Chasing Charlie

by Linda McLaughlan

‘Bye.’ I shoved my phone back in my pocket. A generous Rebecca was even more annoying than the usual nasty one. It’s because, I fumed, she doesn’t genuinely want to help – she just wants to gloat. Left, right, right, nearly there. Fucking money, I thought as I stomped. Fucking smelly old wolf at the door.

  Then I was back to the production manager, puffing slightly and frowning significantly and, no surprise, he echoed my expression minus the panting.

  ‘I know, I took my time!’ I barked before he could open his mouth. ‘Caro made me wait while she discussed what dessert to serve at some dinner party. Eventually I gave up and put it on her desk.’

  ‘There was no one else there?’

  ‘Yes, the pretty thing manning the phones. But you didn’t say drop it off to just anyone.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine then.’ He turned to go and then turned back.

  ‘Dessert did you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From the darling little patisserie round the corner?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  The corner of his mouth was twitching into a grin and I couldn’t help but join in.

  ‘You shouldn’t have been listening in, of course.’

  ‘I wasn’t listening in, it was more like the office was being addressed by tannoy.’

  The PM laughed then, a big barky laugh that squished his shrewd little eyes into raisons. ‘You’re funny, Sam,’ he said, then he turned away and went off to boss someone else around.

  Eventually the day was over and I was paid in sweet cash. I stowed the money I owed Rebecca and Mara into a separate part of my wallet and counted the rest. That would keep the wolf from the door and maybe even buy me some shoes for the party. But shoes could wait. I just wanted to get home. For the first time all day I actually felt slightly relaxed, maybe even a little happy. Perhaps Mara would be home when I got in, with some food ready. We could have a nice catch-up and then I could have a bath and go to bed, safe in the knowledge I had enough money for a few days.

  But the flat was dark and quiet when I got home, with a note from Mara saying she and Ed had gone to stay with their dad for the night. I felt very alone. Next to the note was a single, pathetic bill addressed to me. It was from EE. I sighed and opened it, knowing what it was going to say. There it was in black and white. I was overdue with last month’s bill and if I didn’t pay it in the next week, my phone would be cut off.

  31

  MARA

  I insisted that we sit at the table for tea. Dad just grunted in response but I was determined to ignore him. It was usually the best thing to do. Dad’s grumpiness was barely skin-deep, an annoying habit rather than his nature and is best sidestepped. It was a crutch, really – unfortunately one he’d become very reliant on over the last couple of years. A little like the newspaper he refused to move while I laid the table around him.

  ‘Could you not move that?’

  Dad sighed and in painful slow motion folded his newspaper in half while I put the food on the table but not without me catching sight of him smirking. Oh, you are a belligerent old sod, I thought as I slipped a coaster under his can of Fosters.

  ‘I don’t bother about that, love.’

  ‘You don’t usually bother with the table at all,’ I said, a little more sharply than I’d intended. But any contrition I felt at snapping at him was short-lived. I watched him and Ed share a complicit snigger. I frowned. It was meant to be Ed and me enduring him, not Dad and Ed putting up with me!

  ‘It’s been ages since I’ve had a home-cooked meal, love,’ Dad said, wiping the look off his face.

  ‘Don’t you go next door on a Monday any more?’

  ‘Oh yes, but that was Monday, wasn’t it?’ And for a moment, his long-dormant cheekiness twinkled in his eyes. My heart softened. It was always like this, visiting Dad. Feeling full of love and empathy one moment, sharply irritated the next, then settling on a general feeling of sadness and regret.

  Two years on, Dad hadn’t really moved on after Mum up and left him for Roger – some man with a tan who seemed to come out of thin air. None of us had ever heard of him, that was for certain. When we questioned her, all she said was that she’d had enough. Actually, it was more along the lines of – ‘Why? Why? Isn’t it obvious? I’ve had enough! E-bloody-nough! I want more from life than sitting around watching the bleedin’ telly!’

  She packed her clothes and jewellery into two suitcases and went to live with Roger in Tenerife. Just like that. Thirty-five years of marriage and she left with two bags. It broke Dad’s heart, it did. And it broke my heart to see him like this, the sad old sack. But he was also the sad old sack that Mum had got completely fed up with, and more and more I could see why, though I wished I couldn’t.

  After dinner, Ed started on the dishes and I switched from thinking about Dad to thinking about how I would broach the subject of Rebecca. Ed would have his hands busy and he wouldn’t have to look at me as I did the drying up. Dad would be settled in front of the telly so no need to worry about him.

  ‘I’ll put away then, shall I?’ Dad said.

  ‘You don’t have to Dad, you go and relax.’

  ‘No, I’d like to. I spend too many evenings alone in front of the box.’

  ‘Right. Of course.’

  I wished I didn’t feel so disappointed. Of course he wanted to spend time with his twins. I shouldn’t feel upset about it. What kind of daughter would feel upset about that? So, very slowly, Dad put the dishes away in the tiny cupboards. Usually I found the pokey little cupboards, unchanged since the sixties, comforting. I was proud of them and their history and lack of space for big modern plates. But I opened them and felt slightly depressed that evening.

  Dad told us a story from the garage. I wasn’t listening properly to start with, too preoccupied with wanting to speak with Ed. But, as he spoke, he became perkier than I’d seen him in months. His brusqueness fell away and he was as grateful as a puppy for the company. The guilt of not visiting more piled up on my shoulders as I dried and by the time the dishes were done, I heard myself saying I’d join him in front of a Top Gear rerun.

  ‘A Jeremy Clarkson fan are we now, Mars?’ Ed asked me, his head in a cupboard looking for biscuits.

  ‘You know perfectly well I am not a fan of Jeremy twatting Clarkson.’

  Ed withdrew his head, a packet of Penguins in his hand and a big grin on his face.

  I snatched the biscuits out of his hand and marched into the lounge.

  I amazed myself by lasting twenty whole minutes in front of the television without throwing a single Penguin at the screen. I was sure that the more Penguins I ate, the less guilty I felt about not coming more often. It didn’t stop anyone on Top Gear being a complete jerk, of course, but I made a mental note to eat chocolate before I pitched up to Dad’s. But twenty minutes was still my absolute limit, and I kissed Dad on the forehead and went upstairs to find Ed, who had disappeared after only ten!

  Ed’s door was shut. I knocked softly and opened it. There he was, sitting on his old single bed with a box half unpacked all over the bed.

  ‘Taking a walk down memory lane?’ I asked him and closed the door behind me.

  ‘Something like that,’ he said, looking a little sheepish.

  I sat down on the bed with him and picked up a 1998 Face magazine and flicked through it absently.

  ‘Dad enjoyed the evening,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Ed was quiet for a bit. ‘It makes you sad though, doesn’t it? Seeing him light up like that makes his sadness look much bigger in comparison.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  I forced myself to flick through to the end of the magazine before I spoke again.

  ‘How are you anyway?’

  ‘Oh, good. Can’t wait to go on this job.’ He wasn’t looking at me, just shuffling through shoebox after shoebox filled with photos.

  ‘Bet you can’t, you’re going to love it.’

  I watched him lean forward and grab another handful of photographs
and then said, as casually as I could, ‘Rebecca looked upset that you’d be gone for so long.’

  ‘She did?’ Ed looked at the door, shrugged and returned to the pile of photographs. Not a flicker of guilt on his face. But he didn’t look at me either.

  ‘I don’t like her, if that’s what you’re worried about, Mars,’ he said, not looking up from whatever photo he was holding.

  I felt myself blush. I didn’t really have anything more to say. Although I hadn’t had the backbone to look him in the eye, I could hear that his voice was straight and honest and I’d heard what I needed to hear. So I picked at the knobbly green bedspread that had been on the bed for as long as I could remember and enjoyed the sweetness of relief. When the green bobbles had been picked enough, I lifted my head and peered over the rim of the box.

  ‘So what treasures have you got in here anyway?’ I took out a handful of photographs and started flicking through them. They were mostly arty ones he’d taken years ago. I smiled as I saw the familiar images, reminding me of times past, and also charting the development of Ed. They were little windows into Ed’s mind as it grew through his teens and twenties. There were images of graffiti (anarchic phase); homeless men huddled in shop doors (social consciousness growing); the obligatory headstones (every photographer has some); and the start of his street scenes: people going about their business in various neighbourhoods. Then, after a couple of photos of blank walls, came a crumpled photo of Sam and I, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, our faces turned to the sun laughing. It was in the summer, in Hyde Park, at a music festival. I smiled. That was a good day. But then I realised.

  ‘Ed, where did you get this?’

  Ed glanced at the photo and hesitated slightly before shrugging his shoulders. He returned to flicking through the stack he was looking at but I could tell he wasn’t really looking at the photos. He looked uncomfortable. And well he might, I thought. This photograph had been on the fridge in the flat for a few months before disappearing. I’d assumed it had fallen underneath the fridge and I’d forgotten about it. But here it was amongst Ed’s things, of all places! My unease returned and flooded my body, bringing with it a heavy weariness. Maybe I wasn’t in the mood for talking after all. I stood up. Maybe I wasn’t ready to hear what was going on at all.

  ‘I’m off to bed now.’

  ‘OK, sleep well,’ he replied, his head still bent over the photos. I stood there waiting for him to look up at me and when he finally did his eyes met mine for the briefest of moments. He wasn’t letting me in.

  ‘Night, Mars,’ he said.

  32

  SAM

  By lunchtime on Saturday, I was filled with that wormy boredom Saturdays are prone to producing – especially ones that aren’t spent hungover. I had more energy than I knew what to do with and zero motivation to use it.

  Without Mara and Ed around, the flat was far too quiet. Now and then, George would mew anxiously, calling for Mara. His cries seemed to magnify how lonely I felt and also how crap I was at spending time alone. I picked up a magazine but I couldn’t concentrate on it. I’d done the little housework there was to be done; the kitchen counter was clear, the floor was swept. I checked my phone for the thirtieth time that morning. Nothing. From. Nobody.

  Fuuuuuck.

  Sort it out!

  Just bloody text someone.

  Him.

  No, not him.

  OK, him.

  My fingers hovered briefly over the keys but only briefly.

  Am free this afternoon, fancy a lazy drink? S

  I hesitated over how to sign the text, almost adding a kiss; I usually did on texts to friends. But was Charlie a friend? No. He was an ex. One of those people in your life that don’t really have a place. Can’t file them into the friends drawer – not if you were being completely honest with yourself. Some you can just chuck into the enemies drawer but it’s never that simple.

  He’d replied straightaway.

  Great. How about the Cock & Bull in Notting Hill? Cx

  Was he for real? I laughed and it seemed to reverberate around the quiet room. Mara would find that hilarious. How apt, Charles, and how typical. He’d never been one for irony. But I couldn’t show it to Mara, of course. I couldn’t show the text to anyone because there was no one there to show. Nothing for it but to go out.

  I marched down the street towards the Tube. The day was brightening and I was glad to leave the dead air at home behind. I was expecting him to be late but there he was at the bar when I arrived. I watched him for a moment before joining him. He took off his long black coat and laid it on a stool next to him. It was lined with salmon satin, the very edge of a gilt-edged label peeking out. I swallowed and crossed the room and watched with satisfaction how his face lit up when he saw me. I took a seat one stool away from him, the coat an island of fine tailoring between us, and took the glass he offered me. His eyes were loaded with innuendo.

  We chatted about this and that. I could see an extra line under his eye I hadn’t noticed a couple of weeks ago.

  ‘You look a little tired.’

  ‘I’ve been manic at work,’ he said. Work! Why hadn’t I thought of that all this time I was worrying he didn’t want to see me? I nodded and took a sip, glad I hadn’t asked him about his silence outright. It was strange but, for the second time, any annoyance I had been feeling for him dissolved. I shrugged away his behaviour. He couldn’t help it really. He was my shitty ex. I supposed everyone would have one in their closet. An ex who was a bit – or a lot – of a bastard. A bad boy. Or in Charlie’s case, a bad boy with a really good haircut.

  ‘So what’s new with you this week?’ he asked, flicking his floppy fringy thing out of his eyes.

  I paused. Other than thinking about you? I thought. Worrying about money. I opened my mouth and shut it again. No, I would not discuss that with him. I scraped around for something else . . . Ed. I could tell him about Ed.

  ‘My flatmate’s brother is home from India and is staying with us.’

  ‘Oh yes, touring or working out there?’

  ‘Taking photographs. Opening his mind, that kind of thing, I think.’

  ‘Lucky chap. I’d like to take a photographic sojourn somewhere one day—’

  Sojourn, what a pompous fart.

  ‘—although you wouldn’t catch me in India.’

  I stiffened. Here we go. ‘Why not, Charlie? Too many Indians?’

  Charlie responded by laughing and holding his hands up in the air. ‘You said it, not me.’ He was loving this and it felt very familiar.

  ‘You thought it.’ I glared at him.

  ‘How do you know?’ He took a graceful but manly, practised sup from his pint and eyed his loafers. ‘I could have been about to say that I don’t have the right shoes.’

  I struggled to keep a straight face. Damn you, Charlie. I could never work out if his prejudices were for real or not. I’d always thought he wasn’t really as conservative as he made out but perhaps that was wishful thinking on my part. It didn’t matter anyway. He was gorgeous and charming and twinkly-eyed. No matter what we argued about, we always used to end up laughing. He always charmed his way past the words into my heart, into my pants.

  And as we sat there, at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, Charlie’s eyes bored into me as ardently as they ever had before. His intention was very clear. I wriggled on my stool. My jeans were skintight, and I was becoming acutely aware of how tight they were at the very top of my legs.

  ‘Fancy a stroll?’ Charlie asked me.

  The air cut into my cheeks so sharply it felt like it was taking a layer of skin off. Charlie pulled on soft black leather gloves and we marched down the road, my hands stuffed deeply into my pockets. He seemed to have a plan of where we were going and I was happy to go with him. At first I thought we might be going to Hyde Park but he turned down a residential street with white Victorian terraces running down both sides. The entranceways alternated between shabby chic and shipshape smart.
They all appeared to be single dwellings – not carved into lots of little flats, like the street that Mara and I lived in. I was lost in a daydream imagining living in one of these beautiful homes when Charlie slowed down abruptly, took my elbow and steered me through a gate. A short black-and-white-checked walkway led up to a glossy black door, complete with a shiny brass doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head.

  ‘Oh,’ I said in surprise.

  ‘Tea time.’ Charlie twinkled at me, flicking his hair out of his eyes again.

  ‘Oh?’ Couldn’t I say something else?

  He took keys out of his pocket and opened the door.

  ‘Welcome to my place,’ he said. He stepped inside and waited for me to join him.

  I eyed the brass lion as I passed; it returned my gaze imperiously. ‘Beware, shabby intruder,’ it seemed to be saying. I swallowed and followed him up the stairs.

  His place was simple and orderly. A cream leather sofa sat next to a glass-topped coffee table with an enormous vase of lilies. An ultra-thin television sat sleekly in one corner. On his dining table, a bowl of fruit and piles of magazines. It felt tidy and calm, and lived in.

  My mouth felt dry and my stomach bubbled nervously. We hadn’t discussed his girlfriend and if the flowers were anything to go by, we should.

  ‘So how’s Lucy?’

  There. Said it.

  Charlie’s shoulders stiffened and he looked at me, obviously trying to remember when he’d told me about his girlfriend. But you won’t remember, I thought, because you haven’t got around to telling me.

  But with a shrug as if to say to himself, oh well it’s probably better that she knows, he replied, ‘She’s away skiing at the moment with her family.’

  ‘Nice.’ I tried to smile like I cared. Of course I didn’t care what fun Lucy was having. I wished she didn’t exist at all. But at least she wasn’t in the same country right at that minute. I didn’t think now was the time to meet her, not in Charlie’s living room. Not in the lion’s den.

  Charlie was putting biscuits on a plate and setting out cups while the kettle boiled. I watched him from the door to the kitchen, my arms crossed. I’d never seen him do anything domestic. We never played house as teenagers. Any eating without parents had involved wall-to-wall pizza, with either Wotsits or Frazzles on the side. Now, as I watched him, I felt something more than plain desire kindle inside. A softer, deeper drawing through my veins. He was making me tea and he wanted me to be in his home! In his life? Be quiet, I told myself. Not in his life – I’m having some fun with him on the edge of his life. On the side. A bit on the side. Which is a start, isn’t it?