by Lily Morton
“Jesus, it’s cold,” I say, walking up to the counter where Bethany is sitting on a stool with a pile of library books and some Christmas wrapping paper. I watch as she quickly wraps one of the books.
“Wow,” I say, leaning on the counter. “Is this really what librarians give for Christmas presents? I can see that I’ve been very remiss in giving you actual new things.”
She shakes her head, a smile tugging on her lips. “They’re for a lucky-dip reading box, but it’s good that you’re friends with Charlie, Misha. He’s possibly the only person in the world who appreciates your humour.”
“That’s because he has incredible taste.” I look around the library. “Where is he? He’s making me take him to get a Christmas tree.”
She laughs. “Oh my God, you’re getting a Christmas tree. Won’t that spoil the extreme minimalist vibe that you’ve got going on?”
“Not anymore,” I say grimly. “Charlie put fairy lights up in the fucking kitchen last night.”
She smirks. “You’re so under his thumb. It’s Whoville all over again.”
“It’s what again?”
“The Grinch.” I look questioningly at her, and she shakes her head. “It’s a Dr Seuss storybook. You really should read more.”
“Yes, because children’s picture books will do me so much good. I can read it at work. They’ll be queuing up to borrow it.”
“Is it the words that are causing you the problem, Misha? Because we can help you.”
I discreetly raise my middle finger at her, and she laughs before moving off to help a customer signalling to her from the computers.
“It’s the Christmas drag queen story time,” she calls over her shoulder. “He’s with Marlena in the children’s library.”
I smile. Charlie had introduced drag queen story time last year after he’d suggested the idea to a few of the drag queens at a bar that we go to. The programme had been greeted a bit sniffily in the library and a few mums had walked out, but many more have replaced them. It’s one of their most successful events and totally down to Charlie.
I wander across to peep into the children’s library. It’s a bright room painted with primary colours, the ceiling covered in paper butterflies that Charlie and Bethany had spent two nights painstakingly painting and cutting.
Today the huge velvet story chair that looks like a throne has been pulled into the centre of the room, and the Kinder boxes full of picture books have been shoved to the side to allow the many small bottoms to perch on the rug. I notice with satisfaction the large number of children and the mums and dads who are sitting at the back smiling and laughing.
Usually, Charlie sits on the throne with a crown on, but today he’s standing to the side, and all attention is on Marlena, who is reading from The Night Before Christmas.
Six feet tall with an attitude that’s as long as her body and a tongue sharper than a box of scissors, Marlena is dressed today in a red sequined dress with red and white stripy tights and glittery red shoes. Her blond wig is backcombed to within an inch of its life, and she has a Santa hat perched on top of it. As is usual when she’s with the little ones, her normally cynical expression has softened. Generally known as Marlena Dicktricks, she thankfully altered her title to Queen Fancypants for these sessions.
Charlie looks up and sees me. He gives a little wave, but the hand I’d half-raised in reply falters when I catch a look at his face. He’s sheet-white, and even from here I can see the dark circles under his eyes. For a six-foot-two bloke, he looks alarmingly fragile. A wave of panic floods over me, curdling my stomach and making me break into a cold sweat.
I haven’t seen him look this bad since the early days of his accident and the subsequent epilepsy diagnosis. I remember that horrible time very clearly. I moved into his flat when he came out of hospital, ignoring his protests and looking after him until he felt better. I clench my fists. I’m done letting him steamroller me into ignoring what’s in front of my eyes.
My determination must show in my face because his expression becomes wary as he stands up straight and folds his arms. The children all suddenly cheer and laugh loudly at something that Marlena has said, dragging Charlie’s attention away.
I pace back to the counter.
“Has he had a seizure this morning?” I ask Bethany, who is wrapping books again.
She immediately puts her scissors down. “I’m pretty sure he had one this morning before he came in.”
“How do you know?”
“He came in a taxi.”
I nod grimly. “Yep. That’ll be proof.”
“Has he said anything to you about the seizures, Misha? Even I can see they’re getting worse.”
“No, he’s so fucking stubborn.”
She nods. “He’s like a donkey. Oh my God,” she says in dawning recognition. “He’s a smiley Eeyore.”
“He’ll be a pissed-off Eeyore when I march him down to the hospital.”
Bethany shakes her head. “I don’t envy you that encounter.” We look at each other in complete and silent agreement on the fact that Charlie is an immovable object when he wants to be.
“I know that it’s up to him to make decisions about the epilepsy. He has total autonomy over his choices. But this is different,” I mutter. “I can’t ignore this.”
“I don’t want you to,” she whispers. She moves away to serve a customer, and I lean against the counter. When she comes back, she looks quizzically at me. “So, how are you going to do it?”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Not sure. We’re away in Brighton tomorrow for Jamie’s birthday weekend. I’ll work my way round to it then. I’m driving Charlie, so we’ll have the whole car journey with it being just the two of us.”
“Isn’t Harry driving him?”
I shake my head. “No, he’s got something on in the morning. He’s meeting us at the hotel. I’ll look forward to that,” I say sourly. “My weekend won’t be complete if I don’t spend it with a complete dickhead.”
“He’s such a tosspot,” she mutters. “How on earth did you end up going to Jamie’s birthday bash when Charlie’s already taking Harry? Do you have anything in common with that bunch of Hooray Henrys?”
“God forbid.” I shudder. “I’d rather have something in common with Dennis Nilsen.”
“So why are you going? Fancy a candyfloss?”
“Yes, to go with my kiss-me-quick hat.”
She laughs. “I know why you’re going.”
I shake my head. “Do tell, oh soothsaying woman of London.”
Bethany smirks. “You’re going to look after Charlie.”
I automatically look around, but he must still be doing story time. Or trying to make a quick getaway out of the back of the library. “For God’s sake, don’t let him hear that. He’ll go mad.”
She bites her lip. “But that is the reason?”
“Of course it is. I’m not letting him fuck off to Brighton when he’s not right in himself. Harry’s no use. If Charlie hasn’t tattooed the problem on his buttocks, then Harry won’t see it. And how on earth will any of those other idiots look after him? They don’t have the time between stuffing coke up their nostrils and giving acute vacuousness a run for its money.”
She shudders. “I’m glad you’re going to be with him,” she mutters and then smiles. “What was Harry’s reaction to you going?”
“I was fortunately spared that, and Charlie certainly won’t tell me, but I’m hoping he wasn’t happy,” I say with a vicious sort of satisfaction. “The weekend will probably follow the usual pattern. First he’ll hang all over Charlie, acting as if he’ll fall over if Charlie’s arse isn’t holding him up. This will be followed by the second phase, where he will act as if Charlie hasn’t got a workable brain cell in his head.” I shrug. “I’ll attempt to ignore it all because if I say anything, it’ll lead to the last part of the weekend which is Charlie and me arguing.”
“You never row with Charlie,” she says in astonishment.
“Well, of course you can’t.”
I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean? You’ve got a funny note in your voice.”
“Really? Must be getting a cold,” she says innocently.
I’m thinking up a way to question her, when someone calls from the back of the library. “Is that you, Mikhail?”
I smile at the sound of my full name and turn to find a little old man who’s a regular in the library. “It is, Mr Turner. How are you?”
He shakes my hand. “Fine, fine. Wonder if you’d have a look at some forms with me?”
“Of course I will.” I follow him to a table at the back of the library, waving goodbye to Bethany.
We sit for a while going through the paperwork for a disability payment while he chatters about his grandchildren and Christmas plans. I’d once helped him with these forms while I was waiting for Charlie to finish work, and now it seems to be my permanent job. I don’t mind. He helped Charlie a couple of years ago when Charlie had a seizure while he was locking up the library. When I pulled into the car park, I’d found Charlie on the floor, but Mr Turner had stayed with him. He’d covered him with his own coat and was sitting holding Charlie’s hand. For that, I will help him with any paperwork for the rest of his life.
The strains of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” sound from the children’s area, followed by exuberant squeals and laughter. Charlie appears at the entrance, and Bethany hurries over to hand a basket to him. Mr Turner and I watch as the children and parents come out, pulling on their coats, the children dipping their hands into the basket and pulling out little presents. Their faces are flushed and happy.
A few minutes later, Marlena appears and makes her way over to us. In her heels, she must be six foot three, and little bells ring from somewhere on her dress. Mr Turner and I rise to our feet, as one is advised to do when greeting a queen. She waves us to our seats and settles down next to us, reaching into her large bag and pulling out a Tupperware box.
“Oh my God,” I say indignantly. “Those are Charlie’s mince pies. How did I not get some to take to work?”
“You’re not nearly as important as me, darling,” she purrs.
I laugh. “That’s true.”
“But seeing as it’s Christmas and I am imbued with the festive spirit, I shall let you have one.” She checks the box. “But only a small one.”
I smile and hold out my hand. “How about you choose one for me, my queen.”
She narrows her eyes. “Well, with all that charm I can see now why you get so much cock, Misha.” Mr Turner chokes on his own mince pie and she pats his back while still talking. “It was always a bit of a mystery to me before.”
“Oh, lovely,” I say faintly. “Well, as long as you’ve seen the light now.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” She looks back at where Charlie is talking to some parents. “He’s not right, Misha,” she says, dropping her humour.
I sigh. “I know. I’m going to do something about it. I’ve let this go on for too long.”
She looks at me thoughtfully. “Make sure you do. That boy is an angel.”
I smile at her. “He is. But I have to point out after years of knowing him that his halo is slightly dented and no one ever notices.”
“Oh, darling, we’ve all got dented halos. Of course, yours is probably languishing in a scabby old junkyard somewhere, buried beneath a mountain of rusting metal and the failed dreams of your latest twink.”
I blink. “That’s fairly graphic.”
“Misha, Misha.” She pats my cheek and pinches it gently. “If you weren’t destined for someone else I would be in you quicker than when I go through John Lewis’s doors during the sale.”
I freeze, not wanting to make any sudden moves. “Erm, didn’t you black someone’s eye last year? Not sure that’s quite my idea of good sex.”
She shakes her head with a coquettish look on her face. “One should never reject new experiences.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what Ann Boleyn said about marriage.”
Marlena laughs. “Oh Misha, don’t think too hard, you pretty, pretty boy.”
I suddenly remember what she said. “Anyway, who the hell am I destined for?”
She smirks at Mr Turner and jerks her head towards me. “Pretty, but not terribly bright, Arthur.”
The little old traitor nods. “You are, as usual, completely right.”
She accepts that as her due and gets to her feet. “Well, I must be off. My Brian will be waiting in the car park.” Brian is her husband, a small bald man. The two of them look unlikely spouses, but they adore each other.
Mr Turner and I get to our feet.
“My queen,” Mr Turner says, taking her hand and kissing it.
She inclines her head regally and pats him on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Arthur.” She turns to me. “You may hug me,” she instructs me, and I hasten to obey her. She hugs me tight. “I mean it,” she whispers. “Make sure that boy gets looked at.”
We move apart, and I smile at the sight of Charlie who is putting a cup of hot chocolate in front of Nick, the homeless bloke who usually comes into the library to get warm in the afternoon. Charlie pats Nick on the shoulder and walks over to us.
“Another amazing story time, Marlena,” he says happily. “The children loved it. Thank you.”
She hugs him, her face full of affection. “Merry Christmas, Charlie,” she says. “Thank you so much for this year.” She stands back, grabbing his shoulders. “It’s meant such a lot to the community, and I swear it’s given me a new lease on life.”
He smiles at her, and everything that’s Charlie is in that smile. Warmth, sunshine, and a caring nature. You can totally see why people bend over backwards to look after him.
“You didn’t need one,” he says. “You’ll always be younger than anyone else in the room.”
“Dear boy.” She pats him on the cheek. “Make sure you take care of yourself, Charlie.” She pauses. “Or I will find you and inflict great pain.”
He looks startled. “Oh. Of course. You too,” he says faintly, and I snort.
She turns back to me. “Merry Christmas, Misha. Don’t be stupid for much longer.” And then she’s gone.
“And just what did that mean?” I say indignantly. “She says it every single time I see her.”
“Good job you’re better with paperwork than you are at life, Mikhail,” Mr Turner says. Then he follows the trail of Marlena’s perfume out of the library.
Chapter Five
Charlie
It’s rainy and cold the next morning as we wait to cross the busy road leading to the private car park where Misha keeps his car. I shift my weekend bag from one hand to the other and look at Misha. He’s wearing grey-green chinos and a white T-shirt peeks from under the hem of a grey jumper. His old motorcycle jacket completes the outfit. It’s a casual look, but he looks as put together and expensive as ever. As opposed to me. I’m wearing jeans and an old black jumper which I’m sure is a lovely complement to the dark shadows under my eyes.
I’m so tired I could lie down on the wet pavement and go to sleep, and I don’t know why because I was in bed and asleep by nine o’clock last night. A big patch of skin over my side is also hurting. It’s likely a bruise I got during my last turn.
“Charlie?” I’m not sure how many times Misha has said my name, but from the exasperation in his voice, it’s obviously more than once. I give him an apologetic glance and he says, “You’re a bloody space cadet this morning. The lights are on green.”
We walk quickly across the road and down into the bowels of the car park. He clicks his key fob, and I hear the expensive-sounding chirp of the car ahead of us. He makes quick work of sticking the bags in the boot, which is as pristine as the rest of the car.
I think nostalgically of my old Volkswagen Golf. You couldn’t see the seat
material, as everything was covered in books, papers, and sweet wrappers. I sold it when I became epileptic and lost my license.
“What are you thinking about?”
I look over the roof at Misha. “My Golf.”
“Ah, how I miss the days of putting on a hazmat suit to travel with you.”
I climb into Misha’s baby and run a hand down one of the leather bucket seats. “There is a benefit to being extremely anally retentive about cleaning,” I muse. “And being a soulless banker.”
“That makes me sound like one of the undead.” He laughs. “Not to worry though. According to Jamie, you’ll be in no danger from little old vampire me, unless it’s death by the Famous Five’s picnics or ginger beer.” He pauses. “Or rampant sexism and questionable parental decisions.”
I sigh. “Misha, promise me you won’t mention that this weekend.”
He considers me and then nods solemnly while mouthing the word, “No.” I open my mouth to chastise him, but he starts the engine and looks over at me. “Rock, paper, scissors on who gets to choose the music?”
I shake my head. “Misha, I’m not sure why you keep doing this. Surely the better option is just to let me play my music.”
“Only if we want to die from an overabundance of upbeat poppy tunes and Christmas music.”
“My music tastes are very catholic.”
“The Pope does look like he might appreciate Taylor Swift.”
“Everyone should appreciate Taylor Swift,” I say firmly. “She makes me happy. And you should listen to her. It might have a positive impact on your mood.”
“Only if we’re classing positive impact as wanting to throw myself out of a fast-moving vehicle.”
“Give it up,” I advise him and get out my phone, synching it to his Bluetooth.
Misha frowns as he looks at the display. “You actually have something called a happy playlist,” he says in a tone of great disgust.
“Yes, and by the time we get to Brighton you’ll be so happy you’ll be glowing.”
I settle back in my seat, listening to the opening song of my playlist. The next thing I know I’m waking up, and we’re passing a sign saying that Brighton is five miles away.
