by Lily Morton
Joan smiles and starts to do as I ask. She’s a pretty middle-aged lady whose husband left her last year for another woman. One of her attempts to restart her life has been the book club, which pleases me because she’s a lively and funny member.
I find the trolley and put the kettle on so I can fill the urn. While I wait, I fish out my phone. My finger is shaking slightly as I swipe across the screen. I slump against the wall and groan. Misha still hasn’t replied, and it’s gone seven at night. There’s no way he’s still at work. He’s either in denial over what happened, or he’s really angry with me for my disappearing trick this morning—anger he has every right to feel.
The kettle clicks off, and I push my phone into my pocket. I can’t think about this now. I’ve got book club to get through.
I push the trolley through the darkened library, the wheels loud in the hushed spaces. The reading room lights shine on the group as if they’re on the stage. Everyone is clustered around the table, talking loudly.
“I made Bakewell tarts,” I say cheerfully, but my words falter as the group parts, and I see who’s at the centre. “Misha,” I gasp.
Chapter Twelve
Charlie
“Oh, do you know each other?” Joan asks, smiling. “That’s good. It’s so awkward being the new boy in the group.”
“New boy?” I ask.
Misha appears to be deliberately avoiding my gaze and staring intently at Joan.
“He knocked on the door,” Joan says, “and we let him in. Hopefully, that was okay, Charlie. He knew the password.”
“What password? We haven’t got a password,” I say stupidly.
Misha stirs. “I think you should have one and it should be ‘Rude Runaway,’” he says succinctly, still not looking at me.
I swallow, all too aware that everyone else is staring at me. “Oh okay, that’s an interesting thought,” I say, my voice echoing loudly. “It’s fine that M-Misha is here.” I pause to gather myself. “Let’s grab drinks and food and discuss last week’s books.”
The next few minutes are spent making sure that everyone has everything they need. But even as I serve the tea or pour wine, I’m conscious of Misha’s figure standing on the far side of the table. He’s dressed in one of his costly suits—a navy Marc Jacobs with a subtle check. He looks wealthy and successful and as far away from me as if he were on Mars.
I edge towards him as the others take their seats, talking amongst themselves. “What are you doing here?” I whisper.
“What do you mean?” He gestures at the array of books. “I’m attending my first ever book club. How happy that must make you.”
“You don’t like talking about books,” I say through gritted teeth. “You say it takes all the enjoyment out of reading.”
“What a silly boy I am,” he says mockingly, his eyes glittering. “Because this right here is very enjoyable, Charlie, and let’s face it, I could really do with a reason today to turn my frown the right way up.”
As I try to think up a response, I become aware that all eyes in the room are on us.
“Everything okay?” Rita says loudly. “Shall we get down to it?” An older lady, she’s small and bossy and a massive gossip. She was very rude to Joan when she joined, and now they have an ongoing passive-aggressive feud where they compete over who is the most bookish person in the group. It’s one of the reasons why none of the rest of the staff want to run this club.
As if on cue, Joan sniffs. “Always in such a hurry,” she says sweetly. “I’m sure Charlie knows what he’s doing, Rita. He is the head of the group, after all.”
“That makes me sound like I’m leading a group of militia,” I say nervously. I sneak a glance at Misha, automatically expecting his usual sardonic amusement—a wink or a smile. But his face is stony and distant. I swallow hard.
“Okay,” I say far too heartily. After sitting down, I grab a book with a very gloomy brown cover. “Let’s get started. I thought we’d discuss this one first. What did everyone think of it?”
Rita puffs up like a pigeon. “Well, I thought that the central theme of disassociation was very well done through the use of beautiful metaphors and—”
“Tart, Misha?” Joan says, interrupting Rita’s flood of words as she offers a plate to Misha.
“It has certainly been said before, but how did you know?” Misha says, taking one.
Joan laughs loudly. Rita’s mouth moves for a few seconds, but no words are coming out.
“They’re so yummy,” Joan says. “Charlie makes beautiful cakes and biscuits.”
“He does indeed.” Misha shoots me an inscrutable glance.
“Oh, you’ve had them before?” she asks, startled.
“Oh yes, I’m very familiar with Charlie’s buns,” he says. “Very springy.”
There’s a stunned silence, and I laugh nervously. “Fnarr fnarr.” The group stares at me, and I turn determinedly to Rita. “Please go on, Rita.”
“Are you sure?” she says, a slight snap to the question. I nod, and she inclines her head regally. “Well, of course, Charlie. You are the boss, after all.” She smiles at the group and many of them shift awkwardly on their chairs. Mr Pinter holds his Bakewell tart to his chest protectively as if she’s going to take it away from him at any second. “Hmm, as I said, I thought that the central relationship was handled beautifully, but occasionally it seemed a bit overdone to me. Too much reliance on metaphors and a simplistic view of love.”
Misha shifts. “Yes, but what did you think of the main character’s reaction of flight when they slept together for the first time? Did you think it was wise? Or a bit of a gitty thing to do?”
There’s a stunned silence, and I blink and look down at the book. I can’t remember that, I think, opening the cover. Where did he… Oh!
I glare at Misha, who sits back happily and bites into his tart.
“Erm,” Rita says in a high, flustered voice, rifling through her own copy of the book. “Erm, I really can’t remember that bit. I think I must have skimmed over it.”
“Say it isn’t so,” Joan says happily, and Rita glares at her.
Joan turns to Misha, taking a massive swig of her wine. “Please elaborate, Misha. I must say it’s very nice to have new blood in the group. Groups can get so stale, don’t you think? Rather like councils when one member has been in power for too long. When everyone is just ripe for the sound of a new person’s voice.”
I swallow hard, but Misha hasn’t the sense to seem even remotely scared at what looks very much like an attempted coup.
“I’d be delighted to,” he says smoothly. “When the two main characters slept together, the hero buggered off before the other character woke up. I found it disturbing and bothersome, to tell you the truth. Entirely spoilt my enjoyment of the rest of the book.” He stares into space with a winsome look on his face. “Who would do such a thing in real life?”
Wanker, I mouth at him, and he shrugs happily.
Old Mr Jessop helps himself to another biscuit and watches Rita’s frantic flicking through her book with every sign of enjoyment. “Didn’t read it myself,” he says cheerfully. “Far too many pages. I read in bed,” he confides. “This sort of book hurts my wrist when I’m holding it up.”
“How delightful,” Rita mutters. “Perhaps Charlie should weigh the books before he makes his selections.”
“Far too many words,” Mr Jessop says loudly. “Seems like even you didn’t have a chance to read them all this time, Rita.”
“Oh,” I say quickly as Rita flushes bright red with temper. “Shall we move on to another book?” I pick up one of the books randomly from my pile. “I found this enjoyable,” I say in a determined voice. “The two women at the centre of the story were lively characters, and the mystery was very engaging. Did anyone else read it?”
A few people nod, including Rita, who looks rejuvenated at the change in book. “Oh yes,” she says loudly. “Of course, I guessed the mystery straight away.”
“Of course you did,” Joan mutters, taking another long drink and draining her glass. She waves it at me for another refill. Unfortunately, she gets drunk easily and, if she’s drunk, she’s quite verbal with Rita. I look at her dubiously before giving in and pouring more wine.
“Yes, I find that if you study human behaviour as much as I do that there are no surprises in life,” Rita says loudly. “The characters’ behaviour was very predictable, but engaging nonetheless.”
“Really?” Misha says, cutting through her speech like a great white shark through water when it’s spotted a seal.
“Oh God,” I mutter.
“Did you say something, Charlie?” Joan asks.
“I was just going to say ‘Oh God, I hope we don’t run out of wine,’” My voice sounds slightly desperate. “You know, because of all the… wine.”
“Did you have something to say, Misha?” Joan asks, her voice slurring slightly. “I must say I like the sound of your voice. It’s very deep.”
“Thank you,” he says, smiling at her with all of his considerable charm. “I was just going to say that sometimes characters surprise us. I mean, take these two. Friends for so many years and then as soon as there’s a change in circumstance one of them can’t handle it and runs off quicker than a greyhound after a rabbit.”
“Like what?” Rita asks. “What change of circumstance?” She takes a large glug of her wine and starts to leaf through the book.
“Can’t you remember that bit?” Joan asks.
“I must have missed that part,” she says through gritted teeth, her cheeks flushing. “You know, because—”
“Of all the skimming, yes,” Joan says sympathetically. “It must be a problem having your fingers in so many pies without people asking you to stick your digits in there in the first place.”
“I beg your pardon,” Rita says loudly.
Joan takes another swig of her wine and waves her hand regally. “Granted.”
Rita stares at her. “No, I meant–”
“Okay,” I break in loudly. “Getting back to the book. Did anyone else find the mystery easy to solve? I thought that the methods of murder were fascinating and possibly an allegory of the way that society—”
“I liked the bit where the librarian was a complete wanker,” Misha says with a great deal of relish in his voice.
“Where is that?” Rita cries, turning the pages so forcefully that a couple of them rip. “I can’t remember a librarian.”
“I think Misha might be getting his books mixed up,” I say quickly, shooting him a glare. “There’s none of that behaviour in this book.”
“I might have done,” he says casually. “But it’s common behaviour amongst characters with very shallow personalities.”
“I beg your pardon,” I say, glaring at him. “It isn’t a common occurrence at all.” The group stares at me with their mouths open. “I mean to say that sometimes people make mistakes that they shouldn’t have,” I say quickly. “But then other characters don’t pick up their phones so they can apologise for their behaviour.”
“This was in the Middle Ages,” Rita says. Her hair is wild-looking from running her hands through it. “There were no phones.”
“It’s a metaphor,” I say .
A smile tugs at Misha’s mouth, but it quickly dies, and we go back to glaring at each other.
“Perhaps that character should have tried harder, rather than leaving the other person feeling like shit,” he suggests.
“Perhaps he tried and couldn’t get through because the other person was sulking like a child.”
“Perhaps the other character was very hurt and just thought, ‘Fuck him.’”
“You know, I think I’d like to read this one,” Mr Pinter breaks in. “It sounds much more interesting than the other stuff Charlie picked.”
A nerve ticks in Misha’s jaw.
“Perhaps,” I say loudly, and Mr Jessop jumps. “Perhaps the other character needs to apologise, and they just need to talk.”
“Well, that’s a very tired and predictable plot device,” Rita says disapprovingly.
Misha shrugs. “Maybe that’s all it takes,” he says.
Joan drains her glass. “Well, the wine’s all gone,” she says. “So that’s me finished. Wine always helps me deal with people. It’s never a good idea to let it run dry during book club, Charlie. Perhaps we should pick our books for next week, and Rita can make sure that she actually reads them this time.”
“I did read them,” Rita hisses. “Charlie, is it possible that you and Misha have a different copy? You know, like when they put out adult versions of the Harry Potter books?”
“They put out adult covers,” I say patiently and for the five hundredth time. “There was no adult content to go with them. Harry and Ron didn’t suddenly start going to strip bars. Hermione didn’t huff glue with Nearly Headless Nick.”
The sudden silence is broken by Mr Pinter’s bark of laughter. “I want to read books like that. Remember when Mrs Hannigan was a member, and she chose all those covers with the men with their abs? What did you call them, Rita? An abomination of literature?” He nudges her. “Bet you didn’t skim those books.”
“I didn’t skim anything,” she starts to say but is interrupted as everyone stands and begins to chatter about next week’s selections.
After helping them with getting their books stamped, I see them to the door. I breathe a silent sigh of relief as they wave goodbye and vanish into the night.
Joan pauses as she’s on her way out. “Where’s that Misha gone?” she asks, craning her neck around.
“Oh, I think he went out first,” I lie blithely. I am quite aware that he’s leaning against the non-fiction stacks at the back of the library.
“Shame. Hope he comes again. He had a very different way of looking at books.”
“You can say that again,” I mutter, smiling.
I close and lock the doors. Silence falls. “Bring me the shutter bolts, will you?” I call, and Misha’s dark figure detaches from the shadows. He stops at the counter and leans over, coming up with the Tupperware box containing the bolts used to lock the shutters.
I press the button, and the shutters rattle down. The noise is unnaturally loud in the silence between us, and abruptly I’ve had enough. I hate feeling like I can’t reach out and touch him or speak to him.
“Well, I think we’ve learnt some lessons tonight,” I say over-brightly.
“Is it that your book club don’t actually read the books you choose?” he says. “Or that you behaved like a complete tosser this morning?”
“Misha,” I say imploringly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Really? And what exactly are you sorry for?” There’s a peculiar sense of waiting about him, as if he’s holding his breath.
“Well, for walking out like that this morning. I still can’t believe I did it.”
He flicks his fingers over the shutter, still not looking at me. “So, why did you, Charlie?”
“I don’t know.” He finally looks at me, startled, and I shrug helplessly. “I really don’t know. I woke up, and I panicked. I thought—”
“What did you think?” he says urgently.
He’s suddenly closer to me, and I inhale sharply. “I thought we’d ruined everything.”
“And have we?” His voice is hushed.
“You tell me.” I sigh. “Misha, this is massive. In one step, we changed everything, and we never discussed it. We just did it.”
He looks down at his hands, and I notice that he’s balled them into fists. “And you regret it?” he says tonelessly.
“No.” It bursts out of me, and it’s the most honest reaction I’ve had today. “No,” I say more quietly. “I can’t regret it.”
His chest rises and falls quickly. “Why?” The question is sharp and fast.
I swallow hard. This is the moment of truth. “Because I loved it,” I whisper.
He makes a graceless aborted gesture.
“
Misha?” I say imploringly. I’m relieved when his expression shifts from an icy mask into something warmer.
“I don’t regret it either,” he says firmly.
“You don’t?” Hope and fear run through me. “Why?”
“Because it felt like the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
I gasp. “Really?” He nods. “But we never discussed it.”
“If we’d done that, we’d still be discussing it, Charlie. And we’re talking now, aren’t we?”
“So what do you want to do?”
Misha runs his hand roughly through his hair. His sleeve falls back, revealing faint finger marks on his wrist. I go hot and cold, remembering how I’d clutched it tightly as he’d moved inside me.
He reads something in my face, because he instantly moves close and gently pushes a hank of my hair behind my ear. It’s such a familiar gesture, one that he’s done so many times over the years, but it’s suddenly layered with so much new knowledge. Misha is tender like this when he makes love. He’s also passionate and hot and irresistibly sexy. And he tastes so fucking good on my tongue. And his eyes turn an incredible shade of blue when he comes and—
“Charlie, I want to explore what this is,” he says, and there’s a surety to his voice.
“Really?”
He nods.
“But how? I mean, are we fuck buddies now? You won’t go out on Grindr hook-ups because you’ve got me at home? Because I don’t think I can do that.”
He starts to laugh.
“Misha!” I say crossly. “What the hell is so funny?”
He reaches out and hugs me tight, and I nestle into him, feeling a wave of relief flood through me that we’re touching again.
“Do you really think that after all these years of knowing you that I’d actually suggest casual hook-ups?” His voice rich with emotion. “You’d come out in hives at the suggestion.”
“So what?”
He kisses the side of my head. “I want to date you, you twat,” he says.
