous.’
Charles blows up his cheeks and exhales the anxiety arising from his feelings towards the situation.
The guilt of hurting Elsy. The qualm of lying.
The frightening realisation that the truth about Fred isn’t only out there for him to cope with, but also for the people who will expect him to cope with it.
‘You alright?’
‘Yes… Sorry for dragging you into this. And for worrying you.’
‘I wasn’t overly alarmed. In my defence, I was distracted. My room is off-limits by the way.’
‘Is Hannah in there, waiting for you with handcuffs?’
‘She’s gone. But I haven’t had time to clear the consequences of her vivid imagination.’
Charles chuckles, which lessens the pressure on his chest. He sits on the sofa and kicks off his shoes just as Hugo Lloris kicks the ball away from his goal.
‘Are you ready to talk about Liv’s revelations?’
‘No.’ Charles sighs, watching Tottenham’s counter-attack fail. ‘Not yet.’
‘I’m here for it anytime. Day, night, handcuffed or not.’
‘Thank you.’
It must have been an ordeal for George to broach the topic with Liv over Christmas and to witness a sorrow his sister had never expressed in front of him before. But he braved it for Charles, without any hesitation.
George gets up and disappears behind him. ‘How much was your tab that you owe Elsy golden earrings?’
‘She’s charging me with interest. Although that place overprices cocktails as if their ice cubes were made of unicorn tears.’
‘What bar doesn’t?’
Charles should tell Patty to sell cocktails, that would do wonders for her profit.
Not that he knows anything about the pub’s finances.
And she’s probably fine without the type of crowd that cocktails would attract.
So Charles should refrain from trying to be an advisor in a field he’s clueless about.
However, he could easily be a strategy advisor for Tottenham, because the one unfolding is demoralising.
George comes back and throws a bottle of water next to Charles on his way to his drinks cabinet. After a couple of seconds in front of his whisky selection, he turns around, holding a full decanter and two tumblers.
Charles recoils. ‘Ugh. No.’
‘Not for you.’ George mutes the match and plonks himself down on a footstool between Charles and the screen. ‘So, about rugby guy, what did you mean by “I was with him”?’
‘What?’ Charles feels a shade of colour fade away from his cheeks. ‘Nothing. I meant… just what it meant. Why?’
‘Something about your face when you said it and, three, two, one, there it is again.’
Charles turns away, sensing the shade rush back with a couple of guests.
‘Also, now that you’ve mentioned his nationality, I’m intrigued by your text. “French have massive long pills”. Was it a metaphor about a body part that you—’
‘No! I was taking about a real pill! About medicine! Loris gave me— He, Loris, that’s his name, he gave me paracetamol, and in France they sell stronger dosage. That’s all!’
‘Alright, alright. But do you feel like telling me what “being with him” implied?’
Charles brings the bottle of water to his lips to blur the contact with George’s razor-sharp eyes.
His explanation involved lying by omission in any case. But now, lying would be taking George for a dupe. The worst way to repay him for his constant support.
‘It implied being… in his bed. With him. Sort of naked and… and under him.’
Charles drinks again, his gut catching fire at the memory.