Chasing Charlie (25 page)

‘I don't know, he might not have any that climb mountains for kicks,' Charles Senior cut in. He seemed keen to change the subject. Throughout the strange interaction between Lydia and Charlie, he'd been very busy eating nibbles, with occasional apologetic glances in my direction. Now he turned to me pointedly.

‘Sam, what news of your parents? I hope they're not wasting time trying to set you up with people.'

‘They wouldn't get a very good reception if they did,' I admitted.

‘See?' Jimmy joined in. He reached out and grabbed another olive. ‘We are perfectly capable of running our own love lives, aren't we, Charlie?' He nudged his brother again, who just grunted.

‘You're quite right, you're all obviously doing an excellent job. I'll be quiet,' Lydia said and laughed, and her boys loyally joined in.

The conversation moved on to the day's shooting and I was glad to be left to my own thoughts again. I've got what I came for, I thought. I wanted to see how he was, and admittedly, coming within spitting distance wasn't the plan, but I knew now. He was, quite simply, crushed. Nothing I could do would change that. I'd just have to wait.

But for how long? my anxious side clamoured.

Oh just shut up, I answered. I took a deep glug of the G&T Charles Snr had given me, almost finishing it in one. It slipped down, heat exploding into my gut and almost instantaneously spreading out through my limbs. Ahhhh. I took another sip. Drink gone. I sat in the soft chair, listening to, but not following, the conversation, feeling warm and adrift, almost as if everything was out of my control now. When I next glanced at the table beside my chair, my drink had been replaced with another one. I smiled in delight and brought the cold crystal to my lips, vaguely aware that they had turned to rubber and were not quite in sync with the few words I had to contribute, but I tried nevertheless, as I suddenly had something hilarious to add.

*

The atmosphere in the kitchen the next morning was confusing, at best. I felt like I'd been run over by several large trucks, consumed by my pounding head and aching joints, and everything felt blurred, as if I was looking through muslin. Most disturbing of all was the feeling I had missed out on something extremely important.

But Charlie gave me a warm grin as I joined him at the kitchen table, looking like he'd just been told an extremely good joke. He was a different man from the sad sack on the sofa last night.

‘Well, that was a first.'

‘What do you mean?' I felt a sinking feeling as the mirth bubbling behind Charlie's mouth prepared to spill out. His perfect lips, usually so collected, were having great difficulty staying together. They were wriggling all over the place, desperate to smile or even jump right off his face and dance a jig in his cornflakes. I shook my head. What the hell was wrong with me? I'd never known a hangover like it. ‘How much did I drink?'

‘Well, that's the strange thing, I didn't actually see you drinking much at all.'

‘Strange thing?'

‘Well' – his lips contorted some more – ‘for someone who hadn't drunk much, you were certainly the chief entertainment of the evening.'

‘Entertainment?' That didn't sound good.

‘Oh, you were in full flight, on your soapbox, railing against everything from public schools to the bankers – it was like having our very own socialist campaigner in the room.'

‘That must have gone down well.'

‘Oh brilliantly. We were all very amused, except for the bit about Sarah.'

‘Sarah? Who the hell is Sarah?'

‘You don't remember?' Charlie chuckled. ‘She's the daughter of Ma's bridge partner. Just back from climbing Kilimanjaro?'

‘Ah . . .' Faint bells were ringing in my head.

‘You went completely off on one about her, suggesting she sounded like she'd make a good debutante for
Country Life
, that a pretty, privileged girl like that deserved to be celebrated, how fabulous she must be, how perfect, and on and on from there really.'

I sank my head into my hands. ‘Don't tell me, all delivered with lashings of sarcasm.'

‘Oh, you didn't mean it?' Charlie chuckled again. ‘You don't think the Hugh-Barringtons should spend – now how did you put it – the money an average family might spend on a car and all go for a jolly jaunt together with Sarah to Ascot this year?'

‘Fuck.'

‘Oh there was plenty of that thrown in for good measure, just so we'd understand how fervently you felt about things.'

I shook my head. Please let this be a joke. Having opinions about things was one thing but I didn't usually make a point of shoving them rudely in the faces of the generation above me. People my own age, that was game on, but not my parents' generation. Not people hosting me, people who – it was finally dawning on me – had been nursing me. But the dread that had sat in the pit of my stomach first thing that morning now leached into my whole body. I knew Charlie wasn't making it up. I was unwell, I drank too quickly on an empty stomach and my manners had obviously flown out of the window.

Lydia chose that moment to make her appearance, clipping in wearing a pale-blue linen suit. I flushed as I made eye contact.

‘Good morning, Sam.' Her voice was cool.

‘Good morning.' I paused, my heart beating in my throat, but ploughed on, desperate to smooth over some of the damage done. ‘Ah . . . Charlie's been filling me in on my behaviour last night. It sounds like I was a right pain in the . . . bum,' I said, just catching myself in time.

‘You were fine.'

Lydia had her back to us and was looking through a stack of papers on the dresser using small, careful movements but her words didn't fool me.

‘Well, it sounded like I was a complete idiot, I'm sorry.' I watched Lydia's tiny shoulders relax slightly beneath her jacket and she turned to look at me.

‘I think, Sam, you probably have the flu and we'll drop you home on the way to church. We're leaving in ten minutes.'

‘Oh. Thank you, thank you very much. I'd completely forgotten about my bike!' I giggled awkwardly and caught Charlie's eye. He gave me a small grin and stood up to start clearing things from the table, obviously finished with teasing for the moment. He certainly wouldn't joke around like that in front of Lydia. Just like that, he was back to being the perfect son, the one who had come home for the weekend to have his wounds tended from the nasty woman whom Mummy didn't think was good enough for him. I went to find my coat, glad to be getting out of that kitchen and out of this house where everything felt so loaded and I felt so out of place. It crossed my mind that, on balance, this family might actually be more screwed up than my own.

MARA

On Sunday evening, with still no sign of Sam, I stomped around the flat doing her chores. I'd really rather have been reading Margaret Atwood again but I sure as hell couldn't live with this mess staring me in the face all week. Where was she anyway? She hadn't been in touch all weekend and all my texts had gone unanswered. From time to time my conscience kicked in – was she all right? – but it was quickly engulfed by my anger. She's fine, my head grumbled, just off leading her self-absorbed life and not giving a toss about the people around her.

At seven o'clock the phone rang. It was Ed. He was having a great time; the scenery was breathtaking, the air so fresh it froze your lungs.

‘I'm so glad, Ed.'

‘You sound grumpy.'

‘I'm not grumpy!'

Ed didn't say anything and my words hung there in red capital letters.

‘OK, I am a little bit grumpy.'

‘What's going on?'

I sighed. ‘It's Sam.'

‘Surprise, surprise.'

‘She's missed yet another rent payment and hasn't done anything around the house all weekend. In fact I haven't seen her at all.'

‘Haven't seen her? Where is she?'

‘God knows. I'm guessing with Charlie. Her phone's off.'

‘Do you think she's all right?'

‘Of course she's all right,' I snapped, but my conscience flickered in the background.

‘OK, Mars, there's no need to bite my head off.'

‘Sorry. I'm just feeling fed up. I'm thinking about asking her to move out.'

‘Really?' Ed sounded shocked.

‘Maybe.'

‘Perhaps you should sleep on it first.'

‘Well, she isn't here to talk to now so it looks like I've no choice but to sleep on it.'

There was a pause and I could hear happy voices in the background. The spick and span kitchen suddenly felt lifeless and more than anything I wanted to be with my brother, outside a pub in Scotland, teeth chattering as we looked at the stars, only a couple of paces away from a warm, yellow room full of interesting people whose foibles I didn't know like the back of my hand.

‘Did you take your bike in?' Ed's voice pulled me back. My bike. Dammit, I'd forgotten again. Too busy being cross.

‘I'll do it next weekend.'

‘You'd better, those brakes are really dodgy, Mars.'

‘I'll bike carefully, don't worry.'

‘It's the other people I worry about.'

I smiled. ‘Thanks for caring, Ed.'

‘Look, get yourself to bed, Mars. Try not to dwell on things. It's a big beautiful world out there.'

‘I will, thanks for calling.'

It was easy for him to say that, thought I, as I brushed my teeth. Him up north experiencing the beautiful world while little old me was stuck in my little hamster wheel in Queen's Park. But his concern soothed me all the same and later, when I heard Sam's key in the lock and her quiet (for once) steps down the hall, I felt relieved that my friend was home, safe and well. We'd sit down and talk things through tomorrow, I told myself as I snuggled under my duvet. No need to be rash. Not just yet.

CLAUDIA

I tried swallowing my nerves as I stood on his front step. It had been a long, frantic day and I hadn't had much time to get ready. A quick change of clothes and extra mascara was all I'd managed, which made me feel even more vulnerable. John lived in a quiet street in Kensington, in a stately Georgian crescent lined with mature ash trees. It would be pretty in summer, I thought, and then pulled my thoughts back sharply. I wouldn't see it in summer because it – whatever it was – would be well and truly over by then. I was sure of that.

As I heard John's footsteps I realised that I couldn't actually remember the last time I had visited a man at his home. It had to have been years.

‘Claudia! Come in!' John opened his arms, as if he hadn't seen me less than two hours ago at work. He was dressed in jeans and a simple granddad-style long-sleeved top in a dark aubergine that fitted just close enough to outline his solid chest. His hair was still wet and his feet were bare. I actually felt my knees go weak. I didn't know that was possible in real life. I swallowed again and smiled. Put one foot in front of the other, there's a good girl.

He led me down the hall into the kitchen, which overlooked a garden sitting tidily around a circular patio. Through the dusky gloom I could make out a barbecue sitting under its winter cover in one corner. In another, what looked like a weeping pear stretched its bare arms over the wooden slats of the patio. For the second time I flashed forward into summer and pictured a group of smiling people, their faces splotched prettily with the dappled light under the tree. I sighed.

‘It's lovely, isn't it? Keeps me out of a lot of trouble that garden. It's especially nice in the summer.' John came up behind me and gave me a slender glass of bubbles, steadily looking out the window with me.

‘I bet it's amazing.'

‘Not that long to wait.' He turned and looked intently into my eyes. Why does he have to do that? My insides contracted and I turned away quickly, taking in the rest of the room. The kitchen merged into an open-plan living area that, minus the hall and stairs, ran the length of the ground floor. One entire wall was a dark purple, not dissimilar to John's shirt. It was the kind of colour I was drawn to but hadn't the courage to try myself. Whoever had decorated this place sure had balls. The other walls were off-white, and on them hung various pictures, mostly sketches, all very regimentally framed in white. I walked the length of the room, inspecting each one, my shoes squeaking a little on the warm oak floorboards. Warm in colour but also, I realised after a bit, warm underfoot too. That explained the bare feet then.

John joined me as I came to the end of my nosy tour of his walls and gestured for me to take a seat on one of the large sofas. He paused before sitting opposite me.

‘So who did all this?' I waved my hand around the room.

John looked confused. ‘What do you mean? I did, of course.'

‘Really? Are you sure you haven't got a clever wife tucked away in a cupboard somewhere who comes out and makes this place look so . . . homely?'

John smiled a slow grin. ‘Homely, you say?' he said, looking around him as if he hadn't seen it before. ‘I've never really thought about it like that.'

‘It's not often you come across men who think this much about their homes. Not straight ones anyway.'

‘What are you trying to say, Claudia?'

‘Nothing,' I laughed. ‘You know what I mean. It's usually the women who are in charge of decorating a home. And if there isn't a woman in the house . . .' I slowed down, suddenly feeling self-conscious. ‘A man's home can be a bit . . .'

‘Barren?' John said.

‘I would have said bare,' I answered.

‘So what would you do to this house if you lived here?' John asked.

I looked around, feeling his eyes on my face. I knew he had that intense expression without looking at him. It was strong enough to burn holes in my face, I was sure.

‘Ah . . .' I looked around some more, finally stopping at the sofas. ‘I'd probably choose different cushions.'

‘Is that all?'

‘I think so. At least going by what's downstairs. Not that I want to see the upstairs,' I added hastily.

‘Oh.' John sounded disappointed.

I took the last sip of my champagne and busied myself with looking for a place to put the glass. Anything but meet John's eye. But before I could find somewhere John stood up abruptly.

‘Let me fill that for you.'

‘I'm OK actually,' I said.

‘Are you sure?' John strode to the kitchen. ‘Just a little drop?' He waved the bottle at me.

‘The doctor said I shouldn't drink while I'm taking my medication,' I said.

John's smile vanished. ‘Of course. I shouldn't either really. How about I go all out and crack open the Evian?' He grinned and rifled around in the fridge for a bit.

I laid my head back on the sofa, grateful for the momentary distraction that took John's piercing eyes off my face. His anticipation had been obvious from the minute I walked in the door. He wanted an answer to his damn question. That or to get me into bed. And I wasn't quite ready for that yet, with anyone, let alone him. I wasn't going there with him anyway, I told myself. I was here to forge a friendship with an interesting man. I sighed. Who was I kidding? This man, this home, felt more right than anyone I'd met in my life. And I'd made a complete dog's breakfast of the whole thing. He wanted to know if he was in a relationship . . . sure he did. I stood up. Do something, Claudia, I thought. Don't sit there stewing.

So I joined John in the kitchen and watched him chop-chop-chop a capsicum into tiny strips, then do the same to mushrooms and spring onions. He asked me about my family and I told him about Sabrina, the family clown, about the neat little package that is Mother, about my father, with the heart of a lion. As I spoke about Papa, his voice rumbled in my head. ‘Throw those hiking boots away,' he'd said to me. And I watched John's hands moving happily over the food and wished I could. I really wished I could.

When he was finished he placed a luscious pile of food in front of me and I couldn't help myself.

‘There's something deeply sexy about a man who can cook,' I said, biting down on my lip as soon as I'd spoken. John's eyes lit up immediately and I cursed myself as I felt his heat from across the table.

‘I'm glad you think so. That was, after all, the intention.'

‘Great,' I answered feebly.

We ate in silence for a while, our awareness of each other's movements, each bite, each chew, so acute it was almost more than I could bear. I was racking my mind for something to say – anything, anything – but all I could hear was the blood in my ears, as if I'd been running.

‘I enjoy eating with you,' John said after a while.

‘Thanks. Me too,' I mumbled through a mouthful of capsicum.

‘You still haven't got back to me about my question from last time,' he continued.

Oh great, here it was. The question.

‘Claudia?'

‘Sorry, I-I just don't know what to say,' I stammered.

‘Why not?'

I could hear his voice hardening but still I was afraid to say what was welling up inside me. If I opened my mouth, surely I'd scream? My emotions felt like a tidal wave building up, about to erupt all over the plate. I had never felt this vulnerable, this out of control. My eyes filled with tears and I bit down hard on the inside of my gums. I would not,
would not
share myself with him. He didn't want me, not with all this emotional crap too. He wanted a fuck, that was all.

Abruptly John stood and grabbed his plate from the table and took it to the kitchen, and, after a moment's pause looking out the window, returned to get mine. He stood very close, looking down at me, and I was straining so hard against my tears, I didn't realise that my fingers – white and shaking as they twisted the fabric of my dress – were visible to him as he looked down at my lap. All I knew was that suddenly I was in his arms, being held tight, with John on his knees beside me. I felt myself tilt and the wave spill out, the tears pouring hot and fast onto that purple chest, and my ever-rational, über-controlled mind wasn't doing a single thing about it.

And John held me tight.

Eventually he pulled away from me a little but remained kneeling next to my chair. He reached out and wiped each side of my face slowly with his thumb.

‘Claudia,' John said, taking my face gently with one hand. ‘Look at me. Can you forgive me?'

I laughed.

‘For what?'

‘What do you mean, for what? For passing on a bloody STI, that's what.'

‘Oh that? Of course! I forgave you the second after I found out it was you. I have literally not given it another thought.' I sniffed loudly.

John looked confused. He stood up and drew his chair around so he could sit back down close to me and he took my hands in his.

‘So . . . why are you crying? I thought it might be because you hate me for passing the bug on to you but . . .' Then he stopped. ‘Do you know what, I have exactly zero clue why you're crying.'

I started to laugh again.

John smiled back. ‘It's because I'm a man.'

‘No it isn't, it's because I'm me. Very few people would understand why I was crying. I've probably only just worked it out myself.' Sniff. ‘Have you got any tissues?'

John stood and retrieved tissues then sat down next to me again. I blew my nose noisily and surprised myself by not caring a fig. There was no need to be worried about what John thought of me – it was loud and clear, and I couldn't put up walls around this any longer.

‘You sure we can't talk about the weather instead?' I asked, smiling.

‘No.'

‘I thought not.' I gazed out the window and took a deep breath. Why had I been crying? Why indeed. I had to start somewhere; John deserved some sort of explanation.

‘I was really knocked sideways by that STI – or, more to the point, how I felt about having it. I've never had one before but also I've never questioned sleeping around. If I have protected sex, then what's the problem? But then . . . well then when I got it, I felt—'

‘Dirty?'

‘Yes, I suppose you're right. I felt dirty. Clichéd but true.'

‘I felt like that too.'

‘You did? I'm so sorry.'

John frowned. ‘Why should you be sorry? It wasn't you who passed it on – it was me giving it to you. I've tracked down who gave it to me by the way. It was a woman I slept with a couple of times before I met you. Now it's her turn to work out who gave it to her. My money is on the ex-husband she was rebounding from when I met her. But anyway,' – John shook his head – ‘back to you – you felt, totally understandably, fairly gross when you discovered you had an STI. So far, so clear.'

‘I felt horrible. And I guess it made me feel like I was letting my family down.'

John's eyes opened wide. ‘You told them?'

‘God no, of course I didn't. But I still felt like I'd let them down.' I paused. Come on, woman – spit it out. ‘And all along, you were such a gentleman, and so solid and kind. And although I was angry with you at times and tried to push you out of my head, I've just thought about you so much. I think about you so much.' My voice was catching but I kept on. ‘And I didn't feel like I was worthy of you—'

‘Claudia!'

I held up a finger, shush. ‘I realised I'd finally met my match – you know, how we see eye to eye, not a match as in . . .'

John's smile was wide. He was loving this. ‘Go on,' he said.

‘Anyway, I just generally felt like a complete fuck up. I felt I wasn't worthy of you when I didn't know you were the one who gave me the thing, then when I knew it was you, I still wasn't worthy because . . . because . . .'

John leant forward. ‘Because, Claudia?'

I sighed.

‘You can't come up with a reason because there isn't one. You are more than worthy of me. If anything it's up to me to prove my worthiness to you.'

A tear rolled down my cheek again. John wiped it away.

‘But before I do can you please answer my question? Am I seeing someone, Claudia?'

‘I think you know that answer, John,' I said.

‘I want to hear it from you.'

And finally I took his handsome face in my hands and kissed him.

‘Yes you are, John Tightpants, you most definitely are,' I whispered.

John exploded with laughter. ‘John
what
?'