by Lily Morton
“Charlie’s not a prize in the grabber at a fair. Maybe if you hadn’t acted like he was, you’d have stood a better chance.”
Silence descends, and then he sighs and scrapes his hair back. “I should have caught him tonight though.”
Rage sears me at the image of Charlie falling towards him, so vulnerable. All Harry had to do was put out his hands, but he stepped back. I look at him and don’t even bother hiding my disgust.
“Yes, you fucking should have,” I say evenly. “As far as I’m concerned, your relationship with him is done, but I don’t have the final say. It’s up to Charlie.”
He gives a humourless sort of laugh. “Keep saying it, Misha. Maybe you’ll even convince someone.”
“I just have to convince him,” I say silkily. “And that shouldn’t be very hard to do.”
He grimaces and gets to his feet. I rise, and the two of us stare at each other for a long second.
“I’ll see you at work, then,” I say finally. “But it really might be best if you kept out of my way for a bit.”
He nods and walks away. I stay in the corridor looking down at the tiny scrap of fabric on the floor. I hesitate for a second and then step over it to get to Charlie’s door. I get all the way into the hotel room before I swear under my breath and turn back to scoop up the cherry-red lace. I stand there for a long second looking down at it. My hand clenches around the knickers, the fabric scratching at my palm. Sudden hot thoughts run through my head, and I determinedly push them away. That way lies madness.
Charlie
I thank the nurse and make my way back to the waiting room. It’s a trip that I’ve done a fair few times this morning, as I’ve been submitted for a battery of tests. I’ve gone from nurse to nurse and been poked and prodded and stuck with needles. Freda, my epilepsy nurse, hadn’t been ecstatic at my missing so many reviews or to hear of the increased frequency of the seizures, but she didn’t scold, saying only that she’d see me at the end of the tests. It’s weird how threatening that sentence can sound.
So, here I am with another plaster covering a needle mark in my arm, making my way back to the waiting room where Misha sits patiently as he’s done all morning.
I look at his set face and the nerve ticking in his jaw. Well okay, not patiently, but he’s here, and I feel a rush of gratitude that I have him in my life. I’d woken this morning feeling groggy and shit, as is usual after a turn. He’d chivvied me out of bed, bundled me into my clothes, retrieved my bag which he’d packed in the night, and checked us out, all with minimal conversation. I got the impression that he was working quickly in case I changed my mind about going to the hospital.
I hadn’t though. Last night frightened me. The turn had got close to five minutes, and that’s dangerous, but it isn’t just that. I felt fucking worse than ever last night, and somehow by telling Misha the truth I’d opened up my mind enough to realise that I was putting myself in danger and inflicting damage on my body. All because I’ve been too frightened to hear the truth.
I feel a wave of relief and also resignation. I’m at the point that I’ve feared all these months, and now there’s nothing to be done but wait for the verdict. There’s a sort of freedom from all responsibility in that which is oddly comforting.
Misha looks up and instantly shifts his expression into his usual snarky one. “You’ve had more tests today than an undergraduate during finals week.”
I smile and fling myself into the chair next to him, taking the hand he offers me and squeezing it. “Bored yet?”
“Well, of course not,” he drawls. He gestures to the TV in the corner of the room. “How could I possibly be bored with the wonderful array of morning television? So far I’ve watched This Morning with Holly and Phil who manage to be abnormally cheerful. I’ve never seen anyone talk through a smile before.”
“Surely that’s nice?” I say, smiling at the wave of normality he’s offering me. How does he always know the right thing to say?
He shakes his head. “It’s weird and a bit threatening.”
“Okay, Mr Cheerful. What else?”
Misha shrugs. “Some sort of ridiculous programme where people are dashing about the English countryside buying utter tat and acting as if they’ve picked up a Renoir.”
“Ooh, I like that programme.”
“You would,” he says sourly. “You’re congenitally suited to daytime television.”
I shift position on the hard chair and nestle into his side, and he obliges me by putting his arm around me and drawing me closer. A woman in the corner gives us a dirty look, but we both ignore her. Me, because I’m too tired, and Misha because he’s too arrogant to give a shit what anyone else thinks.
“So, did anything else happen while I was asleep last night?” A thought suddenly occurs to me, and I sit up straight. “Did Harry come back?” He looks slightly evasive, and my attention sharpens. I fold my arms. “Misha,” I prompt sternly, mainly just to watch him squirm. I always take pleasure in that. It’s part of my best friend charter.
He runs a finger under the neck of his jumper and darts his gaze around the room, settling on the leaflet stand. He stares at it as intently as if it were Charlie Hunnam’s arse.
“Misha?” I say again and heave a longsuffering sigh. “Just tell me what you did.”
He shoots me a quick glance. “We sort of had a fight in the hotel corridor.”
“What?” My voice is way too loud for a waiting room, and a few people look up before going back to their magazines. “How can you sort of have a fight?” I hiss. “You either do, or you don’t.”
“Okay, we definitely had a fight.” He holds his hands up in defence about whatever he sees in my face. “He said some truly shitty things and I’d had enough after—” His voice trails off.
“After what?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. I reach out and pinch his arm, and he huffs. “Okay, he stood back and let you fall. I can’t and won’t ever forgive that, Charlie.”
I know instantly what he’s saying, and I can’t stop my flinch. He looks both enraged and worried.
“Bastard saw you going and didn’t stop you. That was it for me.”
It would be. Misha doesn’t let many people in, but the ones he does he’s fiercely protective over.
“What happened after the fight?” I say in a noncommittal sort of voice.
He shrugs. “I gave him his case.” I raise my eyebrow, and he flushes. “Okay, I threw the case at him. He said something shitty, so I then threw myself at him. We rolled around in an aggressive and highly unsexual way, and he got a few punches in. I, of course, got a lot more in.”
I roll my eyes. “What else? I know there’s something else.” He mutters something, and I stare at him. “I’m sorry. I could have sworn that you just said you’d packed Harry in for me, which can’t possibly be true because we’re not fourteen and at the school disco.”
He flushes and shrugs awkwardly before sending me a pleading glance. “Don’t get mad at me,” he says entreatingly. I gesture sternly, and he continues. “I just told him to fuck off and that he couldn’t see you last night.” He grimaces. “And then I sort of told him that as far as I was concerned, he was finished with you.” He takes a breath and blurts, “And then he sort of agreed with me and I told him he could contact you at some point.”
“You told him when he could talk to me?” I say faintly. “It’s like being friends with Nicholas the Great.”
He holds his hand up, and the stern look on his face stops my proposed speech about having the freedom to make my own decisions. “He’s no good for you, Charlie. If you’d heard the way he spoke about you, you’d see that.”
“How did he speak?”
“You don’t need to know. Just be aware that I punched him in the face for it. I’m sorry I went over your head,” he continues, a stubborn expression on his face. “And I’m aware that you might fall out with me and not speak to me again, but it’s worth it to know I told you
the truth.”
I consider him for a long second. “It was pointless anyway because I finished it with Harry last night.”
He jerks. “What?”
I shrug. “I’d had enough.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“It wasn’t the right time. It was Jamie’s weekend. I would have told you today.” I pause. “If you hadn’t already organised my relationship for me.”
He considers that and then nods reluctantly. Silence falls and then he stirs. “You deserve so much more than that wankerish behaviour.”
“I do?” I say softly, and he nods again.
“I know that in some crazy part of your brain you think that anyone who takes you and epilepsy on is doing you this huge favour, but you couldn’t be more wrong. You’re a prize, Charlie Burroughs,” he says slightly awkwardly. “You’re clever and funny, loyal, kind, and a brilliant cake maker.”
“Until you added the cake bit you could have been talking about a dog,” I say flippantly to conceal the lump in my throat. The look he gives me shows he’s not fooled for a second. Of course he isn’t.
“You care far more than a normal person does about the public’s reading habits,” he continues. “You get far too involved in a book and can talk for hours about things I don’t understand at all, but people listen anyway because you’re fascinating. You’re kind to old drag queens and homeless men and deaf ladies because you see past people’s appearances to who they are. Look for someone who’s going to do the same for you next time. Who’ll treasure you for all of those things and not just see your looks, and who won’t try to make you into someone they want instead of who you actually are.”
I stare at him as his words come to a stop. “How am I supposed to be mad at you now?” I sigh. “You did that on purpose.”
He shakes his head, a wry look on his face. “Just listen and obey me. It’s simpler.”
“It’s worrying,” I add. We both smile. I sigh again and put my head on his shoulder. “I think I just need you to find someone like that for me,” I say. “You obviously know me better than I know myself. Maybe you could find me one of these mystical men?”
His whole body stiffens for a second and then relaxes. “You want me to find you a bloke?” he says, and the evenness in his voice startles me, so I raise my head.
“Well, I was joking,” I say slowly. “But maybe it’s not that bad an idea. You’ve always judged my boyfriends and been mainly proved right. Maybe I should put myself in your hands.”
I get the impression of acute and complex thoughts happening in that big and busy brain of his. “Maybe you should,” he finally says.
The silence that springs up between us is broken by the sound of familiar voices from the door. My dad and Aidan barrel towards us, trailed by the person I suddenly realise I want to see most in the world.
“Mum,” I choke out. “What are you doing here?”
When she reaches me, she grabs me, hugging me tightly, her long red hair brushing my face. I inhale the scent of patchouli oil, and something inside me relaxes instantly.
“Misha rang me last night,” she says. Her warm voice is faintly tinged with a Norfolk accent; she’s spent years living there with her husband on his farm. “I caught the first train this morning, and your dad picked me up.”
I look over her shoulder and find Misha watching me anxiously. He’s right to be wary about making decisions on my behalf, but this time I can’t be angry. He knows me better than anyone in the world, and so he’d understood I needed my mum. Thank you, I mouth.
Relief spreads over his face before he gives me a quick nod and turns to speak to my dad and Aidan.
My mum pulls back and cups my face between her hands. Her fingers are slightly rough and stained with the blue dye she uses to make the blankets she sells in her local galleries. “How are you?” she asks worriedly. “Misha said he was taking you to hospital because the turns had increased.”
“I’m okay, but, yes, they’ve increased by quite a lot.”
Her eyes narrow. “How long has this been going on?”
“Erm, eight months.”
“Charlie.” She sighs and then shakes her head. “I promised myself I wouldn’t lecture you in here.”
“You did?” I say hopefully.
“I don’t know where that tone of surprise comes from.”
“Really?”
A wicked look crosses her face. “I said in here. Pay attention, Charlie Burroughs, because I am totally going to lecture you at a later point, and I’m hoping I’ll have plenty of time to do it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d really like it if you’d come back with me and stay for a while.”
“What?”
She grabs my hands and kisses my fingers, something she’s done since I was little. “Please, Charlie. Phil’s getting your room ready just in case. You could stay with us for a month or until you’re feeling better.”
“I can’t take that amount of time off work—”
“You could,” Aidan interrupts in a steady tone. “Misha rang your head office and explained the situation to your line manager.”
“Misha did what?” I turn to find Misha trying to edge behind my dad. “Oh no,” I say grimly. “What the hell are you doing ringing my boss?”
“What you should have done in the first place,” my dad says calmly.
“What?”
He pulls me close into a hug, and I rest my face in his shoulder for a second, inhaling his sandalwood scent. “You should have dealt with this a long time ago,” he says. “And never let it get this far. Now, you’re patently worn out and need to rest and let the hospital deal with this.”
“But I need to be in contact with Freda.”
“Not necessarily,” Aidan says, joining the hug and kissing my forehead. “You could, in theory, transfer your care down there. There’s a good epilepsy nurse there.”
“But what if I need—” I stumble over my words, and Misha moves to my side. “What if I need surgery?”
“That’s what you’re frightened of?” Aidan asks calmly, his green eyes busy on my face. I nod, and he hugs me. “If you need that, then we’ll deal with it. All of us,” he adds, pulling back and stroking my hair. “Because we’re a family, Charlie. You’re not on your own, so please don’t try to act as if you are.”
“Charlie, we’re ready for you.” My epilepsy nurse Freda’s voice comes quietly from behind me, and my heart starts to beat heavily. Shit.
I look at Misha, one thought on my mind. “Will you come in with me?” I ask, holding out my hand.
He takes it immediately, his hand warm and tight on mine. “You sure?” he asks. “Maybe you need your mum or dad?”
I shake my head. “Just you.”
“Go on,” my dad urges. “We’ll be out here waiting for you.”
I nod and let my feet carry me into the room. My pulse pounds in my temple, and my hand is sweaty, but Misha keeps hold of it as he sits down next to me. We face Freda as she settles at her desk.
She smiles at me. “Charlie, please don’t look so terrified,” she says.
“Is it—” I stop and clear my throat. “Is it bad news?” I finish in a rush. Misha’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly, but then we both relax as she immediately shakes her head.
“We don’t believe so, Charlie. Some of the tests won’t be back for a few weeks, so we can’t be absolutely sure, but we believe that we might have isolated the problem. Now, you say your seizures started again in June, and according to our records you picked up a new batch of medication just before that point?”
“As usual, yes.”
She frowns slightly. “Medicines, when they’re first created, are under patent and can’t be produced by anyone other than the owner. After a certain period of time, this patent lapses and other companies are then free to produce the medication. In some cases, the components can differ from the original medicine. Not widely, but enough sometimes to make a differen
ce.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” I ask. Misha sits forward, staring at her intently.
“Your type of epilepsy is one where it’s recommended that you have the original medicine by the original company. Any deviations can cause bad side effects like the seizures reoccurring.”
“And is that what you think has happened?”
She nods. “You should have had a note on your prescription that you were to be given the original medication only. For some reason, the note wasn’t made, and I can only apologise for that. Please know that it’s there now, loud and clear for the pharmacy.”
I swallow hard, feeling slightly dizzy. I might have been holding my breath since I got into this room. “So that’s it?”
She shakes her head. “It’s a first hypothesis, at the moment. We’ll proceed with this theory until the other tests are back in. As such, we’ve put you back on the original branded medication. We’ll start with a slightly higher dose than before, because we’re essentially restarting the treatment, and I want those seizures under control.” She pats my hand. “I’m afraid we’re back to you feeling like an experiment, and I know you don’t like that.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have to have surgery?”
Her eyes sharpen. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that today, Charlie. Is that what stopped you coming in for your reviews?”
I flush. “I was scared.” Misha throws his arm around me.
“Charlie, you can’t do that,” she says kindly but firmly. “You coped so well before with such a massive change in your life that I forget you’re still fairly new with this condition. If something happens, we need to know about it. This is a condition that on rare occasions has proved fatal. You cannot afford to ignore changes in your health.” Misha’s arm tightens, and Freda’s expression softens. “Brain surgery is one option. It works for a lot of people. You’ve always seemed wary of that choice, but it is not the bogeyman. We should talk about it when you’re feeling a bit better. As always, though, the choice will be down to you.”
She sits back. “Now, I understand we’re switching your care to a hospital in Norfolk. I’ll liaise with the epilepsy nurse and the doctors there so we can keep an eye on you, but I’m very hopeful that this is the answer.”
