Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
After two hours spent sorting the contents of his notebook, Charles has a clearer overview of his novel in progress.
He’s written a few satisfying dialogues, summaries of many scenes and detailed descriptions of his characters and their dynamics.
He’s yet to come up with a setting, a compelling plot and a single narrative paragraph that doesn’t make him want to rip out both his eyeballs.
His prose is either dull as a business paper or overly poetic.
He strongly overestimated his talent, which has to be a first and proves to be a bleak experience.
He can’t even attribute his writing struggles to his family turmoil, because his primary justification for disregarding his family turmoil is to keep his creative process unhampered.
The only solution to remain sane is to blame Loris, who’s invaded Charland.
So Charles closes his notebook and his eyes to mind-travel back to the flat.
Indulging in his growing collection of steamy memories is safer than pen-clicking over his shortcomings.
It’s also wiser to fantasise about Loris when he’s on his own – rather than at work or dinner.
He has to avoid thinking about foreplay and naked rubbing when he’s interacting with colleagues or—
His mother.
Her knock on his bedroom door is always sharp and fast. Charles usually takes six seconds to steel himself for the exchange, theorising on the reason for her visit. Today, he strides to the door.
Alice looks like she could have used six extra seconds. Her face bears the marks of a tension he had never seen before.
‘May I come in?’
‘To talk about Fred?’
‘Charles, please.’
Her narrowed eyes are imploring, but her voice is as calm as usual, devoid of the anguish she’s showing.
Charles remembers the hours she spent on the phone after the accident, accepting condolences with the vocal aplomb of a telemarketer while shaking on her chair, damp creases on her ashen cheeks.
This vision pierces his heart, so he hastens to seal the hole with a paste made of resentful memories. He can’t afford to feel for her.
‘Your father was in a lather over your sudden decision to manage an emerging artist.’
‘Oh dear. Will he burn my friend’s work?’
‘I convinced him that it was a good idea. At least, a harmless one.’
‘Because you think it’s a good idea?’
‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
Charles lets her in, his perplexity undermining his determination.
Alice saunters inside, feigning to discover the decoration on his walls, as if she never used her set of keys to come in when he’s out. She brushes non-existent crumbs off his duvet and sits on the bed.
‘Is it the true reason why you have been in and out of here like a draught this week?’
‘Yes and no. Loris deserves my full attention. But I would avoid you like the plague, regardless.’
She contracts her fingers on her thighs but nods. ‘You could have found worse of a pursuit. You can carry on.’
‘Thank you for this tremendous and heart-warming support, but don’t discount what I said. Don’t you care that being here makes me sick?’
‘I care about ensuring—’
‘Don’t you care that I’m aware Fred died trying to escape you?’
She flinches and straightens up, which seemed improbable given how upright she sat. ‘This is neither true nor—’
‘Stop lying to me! I know! I talked to Liv! And I remember now. I remember who he was. I know you manipulated me so I’d believe he was on his way to becoming Milton Junior! You used the shock I was in to hardwire your fake narratives into my brain and, fuck! What kind of mother does that?’
‘You are blowing things out of proportion. We protected you.’
‘You messed me up! I couldn’t remember the Fred you idolised, and I couldn’t trust what I remembered. I couldn’t trust my own mind!’
‘We wanted you to cherish the memories of the person your brother was before he made wrong choices and lost his way.’
‘Fred didn’t make any wrong choices! He made his own, and that’s something you didn’t want me to think was possible in the Ledwell household!
You… You didn’t want me to…’ Charles rubs his temples, where a conclusion he should have come to weeks ago is whirring.
‘That’s why you were both so relieved by my MBA acceptance!
You never worried about my “deflated temperament” as he called it!
No! You worried that for all your efforts to make me your puppet, I’d still follow in Fred’s footsteps and take control of my life!
You’re not proud of me. You’re proud of yourselves for succeeding where at first you spectacularly failed! ’
Alice stands up, her skin matching her pearl necklace. ‘You cannot blame me for forestalling history from repeating itself.’
‘But your solution was to take preventive measures against me? You never entertained the possibility that you needed to change? You and the abusive arsehole who shares your bed!’
‘Stop it! Stop that.’
She takes a step forward to grab his hand, but Charles shrinks back.
‘Stop what?’
‘This anger you have been nurturing since Christmas, you need to curb it,’ she urges, panic finally creeping into her tone.
‘Do not declare war on your father. It would change you. You would end up making mistakes because of it, the way Frederick did. Be rational. You are less impulsive than he was. Do not engage.’
‘I want to,’ Charles spits, loathing the stinging in his eyes.
‘It will pass. Until then, spend as much time as you need with your friends. Or with that artist. I will ensure that it isn’t an issue.’
‘It will pass? You think I just need to receive a few extra watches and my weekly dose of praise to forget about what happened?’
‘You are upset. Do not take any rash decisions at the moment. Once you gain some perspective, you will understand that we made the necessary calls to help you live up to your potential. To help you build the future that you dream about. A future that is within reach. Why would you risk jeopardising it by rehashing the past?’
This time, Charles lets her take his hand. He’s gone a bit numb, emptied of the hope for a regretful confession he was naive enough to harbour.
‘The future that I dream about…?’
Alice wrings his fingers, a resurgence of poise in her eyes.
‘Your idea to work this year was brilliant. You are making your mark, as well as useful connections. Once on your MBA, even more doors will open. Furthermore, the next stage of your relationship with Elsy is around the corner. Everything is falling into place for you.’
Charles bites his tongue, tempted to ask if she had weed brownies at teatime but aware it’s pointless. Alice isn’t high. She’s convinced she has his heart all figured out. He’s been too good of a puppet.
He frees himself but gives her a trembling smile while he runs a fast-track analysis of the situation.
As much as he wants to tell his father some home truths, he’s not ready for that confrontation.
He’s barely keeping it together in front of Alice’s outrageous reactions, and she doesn’t even scare him.
Milton will, no matter how fiercely Charles clings on to Liv’s speech about his father’s lack of actual power.
Charles is afraid of two decades of a dynamic that might fluster him to the point of wavering.
He would have snapped when he came back home in the heat of his discoveries, but Alice stopped him, and he’s had too much time to picture the scene since. He doesn’t feel solid enough to hold his ground.
Luckily, Alice will allow him to avoid his father until he musters the courage required. She’s dreading a showdown, terrified that history could end up repeating itself if Milton noticed Charles’ defiance and decided to crack down accordingly.
She’s been using Charles’ anxiety to her advantage for seven years, it’s about time he gives her a taste of her own medicine.
‘It’s true, I just need perspective and to spend time with my friends. Don’t count on me for dinner tonight.’
‘Alright.’
‘And I’m not going to Surrey with you tomorrow.’
‘That is not negotiable, Charles.’
‘I’m not negotiating. I’m telling you. If you can’t cover me, I don’t mind declaring war on my father, explaining how much I despise his family. It’s up to you, really. Now leave me alone.’
The twitch of Alice’s cheeks shows that she’s gritted her teeth and, for a moment, she looks ready to backtrack and suppress the maternal instinct that enables Charles’ blackmail.
But when she steps out of the room, the phone operator is back. ‘Does George need help with more contracts?’
‘Whatever fable you like best.’
Alice slows down in the hallway, and Charles holds his breath, deaf to reason.
She has a chance to make things right, to acknowledge his acrimony and ease his pain.
Charles isn’t asking for much, a silent gesture would do.
A sign that she’s willing to make a difference from now on.
That she cares about Charles’ wellbeing as much as sparing herself the loss of another son.
That loving him isn’t just a burden in an existence she would prefer to control all aspects of.
‘You would do well to teach decent manners to your artist friend. I heard that his behaviour as a guest was questionable.’
Charles hardly shoves down the itch to give her an explicit summary of Loris’ questionable behaviour under her roof. He slams his door and presses his forehead against the wood.
The sadness he was keeping a rein on breaks free, steered out by the tears he should have cried throughout the years, every time Alice denied him a comforting word or embrace.
He used to think she knew better than everybody and had been entrusted with an upbringing recipe that mothers who consoled their kids had no clue about. Later on, he learnt to hide when he was in need of tenderness, because her indifference was easier to handle if it felt like his own doing.