by Lily Morton
“No,” I say quickly. “I’m out tonight.”
If my usual hook-up partner isn’t around, I’m going on Grindr. Every time I’ve looked at Charlie in the last few days, I get a jolt of awareness, and I need to nip that shit in the bud.
Objectively, I know he’s stunning. Last time we were out at a pub, a bloke walked into the jukebox because he was staring so hard at him. I’ve become accustomed to Charlie’s looks over the years of being his friend, and I need to carry on with that programme. I don’t know whether it’s because we’re living together for the first time or that I haven’t had a shag recently, but something’s changed, and I need to put an end to it. Charlie is staying in my friend box.
Later that evening, the constant ring of the doorbell alerts me to the fact that something is different about my flat. I don’t usually encourage people to come round here, preferring to meet them out. I’m not sure why. Maybe because this is my quiet oasis that I still treasure even four years after moving out of my mum’s house and leaving the bathroom for the three women to fight over. I shudder at the thought of those mornings. Even my old flatmate had been a virtual stranger. A long-haul flight attendant, he was out of the country more than he was in it.
The bell rings again, and I narrow my eyes. Who the fuck is here? I’m meeting my Grindr hook-up at a bar, so it’s definitely not someone for me. I hear laughter and speed up getting dressed, slipping into my skinny black jeans and black T-shirt. After grabbing my old Clutch Cafe motorcycle jacket, I open the door and am immediately assaulted by the most delicious smell of baking.
“Oh my God,” I groan. “That smells lovely.”
I pad down the hallway and into the lounge and stop dead. On the huge orange sectional sofa—which I’d totally bought to make Charlie happy—are four men. Jesse, Charlie’s old flatmate; Zeb, his boyfriend; my cousin Felix; and Rupert, my friend from work.
“What the fuck are you all doing here?” I ask.
Felix shakes his head. “I think I must have got your share of the family charm. I’m so sorry about that, because you really do need some.”
“So snarky,” I say. “And so in my house. Where you normally aren’t.”
He sniffs. “Well, normally your house is as arid and dry as the fucking Sahara Desert. Now, however, it has Charlie. And cake,” he finishes reverently.
I instantly remember my quest to find the source of the smell. “Oh God, has he baked?” I groan.
Jesse nods enthusiastically. “I’ve missed Charlie so much,” he says. “So, so much. Living with Zeb just isn’t the same.”
“Maybe you should have moved in with Mary Berry then,” his boyfriend says, rolling his eyes.
“Never,” Jesse says robustly. “She doesn’t fill out a pair of jeans like you, Zeb.”
I shake my head and look at Rupert. “And you?” I say helplessly. “Why are you here?”
“Misha!” Charlie says in a shocked voice. “Oh my God, if tact were an artform you’d be painting with your own bodily waste.”
Felix throws his head back and laughs. “Oh Charlie, I do love you so, and it’s for exactly these tiny moments.”
I glare at my cousin and then focus on Charlie. He’s dressed in jeans and an amber-coloured crewneck jumper that makes his hair seem even blonder than usual. His face is flushed, probably from the oven, and he looks better than I’ve seen him in ages. I immediately promise myself that I’ll have people over more often if it keeps him looking like this. Then I focus on the plate he’s carrying.
“Oh my God, is that your boozy Black Forest cake?” I say through a mouthful of drool.
He nods. “We’re watching The Great British Bake Off and eating cake.”
“It’s genius,” Jesse offers.
“And you like The Great British Bake Off?” I say to Zeb.
He shrugs. “Well, I like cake.”
I can’t blame him. Charlie is the best baker I’ve ever known. In fact, he’s fantastic about cooking all round. But it’s his cakes that people love. This particular one is my favourite. It’s dark and rich, filled with layers of fluffy sponge, cream, and the black cherry jam that his mum makes.
“Can’t you just take a piece and go home?” I say to the happy group of idiots on my new sofa. I consider the TV where the show’s jaunty theme has started to play. “And watch something else. Something good.”
“You don’t like The Great British Bake Off?” Felix sounds as insulted as if I’ve just said that his shoes don’t match his outfit.
My eyes narrow. “I’m not so sure whether it’s the programme, the chance of cake, Charlie’s company, or using my shower that’s drawing you here.”
“You’re so suspicious.” He shrugs when I give him a pointed look. “I am a multi-faceted person. It can’t be denied.” I stare some more, and he slumps. “Okay, I’m a multi-faceted person who lives on a narrowboat with a very tiny water tank.”
“Go on through,” I say with a sigh. “The shower awaits.”
“Yes.” He punches the air and disappears, carrying his cake.
I take the opportunity to sit in his place. Jesus, this sofa is comfortable. All pillowy and just firm enough to cushion me. I lean back and find Charlie watching me, a twinkle in his eyes.
“It’s comfortable, isn’t it?” he says happily.
“It’s passable.” I shrug.
“Okay, Pinocchio.” He laughs, then he looks me up and down. “Are you going out?” There’s something in his eyes that I can’t quite work out… Then I miss my chance, because it vanishes.
“In a bit. I’ll sit for a few minutes.” I employ my puppy-dog eyes. “And eat cake.”
He shakes his head, but I notice happily that he still cuts me the biggest slice of cake.
I look at the TV where Paul and Prue are lecturing a tentful of people. “Well, at least it’s not that film The Mummy.”
“You don’t like The Mummy?” Zeb asks. “How is that even possible?”
“Have you ever watched it with Charlie?”
He shakes his head.
“Wait for it,” Charlie mutters to Zeb. “You’ve done it now.”
“I do like it,” I say sourly. “I just don’t like the rallying call that it sends to Charlie’s librarian soul.”
Jesse nods glumly. “He gets very worked up in the scene where all the shelves fall over in the library, and then he starts to talk about the time they had a flood at his library, and they had to move all the non-fiction books.”
“Which happened five years ago,” I add darkly.
Jesse shakes his head sadly. “And then every time she says ‘I am a librarian,’ we all have to cheer and Charlie stands up and waves his fist in the air.”
“I’m hoping The Great British Bake Off isn’t quite as energetic,” I say.
Zeb shrugs. “It got quite heated on biscuit week.”
“There was nothing wrong with those butter biscuits,” Charlie says. “And Prue knew it.”
The doorbell rings, and Charlie gets up instantly. When he reappears with Harry, my mood immediately sours.
“Oh great,” I whisper as I watch Harry greet my friends as though they’re his. His arm is slung over Charlie’s shoulder, and every few seconds, he stops his conversation to nuzzle into Charlie’s neck.
“What are you scowling about?” comes a whisper from my side.
I look at Rupert. “Nothing,” I say quickly.
“Oh, so it’s not Harry’s octopus-like grip on Charlie’s backside?”
“Exactly,” I hiss, turning to him. “I’m glad you can see it too. It’s like Harry thinks Charlie might collapse if his hand isn’t physically propping up Charlie’s buttocks.”
Rupert’s eyes twinkle. “Hmm,” he says contemplatively.
“What does that mean?”
“Just thinking,” he says innocently.
“Have you done that at work before? I can’t say I’ve ever noticed.”
He elbows me and chortles, and I watch him affectiona
tely. We’ve been friends since the day we met as green newbies, and I’ve never met anyone who seems less suited for the world of banking and investment. He’s perennially cheerful, laidback, and easygoing. He’s also extremely posh and would probably be at his happiest pottering around on his country estate with an equally posh wife and twenty kids running everywhere. However, his father decreed that he had to have a career, and Rupert drifted into finance. Luckily, he’s excellent at it. He’s got a genius for the markets.
He leans closer. “Eat your cake,” he murmurs. “Your scowl is attracting attention.”
I look up and find Charlie watching me anxiously while Harry hangs on him and shoots me a smug smile. Harry seems to think that by going out with Charlie he’s won some sort of contest with me. If I didn’t know how brilliant Charlie is, I’d have suspected Harry was with him to get back at me. As if we were still at school. But I know he’s mad on Charlie with the emphasis on the word mad.
He’s obsessed with Charlie’s looks to the extent that he ignores everything else that makes Charlie brilliant. And, yes, Charlie has a face that makes people take second and third looks, with high wide cheekbones and full lips and all that hair. But his face is also full of kindness and an easy acceptance, and that’s the true source of his beauty. It certainly brings all the boys to his yard.
I also have the unpleasant knowledge that if it came down to a competition between Harry and me with Charlie, then Harry would win. I’d found that out when I voiced my opinion of him too loudly, and Charlie had turned on me.
People might think that Charlie’s soft and gentle, and he’s certainly all that, but he’s also the most loyal person you can meet. Of course, the person to whom he’s most loyal is his boyfriend—a fact that, as his best friend, was hard for me take. It had been a horrible realisation that one day someone would take my special place at his side, and I’d be relegated to the support acts.
“Hello, Harry,” says Jesse over-enthusiastically. “I haven’t seen you since quiz night at the King’s Head.” Zeb nudges him, and Jesse obviously recalls that it was the night that Charlie and I had the stand-up row at the bar about Harry. “Such a nice night amongst good friends,” he says vaguely, and Zeb snorts.
“Harry,” I say in a smooth voice. “How lovely to see you.” I pause. “In my flat. And not at work. With your shoes off. Getting comfortable. In my flat.”
“Misha,” Charlie says warningly and Harry grabs him, one hand lowering and squeezing his arse.
Like he’s checking it to see if it’s ripe, I think sourly.
“Don’t worry, babe,” Harry says. “It’s just Misha being funny.” He kisses Charlie’s neck.
“That’s me,” I say coolly, suppressing my frown. “So funny.”
I bite into my cake to break up the awkwardness and then groan under my breath at the taste and take another quick bite. When I look up, everyone is watching me.
“Do you want us to give you some privacy?” Zeb asks dryly, and I raise my middle finger at him.
Charlie switches his attention to the TV. “Yay,” he says happily. “It’s bread week.”
“Whatever,” Harry says with a chortle, pulling Charlie down to sit on his lap.
Charlie immediately looks rather awkward, and I narrow my eyes. Trouble in paradise? Good.
Harry squeezes his arse. “Good job you’re pretty, babe, because your TV choices aren’t exactly highbrow.”
Charlie immediately looks embarrassed, and rage stirs inside me at Harry. Patronising wanker. “What the fuck is highbrow?” I ponder. “Unless it’s a receding hairline, in which case Charlie has no worries with all that hair of his.”
Harry holds up one hand. “Whoa. No need to go on the defensive. I was just teasing, wasn’t I, babe? Charlie knows how much I love his brain. He’s the full package.” He cups Charlie’s groin, and Charlie immediately wriggles away, glaring at Harry.
I watch them, aware of the frown on my face. Charlie glances up and our gazes clash. His eyes are a stormy blue, and I immediately look away in case he decides to chastise me for sticking up for him.
The space around us provides plenty of distractions. The lounge is so drastically different from the way it looked last week. Then it had been black leather and clean lines. Now the exposed brick walls are covered in the bookshelves we’d bought this afternoon, filled by the colourful spines of Charlie’s books. The orange velvet sofa looks warm and bright against the wide wooden planks of the floor, and even the white walls look warmer somehow.
Charlie’s jacket is slung over the leather chair in the corner, and his shoes have been kicked off under the window. Usually, I’d go ballistic about any mess, but somehow it seems right. Like a home, I realise. There’s even a candle burning on the small table next to me. I roll my eyes. One day the world will run out of matches to light Charlie’s candles, such is his obsession with them. This one smells sweet like honey and reminds me of the way his bedrooms have always smelt no matter where he lived.
Rupert nudges me. “You’re deep in thought. Don’t you want to hear what Paul Hollywood has to say?”
“I’d rather eat my own tonsils.”
“I must say I’d rather eat those than your cooking.”
“So funny,” I lament as he chuckles, the sound as warm as his personality. “Why are you here, again?” I ask him. “Is it the cake too?”
He shudders and pats his stomach. “I’d be the size of a house if I lived with Charlie. How are you going to cope?”
“Add another gym session and a run.” I take another bite of cake. “It’s totally worth it,” I say with my mouth full.
“You going out?” he asks. “That’s your pulling gear.”
“I’m meeting someone for a fuck. It’s pretty much a sure thing.” I shrug. “I could wear my pyjamas, and I’d still get laid.”
He shakes his head. “When does confidence become arrogance?” he wonders out loud.
I smirk at him. Time to give some shit back. “But enough about my attributes, Rupert. We haven’t got long enough to discuss those. Let’s address instead why you’re here.” I tap my finger against my chin. “You’re here to pick Charlie’s brains about love matters.”
He squirms. “Don’t call it that,” he whispers.
“Why don’t you just ask her out?”
Rupert has been mad about Bethany, Charlie’s friend, since he met her when we all went to a club a few years ago.
He shrugs. “She’d never be interested in me. I just like to hear about her, and Charlie’s always so encouraging about getting us together. Even though it’s useless.”
I can’t help but agree with Rupert. The two couldn’t be more ill-suited. Bethany is feisty and forceful, and Rupert isn’t. He’s kind and steady. But Charlie still believes they’d suit and does his best to matchmake, usually with terrible results. Like the time he invited them both to dinner at his old flat. He made seafood paella which was disastrous, as Rupert is allergic to shellfish and far too polite to ever say anything. The night had ended rather abruptly when he threw up on Bethany’s shoes. I shudder at the thought. I make it a principle to stay completely out of any matchmaking schemes, but Charlie remains hopeful.
“He’s very encouraging, but he’s a worse matchmaker than the chap who thought it would be great for Bluebeard to settle down,” I warn Rupert. “Just look at the blokes he picks for himself. There have been more than a few prats.”
“Maybe he’s just not found the right one yet,” Rupert says comfortably, taking a bite of his cake.
I look instinctively over at my best friend who is watching the television happily and listening to something that Jesse is saying. His eyes look very blue tonight, and his hair is pulled back in a topknot that shows off the clean lines of his face. He looks up suddenly, and for a second, we stare at each other. Bewilderment crosses his face, and, fearing what he might be seeing, I swallow hard and look determinedly at the television.
I watch the programme for a few minutes.
“What is the point of this?” I wonder out loud. “If I wanted to see people making bread, I’d go to Greggs.” Everyone happily ignores me, and I go back to munching on my cake.
I’ll eat this and then I can meet my bloke for the night. A good shag and I’ll feel like myself again. I settle further into the sofa. Jesus, this is comfortable. My limbs melt into it like I’m butter and it’s toast.
Ten minutes later, I sit forward. “Hang on. Prue’s being very picky. That poppyseed bread looks perfect,” I say through a mouthful of another piece of cake.
“Say it, don’t spray it,” Felix says disapprovingly.
Later on, everyone leaves, including, to my surprise, Harry. I can’t say I’m sorry. I’m not sure I like the idea of hearing them fucking while I lie in bed in the next room.
Charlie and I are just locking up when I realise with a start that I’ve missed out on the chance of a shag. Somewhere in a pub nearby is a very pissed-off bloke. I listen to Charlie chattering happily as he loads the dishwasher with the plates I bring to him, and I smile. I still wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else but here tonight. With my best friend.
Chapter Three
Charlie
On Monday night, I watch Misha as he parks the car in a small space outside his mum’s house. He’s so competent at everything that he puts his mind to. I would have gone back and forth a few hundred times, cranked the wheel until I had muscles like Popeye, and then moved on to a different spot. Misha just pulls up, reverses, and with one smooth turn of the wheel he’s in. Everything he does is charged with the certainty that he’s going to succeed. It’s an air that he’s always carried with him and totally explains why he’s a hedge fund manager at a relatively young age.
When we’ve parked to his satisfaction, we get out of the car, and I lift my face to the breeze, feeling the sting of rain. I look around the street on which I grew up.
