by Lily Morton
My new lifestyle and finding the right mix of medication gradually began to work, and the turns eased off until they were non-existent. I felt happy, good about my chances for conquering the worst of my condition. I was coming up to a full year without a turn, which meant I could drive again rather than walking or busing everywhere. Then one day, eight months ago, I had a turn in a supermarket. Over the next several months, I began having more and more, and now I’m having one or two a day again.
I push that worry away and smile at my best friend. “Thank you for bringing the bracelet,” I say softly. “I know that’s the real reason you jettisoned work, and you shouldn’t have.”
He grins. His teeth are white and even, and his smile contains its usual sardonic edge. “For you, anything,” he says and nudges me. “Can’t have any harm come to my flatmate.”
“Yes, who would pay the mortgage?” I say lightly. “You’d really struggle if my massive wages petered out.”
“You council employees. Always earning the big bucks.”
“The only exposure we’d have to big bucks is if a male deer ran through the fucking building.”
Misha laughs, and I hug him tight.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I say.
He nods. “I’ll pick you up outside.”
“That’s out of your way, Misha,” I immediately protest.
He shrugs. “You’re here. Therefore, it’s in my way.”
Later on, I set the alarm and pull the back door of the library closed, locking it and testing it like normal. I can feel tiredness dragging my body down, and it’s compounded by the headache pulsing at the back of my skull. I had a turn this afternoon, and I must have hit my shoulder on something as I went down, because the area feels tender and sore.
From the beginning, I insisted that my seizures be called turns because the word “seizure” sounded horribly medical to me. Misha says “turn” makes me sound like I’m auditioning for a role in Cabaret, but I still persist.
The car park is dark apart from the thin light that emanates from the security lamp over the door. Hearing footsteps, I spin round and then immediately relax when I see Misha coming towards me.
“Are you on your own?” he demands.
“Why, Mister Lebedinsky,” I say in dulcet tones, fluttering my eyelashes. “Were you lying in wait to launch an attack on my virtue?”
“I’m about twelve years and ten miles away from a crack at that.” I laugh, and he shakes his head. “Why is it so fucking dark around here, Charlie?”
“Because night has fallen.” He stares beadily at me. “And the owner of the car park hasn’t replaced the bulb in the security light.”
“Have you told him that he needs to?”
“No, Misha,” I say sarcastically. “I thought I’d leave it to him. Maybe if I send enough good thoughts over to Malaga, he’ll realise and come straight home.”
“I’m absolutely positive that librarians shouldn’t be this snarky. Is there anyone in the building I can get to google it?”
I shove him. “We don’t google,” I say in a scandalised tone. “We utilise the skills that our very intensive library research course has taught us.”
“And then what?”
I slump. “We google.”
He laughs and holds out his hand for the cloth bag I’m carrying. I shake my head and hand it over, watching with satisfaction as he nearly drops it. “Fucking hell, have you got bricks in here?”
“Why would I be carrying bricks?” I ask, picking up my rucksack and moving over to the neatly parked and very expensive-looking silver Mercedes.
“I don’t know. Who the fuck knows what librarians get up to?”
“We are a very cosmopolitan crew,” I acknowledge.
“After picking you up from the staff Christmas do last year, I’m not entirely sure that cosmopolitan is the right word. Debauched would be nearer the mark.”
“I told Bethany not to get Sue that extra Baileys,” I say gloomily. “Can we not talk about it? I’m getting flashbacks.”
He fiddles with my bag and grins at me. “More books? Do you, or do you not have a very nice iPad with all your books loaded on it?”
“I know.” I sigh, climbing into the front seat after he clicks the locks and setting my rucksack at my feet. “I just can’t resist a new box of books.” He slides into the driver’s seat after depositing my cloth book bag in the back, and I grin at him. “It’s a bit like you resisting the last twink in a club at kicking-out time.”
“Well, why didn’t you say that?” he drawls. “Now I understand.”
Misha starts the engine and pulls off, and I sink back into the leather seat and inhale the scent of expensive car. “This is lovely,” I say softly. “So much better than the Tube.”
Pulling out onto the main road and immediately joining the traffic, he shoots me a quick look. “Say the word, and I’ll pick you up every night.”
“No way.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m perfectly capable of getting on the Tube and walking. The exercise is good for me.”
“It doesn’t look like it’s doing you much good at the moment.” I open my mouth and he holds one hand up. “I know, I know. But you don’t look well, Charlie. I don’t like the idea of you on the Tube in case you have a turn.”
“Well, now I have a nice new bracelet, so people won’t think I’m pissed up anymore,” I say lightly. “Anyway, thanks to my swanky new lodgings, I’ve only got to get a bus. It’s cut a huge part of my commute down.”
“Are you sure you shouldn’t make an appointment for a review?” he asks cautiously. “You might need your meds changing?”
“I don’t,” I state. “Seizures happen. A lot of people with epilepsy still have them even once their AEDs are sorted.” I’m relieved that I deliver these facts in my usual optimistic tone. He still looks as if he might argue, so I say, “Drop it,” quietly.
And even though he does it reluctantly, he still does as I ask. I knew he would. I was banking on it.
It doesn’t seem possible, but my old flat looks even more seedy when there’s nothing in it. I gather my stuff into a pile and we take turns carting it down to the car. Misha attempts to take some of it off me on the stairs but subsides when I shoot him a quelling glance. It takes half an hour, but finally, we’re done, and we stand in the living room.
I sigh. “Jesse, Eli, and I had such good times here.”
He looks around disapprovingly at the peeling paper and stained carpet. “I’m surprised none of them included you getting an emergency tetanus.”
I repress a smile at the sight of him in this scruffy room in his Hugo Boss suit. He looks like a peacock that’s been stuffed in a budgie cage. “Don’t be snobby,” I scold. “We can’t all live in a posh flat by the Thames with wall-to-wall shagpile and twinks.”
“Shagpile? Have I somehow transformed into a gay version of Hugh Hefner?”
“I’m sure you’ve got a velvet smoking jacket hidden somewhere in your flat,” I muse. “I bet you wear it at night and plot world domination while you’re stroking a pussy.”
“I have never stroked a pussy in my life, and I don’t intend to start anytime soon.” I laugh, and he shakes his head. “I could never plan world domination in here anyway. I’d be too afraid of the roof collapsing on me.” He edges closer to one of the walls. “What the hell is that?” he says, pointing at a large, strangely shaped stain.
I sigh happily. “I used to think it looked exactly like Mr Daydream from the Mr Men books.”
He stares at me in abject disapproval. “I cannot understand you sounding so nostalgic about this dump.” He examines the wall and the stain more closely. “It looks more like Mr Rising Damp and ooh look, over there is his friend Mr Subsidence.” He eyes me beadily. “And you paid rent for this place, the three of you? Or am I imagining that and the landlord actually paid you to live here?”
I snort. “We were very happy here.”
Misha smi
les. “We did have some good times, didn’t we? Do you remember when you lost that bet and had to run down the corridors in your underwear singing Barry Manilow’s ‘I Can’t Smile Without You’?”
I shake my head. “How embarrassing.”
He smirks. “Not for you. You knew all the words. And you threw in all those lovely high kicks and jazz hands for free.” I scowl at him, and he flings his arm over my shoulder and drags me closer. “You feeling melancholy?”
I shrug. “A bit. It feels like the end of an era.”
“It is, sweets. You and Jesse and Eli moved in here straight from university.” He pauses. “And proceeded to recreate being teenagers for another six years after that.”
“Better than recreating the fall of the Roman Empire like you bankers do in the West End on a Friday night.”
Misha laughs. “Point taken.” He kisses the top of my head briskly. “You ready?”
I look around the flat one last time, taking it all in so I can remember it. We did have good times, and now Jesse and Eli are settled with their men, and they’re happy. And me? I swallow. My life seems to be getting more complicated rather than less. I realise that I’m running my fingers over the epileptic bracelet and that he’s watching me with a concerned look on his face. I immediately plaster a smile on my own.
“Ready? Let’s go and get moved into that Shad Thames shithole.”
He shakes his head and lets me tug him out of the flat.
Chapter Two
A Few Days Later
Charlie
When I wake up, it takes me a few minutes to work out where I am. I’m used to yellowing paper that’s had to be stuck back up with Blu Tack, a curtain that doesn’t quite fit the window, and a lovely view of the bins.
Now I’m looking at exposed brick walls, and wooden floors and beams that are a thick honey-gold colour. It’s fairly bare at the moment, with just my bed, a wardrobe, and a comfy leather chair in it, but I know once I’ve put my bedlinen on the bed and hung my pictures up, it’ll look amazing.
I climb out and immediately stumble over one of the many boxes that are littering the room. Misha had asked last night whether they were part of some new design trend. I’d replied that I hoped I didn’t catch his old-aged pensioner vibe by osmosis, because it would be very inconvenient for my lifestyle.
I look at the old navy corduroy beanbag in the corner of the room and my lip twitches. It had made an appearance on my first night here when he marched in and threw it in the corner, saying that doss hole wasn’t quite the vibe he was going for with the flat.
I sigh with happiness at the warmth in the room and queue up my Christmas playlist. It’s not my Saturday for working, so I’ve got the whole day off to get everything unpacked and feeling homey. But first—tea and tablets.
I grab my medication and swallow it with a big gulp of water. I was horrified when I’d learned that I’d have to take medication for the rest of my life. My mum’s a total hippie and has always relied on natural remedies for everything, and that’s the way I was brought up. It took a long time to get my medication sorted. So many different types of pills and so many different doses. It was a bit like being experimented on. And each tablet seemed to give me different side effects. Hello to migraines, vomiting, constipation, and my personal favourite, impotence. Luckily, none of them stayed around, but it was a bloody awful time.
I pull on a pair of pyjama shorts and, winding my hair up in a top-knot, I wander out of the room, only to come to a complete stop. I barely manage not to swallow my tongue at the sight of Misha.
He’s walking out of his bedroom dressed in only a towel. The navy-coloured fabric hugs his lean hips and accentuates his sleek olive skin. He’s obviously just got out of the shower because water droplets decorate his chest. I swallow hard. His broad hairy chest. I’m fascinated. I haven’t seen Misha nearly nude in a few years and the last time was in a changing room, and he was very skinny then. Now he’s all lean lines and tight muscles.
“I imagine this is what David Gandy must feel like,” comes an amused voice.
“Hmm,” I say absentmindedly. Misha has very tight V lines. He’s like a statue.
“Yes, I imagine that David frequently has to say, ‘My eyes are up here, Charlie.’”
That gets through my fog. “Why would he be saying that to me? Why on earth would I want to look at David Gandy’s eyes when there’s so much other treasure to view?”
He’s watching me steadily, a glint of amusement in his deep blue eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so methodically stripped in my life, Charlie. Shame on you. My eyes are up here, not in my crotch.”
“That’s very disturbing.” I consider the thought. “I suppose if that were the case, we’d all walk around naked on our bottom halves.”
“Why?” he asks faintly.
“So we can see. Keep up. Your three-eyed penis wants to have a clear sight of what’s ahead.”
“What’s ahead is a short stay in a mental institution,” he advises me.
I laugh, but it sounds alarmingly dreamy as I lick my lips and look at the trail of dark hair that runs down from his belly button.
He tightens his towel. “Okay, this isn’t awkward at all. Well done, Charlie.”
His voice is heavily sarcastic, and I blink to clear my eyes of my temporary madness, relieved that he’s acting normal. Unlike me, who’s acting as if I haven’t seen a naked man in a century. I think back and wince. Actually, there might not be so much acting involved. And I’ve got a boyfriend who’s not happy about the lack of nudity time.
I dismiss the thought as I realise Misha’s still watching me intently. His eyes have darkened into a deep navy, and his gaze is steady and intense and seems to be concentrated on my abs. I swallow hard, and the nervous clicking sound in my throat seems to bring him round and put an end to our mutual insanity.
“Let’s …” He clears his throat and then gets his words back. “Let’s agree never to do this again.”
“Vote seconded and carried.”
“Aye,” we both say together.
He tilts his head slightly. “Charlie, what is that awful noise coming from your bedroom?”
“Oh, that’ll be my prisoner,” I say cheerfully. “He’s always very vocal in the mornings until I can drug him for the day ahead.”
Misha blinks. “I think I’d prefer that to the reality of the fact that there appears to be Christmas music coming from your room.”
“It’s Jona Lewie and stop whingeing,” I instruct, walking past him and heading down the corridor.
The lounge is a big room made light and airy by the original floor-to-ceiling windows and patio doors leading to a balcony that overlooks the River Thames. The building had been a spice warehouse in Victorian times, and the architects who converted the place into flats kept historical details like the wooden flooring, beams, and the warehouse windows.
Misha’s version of interior design was to paint the non-brick walls white and buy an extremely expensive leather settee that stripped off an outer layer of your epidermis if you got sweaty. With the addition of some modern art on the walls that I’m convinced he bought when he was pissed, it was beautiful but sterile.
After a few days of me being here, it looks drastically different. My design contribution makes me smile. The black leather monstrosity has gone and in its place is a gorgeous orange velvet sectional settee. It’s big and deep and insanely comfortable and Misha moaned like hell about buying it, saying it looked like clown furniture, but I noticed he wasn’t complaining when he sat in the thing on the first night. I think it’s lovely. I like bright rich colours and the orange makes the brick walls look warm and homely.
“I think there’s a reason that Jona Lewie only had a couple of hits, and you’re listening to it,” Misha says, coming up next to me.
“He features heavily on my Christmas playlist. He’s the embodiment of our childhood, Misha.”
“So are Vicks VapoRub and Calpol. I don’t see you r
ushing to add them to the flat.”
I walk towards the kitchen, aware of him dogging my heels like a sexily half-naked—
I stop the end of that thought and replace it with, “like a nosy dachshund.”
Jona finishes singing about the cavalry stopping and Michael Bublé comes on, intent on utilising the one period in the year when he’s actually played on the radio.
“Charlie, what the fuck?” Misha whinges. “Christmas music!”
I shake my head disapprovingly as I cross the kitchen and switch on the kettle. “Okay, Mr Grinch. It is the second week in December. Christmas music is allowed.”
He folds his arms over his chest. “And when did you start listening to it?” he asks knowingly.
I slump. “Second week in November.” He laughs, and I wave a teaspoon at him. “It’s Christmas.”
“So you say. Makes no fucking difference to me. I still need to make money for people.”
“Okay, calm down, Gordon Gekko.”
He moves to the side to make a pot of coffee. I bought him a very expensive coffee maker last year, but he still insists on using the old percolator he’s had for years. He takes his coffee so strong you could stand a spoon up in the sludge. I wonder what my chances are of converting him to ginger and lemon tea. Probably not good first thing in the morning.
“Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?” I ask. He winces, and I narrow my eyes. “Please tell me you’re not doing it all on Christmas Eve again?”
“It’s a good time to do it,” he protests. “Really gets you into the Christmas spirit.”
“Well, it certainly did last year,” I say sourly. “You were so stressed after the shopping that you drank all the Christmas spirit and threw up in my wardrobe.”
Misha shrugs that off blithely, and looks around the room for a diversion. His gaze intensifies as it lands on my pyjamas. “What is on your shorts?”
