by Lily Morton
Jamie shrugs, a wry look on his face. “I never stood a chance with Charlie.”
I straighten up. “Sorry?”
He shakes his head again. “Never mind. He’s gorgeous and a lovely person, but he’s not for me.” He smiles suddenly. “Plus, I think I’d be rather uncomfortable with such a clever person.”
“Not something I’d think you usually have to be concerned about with your friendship group,” I say.
He laughs. “I think I’d like to be his friend though. Think he’s got room for one more?”
“There’s always room for one more with Charlie. He’s the best friend to have. That goes for me too. You’re my friend as well,” I say steadily.
He looks abashed and pleased and then smiles. “I could stay and help you shower him, especially if you’re both naked. That’d cross a couple of items off my bucket list straight away.”
“No chance,” I say, and his low laughter follows me into the other room.
“Can I do anything?” he asks.
“You could ask the receptionist if they’ll send up something sweet. An iced cinnamon bun if they’ve got them.”
“Feeling peckish?”
“Not for me. It’s for Charlie. He’ll sleep after the shower, and when he wakes up, he’ll feel like he’s got a hangover and he’ll be craving sugar. Cinnamon buns are his favourite. I keep some all the time in the freezer at home.”
He nods and squeezes my arm. “Consider it done.” He walks over to where Charlie is lying dozing with his eyelids flickering. “I’m going,” he says softly. “Feel better soon, Charlie.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and I lean over Charlie. “Up and at ’em, sunshine,” I say.
He groans. “Can’t you leave me here?”
“Of course I can,” I say steadily. “You can crawl under the duvet straightaway if that’s what you want.”
He considers that and then shakes his head. “No, I feel dirty.” A smile crosses his mouth. “Although not as much as normal. There’s a lot to be said for five-star housekeeping. That floor was spotless.”
“They should employ you,” I say, taking the hand he offers me and pulling him up. He wavers, and I steady him with a casual hand on his hip. “You could road test the carpets of England.”
“That makes me sound rather grand. I like it.”
We make it to the bathroom, and I lean against the counter while he gets undressed. I’m poised to grab him if he falls over, but he’s very touchy about his independence, so I usually settle for engaging him in conversation in the hope that he won’t realise I’m coddling him.
He pulls off his clothes and kicks off his shoes, and when he’s naked, I quickly strip down to my boxer briefs and then guide him into the shower. It’s a sign of how shitty he feels that he doesn’t make his usual protests. Instead, he leans heavily against me, ratcheting up my worry level by a few steps. He’s normally got his balance back by the time we get to this stage.
I straighten up and reach for the pink bottle of his shampoo, directing him to stick his head under the spray.
“Close your eyes,” I instruct him. I work the shampoo through the long waves of his hair, and the cubicle fills with the scent of melon. I work my fingers hard in a massage that I know he loves, and he gives the usual stifled groan of happiness that makes me smile.
“I’m sure most library managers have their own butlers by now,” I say. “You could have this done every day.”
“I don’t think butlers usually engage in hair washing. Maybe I need one who’s interested in diversifying.”
“One should never stand still in the face of progress,” I say pompously, and he snorts.
Then his smile slides away. “I’m struggling a bit at the moment, Misha,” he whispers.
The smallness of the words don’t seem enough to make my eyes fill, but they do, and I hug him tight.
“I know,” I whisper. “And I’m always here for you and so is everyone else. But maybe occasionally you could let us help you, sunshine.” I tip his head back to wash off the shampoo, my fingers resting on the sharp bones of his face.
He’s pale, the freckles on his face standing out starkly. I hate with a passion what I’m about to do next because it feels like I’m taking advantage of his momentary weakness. I don’t usually interfere with his treatment. He’s a grown man, and it’s his own body and his condition. However, I can’t sit back and watch this happening.
“How many turns are you having a day at the moment, Charlie?”
He leans closer and mumbles something, his head down so I can massage some more shampoo into his scalp.
I hesitate. “I’m sure you just said two?”
He nods. “One or two a day.”
I repress the urge to shake him. Instead, I say calmly, “That doesn’t seem good. What did Freda say?” Freda is the epilepsy nurse who usually does his reviews.
“She doesn’t know. I haven’t been to the reviews,” he mumbles.
“How many have you missed?” My voice is calm and even, and I carry on rubbing the shampoo in.
“Three.”
I want to shout, but I settle for saying in a light enquiring voice, “Why?”
He shrugs. “You’re very good at washing hair,” he says quickly, employing a very obvious diversionary tactic.
I shake my head, secure in the knowledge that he can’t see me, and go along with him for now. I’ve wedged the door open, so I’ll kick it down soon. “All those hours I spent having to do Tessa Doll’s hair,” I say gloomily.
He laughs with what sounds like relief. “I’ve still got the video somewhere.”
“Show it at your peril,” I say in a singsong voice.
He smiles. “I can still see that surly sixteen-year-old holding the dolly while Anya directed you to do it again and do it better.”
“She was never happy,” I say darkly. “Such a demanding person. It was like being the elder brother of Marco Pierre White.”
“I can’t imagine where she got that from.”
I pinch him. “Get out of the shower, lazybones.”
He steps out, swaying slightly, and I quickly strip off my underwear, wrapping a towel around my hips before swathing him in his own towelling nest.
“Teeth next,” I say briskly. I hand him his toothbrush and squeeze the paste out, holding on to his hip as he brushes in a desultory fashion. “Enough,” I say after a minute. I step back as he spits into the basin and then I help him into the bedroom.
He heads almost desperately for the bed, but I guide him into a sitting position on the mattress. He makes a grumbling sound, his eyes already closing.
“Just another few minutes,” I soothe. “Just need to get your hair dry.”
I leave him sitting for a minute while I look for the hairdryer and then another minute while I search for a fucking plug socket near him. Finally finding one, I plug the hairdryer in and aim it at his hair.
“Did you comb it?” he mutters.
“What am I? Vidal Sassoon?” I ask, huffing. I grab his comb and draw it gently through the long length of his hair. It’s a dark caramel colour because it’s wet. “You’ve got more hair than one of those troll dolls,” I observe.
He smiles, his eyes still shut. “Such a flatterer. I can see why you get laid so much.”
“They come for the looks. They stay for the cock.”
He laughs, and I smile, starting to dry his hair, tunnelling my hand through the waves under the hot air. He sits quiescently. When I’ve finished, I open his case and rummage through it until I find a pair of briefs. He sits still while I kneel and put his legs through them and pull them up.
“You’re very spoilt,” I observe, and he yawns widely without putting his hand over his mouth, showing white teeth and a very pink tongue.
“I am very lucky.” He yawns again. “I’m so tired,” he says, and the words drag and slide.
“Get into bed.” I pull the covers back, and he swings his legs up, sighing in sat
isfaction.
“God, that feels good,” he slurs. I pull the covers over him, tucking him in, and his eyes suddenly fly open. “What about Harry?”
“What about him?” I say evenly.
“Where is he? He might want to get back in the room for his stuff. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you two to be in the same room.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” I say smoothly. “He’s gone out anyway, and I’ve locked the door.”
He nods, and his eyes slide shut. “Lie with me,” he whispers.
I immediately acquiesce, going round to the other side of the bed and drawing him close to me. When he’s had a seizure, he’s a total cuddle monster. It seems to ground him a bit.
I look around the room properly for the first time. “Why is there a bath in the bedroom?”
“It’s supposed to be decadent,” he says sleepily.
“It’s actually like something from an early episode of Emmerdale. Couldn’t they afford walls to make a room for it? What’s that called? Oh, I know. A bathroom.”
“It’s sexy.”
“It’s penny-pinching.” He snorts, and I shake my head. “So, Harry has booked a room with a bath right in front of the bed to remind you how much you miss having a bath.” I sniff. “Cunt. I’m surprised that you actually fuck this man, Charlie. I marvel at it whenever I have a spare minute.”
“Well, that must be a lot, then. You bankers don’t really do much.” I pinch him, and he laughs. “I haven’t fucked him for ages, anyway,” he mutters.
“Really?” I try not to let my delight at that news saturate my voice, but I’m not entirely sure that I succeed. I also work hard not to examine why I feel like that. Dry few weeks, I reassure myself.
Charlie shrugs. “I think my hole might have sealed up by now. There are so many cobwebs over the entrance it could be on the set of Raiders of the Lost Ark.”
“They’re digging in the wrong place, Indy,” I mutter, and he laughs.
I shift position slightly, feeling my muscles tense up. “I’m going to ring the hospital and make you an emergency appointment,” I say quickly, getting the words out in a mad rush before he can shut me down. I brace myself for open warfare, but it’s a sign of how bad he feels that he doesn’t even argue. That makes cold tendrils of fear sneak down my back. “You can’t keep ignoring this, Charlie. You have to see a professional so they can assess you.” I swallow hard. “People die from this condition and you’re leaving it untreated,” I whisper. “Please don’t do that, Charlie.”
There’s a long enough silence for me to prepare for a tongue lashing, but he must have heard the stark fear in my voice because he reaches back and pats my hip. “Okay,” he whispers.
I sag with relief. “You’ll go?”
He nods. “The number’s in my phone.”
“Thank you,” I say fervently and kiss his shoulder. The skin is as soft as silk there.
We lie silent for a second and then he mutters, “Play me something.”
I reach out for my phone on the side table and fiddle with Spotify before connecting to the Bluetooth speaker. The sound of “Tear” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers slips out.
“Why have you chosen this one?” he asks sleepily.
The gentle and warm cadence of the song reminds me so much of Charlie’s presence. It’s sunny and warm like him. I pull him close and bury my face in his wavy blond hair, inhaling the scent of melon.
“I just like the tune,” I say, aware that he’s fallen asleep as quickly as a child.
Chapter Seven
Misha
I come awake with a start when I hear the click of the door lock and then a soft curse as the door fails to open. Harry.
The room is dimly lit by the lamp on the bedside table, and I cast a quick look at Charlie. He’s sleeping obliviously, his mouth open slightly and his hair everywhere. I grab my trousers and shirt and pull them on before throwing open the door and stepping out quickly.
It forces Harry back, and he staggers slightly. I make no move to help him. Instead, I fold my arms over my chest and stare at him. He’s flushed and obviously a little drunk, his clothing disarranged, and when he steps closer, I catch the bitter tang of spunk on his breath. So the fucker was out scoring while Charlie was ill. My temper rises. What a total and utter wanker.
“Can I help you?” I say coldly.
He sneers. “How the hell can you possibly help me unless it’s to get the fuck out of my hotel room?”
“Ah, there’s been a slight change of plan.”
“What?” he says warily.
I smile icily. “It’s been decided that Charlie is going to stay in this room on his own and you are going to fuck off.” I pause as if considering my words before nodding. “Yes, that’s about it. We ended with you fucking off and never showing your face around him again.”
Something crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can decipher it. He folds his arms over his chest. “And you’re going to keep me out of the room, are you? I bloody paid for it.”
“Well, maybe you should consider the fact that you’ve had more than enough for your money, mate,” I say silkily.
He laughs and my anger rises another notch. “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you.”
“What do you mean?”
He makes a sneering noise. “Because I got what you’ve always wanted, Misha.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I got Charlie,” he says as if I’m thick.
“Charlie’s my best mate. I don’t want him.” I’ve said those words so many times over the years, but tonight I have to actively work to put conviction in my voice. It obviously doesn’t work because he leans against the opposite wall, a sneer on his lips.
“Okay, Misha, however you want to play it.”
“I’m not playing anything.”
“Neither am I. I want to go in there and get into bed with Charlie.”
I shake my head. “It’s baffling to me that you actually consider you’re still welcome after your performance tonight.”
For a second shame crosses his face. Then he blanks his expression. “You talk as if you have a say in the matter.”
“For tonight, I have.” I open the door and remove his weekend bag that I stashed there earlier while Charlie was asleep. It’s half-open, and his stuff is spilling out of it. I look at Harry and throw it at him. As it hits him, the clothes burst out like they’re a jack-in-the-box cascading to the floor.
“There’s your shit,” I say. “Now, fuck off. What Charlie wants to do tomorrow is up to him, but I’m in charge tonight, and I’m telling you that you’re not getting anywhere near him, so sling your hook and do one.”
He throws me a fulminating glance and bends down to start stuffing the clothes back in his bag. As he stands up, I reach down to pick up a lacy pair of panties which have fallen out of a bundle of clothes. I throw them to him. “You’ve forgotten something, Harry.”
He looks down at them, and a nasty expression crosses his face. “Oh, they’re not mine,” he says softly. “They’re Charlie’s.” As the shock hits me, I gape at him, and he smiles. “Well, well, it seems there are some things that you don’t actually know about your bestest friend. I wonder why that is, eh, Misha? I wonder why you never knew that Charlie likes wearing pretty lacy knickers. Maybe he didn’t feel like he could confide in you.” I flinch, and he laughs before chucking the scrap of fabric back at me. I catch it reflexively, and my fist closes around the material, the lace rough on my skin. He laughs again. “This is hilarious. Wait until I tell the lads at work about—”
He doesn’t get any further because a red mist descends, and I throw myself at him, tackling him and taking him down to the ground. His hold on my T-shirt ensures that I follow and we roll around on the floor for a few seconds grunting and trying to land punches.
There’s the sudden sound of a door opening behind us, and an aggrieved posh voice says very loudly, “Do you know w
hat time it is, you inconsiderate wankers? It’s midnight, and I need to go to sleep.”
“Well, go to fucking bed, then,” Harry mutters as I push his face into the carpet.
The door slams and I redouble my efforts at breaking his face.
“Stop it,” he grunts. “Fuck off, Misha.”
“If you ever threaten to bad-mouth Charlie again, I will rip out your tongue and insert it up your arse,” I say through gritted teeth. “Thereby confirming everyone’s opinion of where you talk from. You leave him alone from now on.”
He shoves me off and we fall apart, staring at each other in a corridor filled with the sounds of our panting breaths.
He looks at the knickers lying on the floor by my hand, and a smirk crosses his face. “Pick them up, Misha. You might be able to keep them. Pity you can’t do the same for Charlie.”
He just has time to look alarmed before I fling myself on him, and the fight starts again.
A few minutes later, he squirms under me as I sit on him. “Okay,” he hisses. “Jesus Christ, okay, I promise I won’t say a fucking word about Charlie ever again.”
“You’d better not,” I mutter, but I let go of him and sit back.
He pulls himself up and scrambles back until he’s sitting propped up against the opposite wall. We stare at each other.
“Charlie’s too good for you,” I say coldly and clearly.
“I didn’t sign up for all of the epilepsy stuff,” he says defensively. “It’s not just me. Other men would find it hard to deal with too.”
“You have the emotional depth of a spit ball,” I say scornfully.
“Oh, and you’re so perfect, Misha,” he sneers. “You always do the right thing. Everyone loves you at work.”
“It’s not a popularity contest.”
“Says someone who’s already won. According to everyone, you’re handsome and funny.” He looks at me dismissively. “No one seems to see the fucking arrogance.”
“Pot and fucking kettle, mate.”
He shakes his head. “I got him only to find that he was yours all the time and the two of you were both too stupid to realise it.”
