Chasing Charlie Page 3

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Sorry, Ed. When Rebecca breaks up with someone, we usually see more of her.’

  Mara groaned again.

  ‘And that’s a bad thing?’ Ed asked.

  I got up then. ‘Basically, Ed, you’re too bloody nice.’

  It was time for a shower. I went to find some clothes to take to the bathroom. That was the crazy thing about Ed – he was a seriously nice person and I’d never known him to judge someone else harshly, especially if he didn’t know them well. Being so nice was bound to get him into trouble one of these days.

  5

  ED

  From: Ed Minkley

  Date: Saturday, 31 January

  To: Covington Green

  Subject: Sam again

  She sits with knees resting on the table, her hair all over the place, and yawns. Her pyjamas give away hints of her curves below.

  Ed

  PS She still isn’t noticing me. Need some help here, mate!

  PPS About now would be good.

  6

  SAM

  Where had all the blinking razors gone? Placing my left foot on the side of the bath, I ran my hands up and down my leg. Then I swapped them over. Yup, both the same – you could exfoliate your hands on them. There must have been at least a week’s growth on the buggers. And they were sickly January white. I leant out to open the bathroom cupboard, dripping water over my cast-off PJs. Perhaps there was one in there? But of course there wasn’t. Not even on a day off, when I have more time for things like grooming, do I manage to actually do something about it. I took my foot off the side of the bath and put my head back under the shower. When was I going to be a woman who was organised and cared about this stuff enough to be on top of my beauty regime? Actually, when was I even going to have a beauty regime?

  Two years ago, when we had first moved in, it was close to Christmas and I had a bountiful supply of razors from Santa. The fancy ones, with the soapy strip and everything. When they ran out, I moved onto Mara’s supply. Mara had tried to put her sensibly shod foot down about this issue, citing personal hygiene, respect for personal property and textbook taking-the-effing-piss as reasons why I really should stop but I ignored her. I didn’t mean to piss Mara off (much). I just never got around to buying some of my own. And after a while Mara gave up and started buying packs of ten throwaway plastic jobs. I suspect that Mara kept her own fancy razor in her bedroom, buying the cheap ones as decoys to keep me from sniffing around. Fair play to her, I suppose. I had proved, yet again, that I couldn’t even keep on top of my razor supply.

  I stood under the water, gently rocking from side to side, letting the hot water scorch one shoulder then the other. Annoyingly, once I’d stopped beating myself up about my lack of a beauty regime, my mind moved swiftly onto Ed. I would much rather have been fantasising about seeing Charlie again. But every time I fixed Charlie’s face in my mind it would be replaced by Ed, with his stubbled face and cheeky grin. Of course it was nice to have Ed sitting at the kitchen table, slotting back into our little family again, but I didn’t want to be thinking about him in the shower. I turned round, letting the water pelt my front. I thought back to the previous night. Ed wanted to talk, obviously without Mara. And Mara had been so flipping prickly. What the hell could that be about?

  And then I clicked. How could I have been so stupid? There must be something wrong with her! He’d want to talk about it while Mara wasn’t in the room to deny it. I ran through Mara’s behaviour leading up to Ed’s return. She’d been grumpier than usual, definitely preoccupied with something. I’d assumed it was just Mara doing what she does best – worrying. He was in India, after all, where anything could happen to him. But could I have missed something else? It was possible. Mara was a shocker for fussing over everyone else and ignoring her own needs, and it was virtually impossible to get any information out of her about how she was. Blood from a stone doesn’t come close.

  I was so occupied chewing over these worrying thoughts that for a second, possibly two, I didn’t register my phone vibrating enthusiastically on top of the curved cistern. But then I did. And although everything happened very quickly, it felt like it happened in slow motion.

  My brain registered . . . that’s my phone!

  I looked wildly through the steamy gloom . . . Oh my God, it’s wobbling on top of the toilet.

  I stepped over the side of the bath . . . stumbling a little . . . Fuck! What are my shoes doing right there?

  I lunged for the phone . . . which fell – plop! Into the toilet.

  ‘No!’ I shouted and fished it out quickly. There on the screen was the blissful yellow envelope that signified a text message.

  Please be him, please be him! I dabbed at the phone perfunctorily with a towel and jabbed the keys.

  Pompous ex requests company over a beer this afternoon, u free? Cx

  ‘Yes!’ I closed my fist and pumped my elbow into my side, immediately grateful no one was there to witness the toilet dunking or the childish arm pumping. There was a tentative knock on the door.

  ‘Are you OK in there?’

  It was Ed.

  ‘Brilliant, thank you!’

  ‘Oh.’ He sounded confused. ‘But you sounded like you’d hurt yourself.’

  I was rifling through the cupboard in a frenzied attempt to locate some forgotten Veet. I had to remove hair. Now.

  ‘Actually can you get Mara for me?’

  ‘Sure.’ Ed sounded relieved.

  A few moments later I heard a decidedly unsympathetic Mara at the door. I opened it a crack and put on what I hoped was my saddest puppy-dog face.

  ‘Can I please borrow a razor?’

  ‘Why?’ Mara narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Why do you think, to write a novel with?’ I jiggled up and down with excitement. ‘Mara, I’ve got a hair-removal emergency going on here!’

  Mara sighed.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to meet someone later.’ I didn’t want to tell her anything more.

  Mara lowered her voice and glanced towards the kitchen, where we could hear Ed washing up.

  ‘Ed and I need some time together this afternoon. We haven’t seen each other for ages.’

  ‘Well I won’t be around. I’ve just told you, I’m meeting someone. Now can I please, please, please borrow your razor?’ What was the matter with Mara – had she become stupid all of a sudden as well as poorly? Confusion, followed by what looked like relief, passed over her face and she disappeared. I continued to jiggle, all thoughts of Ed well banished now. It was Charlie a-go-go.

  As Mara passed her razor reluctantly through the gap in the door, she started to say, ‘I thought—’

  ‘Yeah?’ Come on, Mara.

  ‘Oh nothing. Just wash the razor properly when you’ve finished,’ she said, boring little holes into my eyes with her fierce brown ones before marching back to the kitchen.

  7

  MARA

  Eventually I gave up waiting for Ed to return and set out for the supermarket. I was trying very hard not to feel hurt and failing miserably.

  ‘I don’t want to sponge off you, Mars, and I’d rather see him in person to see if he has any shifts,’ he’d said.

  Of course Ed was right. Max was his best friend and had been his main source of income for the past couple of years, so why shouldn’t he see him today? It wasn’t fair on Max for me to feel jealous. Ed was damn lucky to have him in his life. He could ask Max for any shifts on his coffee cart when he needed them, fitting his photography in around it. We could spend time together another day.

  My brother the photographer! I felt a flutter of excitement every time I said that to myself. I loved that he was following his dream, even though it meant pulling coffees just to get by when we both had turning thirty just around the corner. Yes, I worried about how he would survive when he was old. Would he have enough of a pension to live comfortably? Maybe. Maybe not. Did it matter? Wasn’t it more important that
he was doing what felt right today? Puff puff went my breath as I strode out, and I pushed those thoughts out with it. Photography was Ed’s gift. Of course he was doing the right thing.

  Before he went to India, he’d become more and more interested in documentary photography, spending hours and hours in one area of London at a time, shooting people going about their everyday business. Maybe he’d invite me along to do that soon. I don’t know how he did it – the idea of taking photos of strangers made my blood run cold but I loved watching him. People didn’t seem to notice him, and if they did, he just chatted as if he’d known them forever, his lovely smile illuminating his face. Sometimes it felt like he got all the social skills that were being dished out to us in the womb, leaving me with nothing.

  I was halfway across the park. The sun was actually managing to brighten the wintery yellow grass. My cheeks were cold but I was snug inside my duffle coat and couldn’t help but feel lighter as I walked along. Sainsbury’s wasn’t far away, and I never tired of the simple pleasure of being able to walk there and back with my shopping bags. I’d always been partial to a bit of efficiency. Sam teased me, but she just didn’t understand the pleasure of something working. Walking to the supermarket with a couple of jute bags – and walking back – worked. She didn’t even do the shopping most of the time, which was no bad thing really. Left up to Sam, she would – admittedly warm-heartedly – march off to the supermarket for supper and come home with Jaffa Cakes, Gorgonzola and crisps, when what I really would have liked was a nice piece of haddock. I ran over my list again: ham for sandwiches, rice, milk, mustard and chocolate. There was something else. Oh yes, razors for Sam. Some things never changed.

  Sam. God only knows who she was flitting off to meet this time. He’d be one of two varieties:

  1. The Handsome Rogue: funny and charming, usually swept Sam off her feet, spent a lot of time in bed with her, she wanted him to meet her friends and family (which he avoided), allergic to commitment, invariably broke it off with her within a few weeks.

  2. The Handsome Better-off-as-a-Friend: sometimes younger than Sam, funny and kind-hearted, she swept him off his feet, he spent a lot of time in bed with her, wanted to spend time with me and meet Sam’s family (which she avoided), fell in love with her, but Sam broke it off with him within a few weeks, saying they would be better off as friends.

  I’d been watching Sam hurtle between the two varieties like a thoughtless pinball for years; bouncing from one or two handsome rogues in a row into the arms of a better-off-as-a-friend, then back to another rogue. She knew the rogues were no good for her so, bless her, she tried to be with a good man, but she was never attracted to the better-off-as-friends. So surprise surprise, she then fell for the next rogue that crossed her path because he was exciting. Round and round the same old circuit. It was deeply tedious.

  And the blame for this cycle I placed fair and square on the palatial doorstep of Charlie Hugh-Barrington, Sam’s first – and as far as I could make out only – love. The inaugural handsome rogue. I would have loved to take him down a peg or two. The guy sounded like a complete and utter rake. Thank goodness Sam wasn’t in touch with him. He was the last thing she needed in her life.

  I crossed the road. Not far now. My mind flipped back to Ed again. Specifically Ed and Sam. With Sam’s chequered history, a series of pointless and inevitably flawed dalliances, I had always been clear that he mustn’t go anywhere near Sam romantically. It was obvious which category he fell into, and the last thing I wanted was to be comforting him as he licked his wounds. I would be so cross with Sam too, so flipping cross it made my stomach churn just thinking about the possibility. It would wreck everything.

  I had hoped that India would get Sam out of Ed’s system. He’d never spoken to me about it but it was obvious how he felt. He’d always lit up when she was around, and the year before he went away he might as well have had his tongue hanging out he was so besotted. But for lots of reasons we’d never quite got around to discussing it. Mainly because I didn’t want to make it any more real than it was. Amazingly Sam hadn’t noticed. So far. But he’d returned from India still daft about her. Daft about her, and more determined. Or something. I couldn’t figure out what exactly. There was an urgency to Ed that concerned me. He felt . . . complicated. And there was still the mystery of why he was completely out of touch for the last two months of his trip, save the odd email to let me know he was still alive. I should have been able to feel how he was, even long distance. But this time I couldn’t feel a thing.

  The supermarket was quiet. Ham first, then the condiment aisle. There it was. I reached up for some mustard. A couple next to me were discussing what sauces were missing from their cupboard. Neither of them could remember what they needed. They were pale, half awake and completely at ease with each other.

  ‘I don’t know, some horseradish, let’s try that,’ the man yawned.

  ‘OK.’ The woman sounded doubtful but was reaching for the shelf. ‘Why not?’

  Why not? Why not? I know I needed a bit more ‘why not’. I’d kept myself carefully packaged up, safe and sealed from another relationship since Mark. I caught the man’s eye. He smiled in a friendly, relaxed way, no agenda. Just a ‘hello stranger, I’m wandering round the supermarket on a Saturday evening’ kind of way. No hint of darkness below. No hint of Markness. I lowered my eyes and walked down the aisle towards the bread. Yes, there are nice men out there, Mara, but you can’t trust them. It was always the same old voices, the same old battle inside. Stop it! This was dangerous territory, worrying about myself. Focus. I would go home and make a nice supper, and have a chat with Ed, try to find out what was going on with him in India and why he was home now, so much earlier than expected.

  8

  SAM

  By the time I got to the pub, the butterflies in my belly were frantic. I stood at the door and swallowed a few times, trying to keep them inside, along with the contents of my stomach. But he was there, smiling warmly at me across the room. HE’S PLEASED TO SEE ME! my seventeen-year-old voice shrieked in my head.

  He was sitting languidly at a small table, his long legs crossed, a bottle of wine and two glasses in front of him. He stood (stood!) as I approached and kissed me on both cheeks. I’d expected this greeting to be more awkward than it was, but Charlie made it seem like the most natural thing in the world. His hands felt warm through my sleeves where he’d held my arms. He smelt of antique furniture, brandy and the beach, and the smell went straight to my you know what.

  ‘Sam, it’s so good to see you,’ he purred.

  ‘You too, Charlie.’ Stop grinning. Stop it. Play it cool.

  He pulled out a chair and I sat down and willed myself not to stuff this up. He poured another glass and handed it to me. My hands were shaking.

  ‘So . . . Sam Moriarty,’ he said.

  ‘That’s me.’ I took a quick sip and for the second time in twelve hours, hid my hands under the table. God, he was handsome. Those cheeks. You could land a plane on them.

  ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Still as cute as ever, with that wild-around-the-edges look.’ I touched my hair compulsively. What did he mean? Women – and men for that matter – kept glancing at him from other tables. Beautiful women without a hair out of place. I gave him a tight smile. I had to get this conversation started before I bolted out the door.

  ‘So you’re a doctor then,’ I stuttered, immediately kicking myself – couldn’t I come up with a more interesting question than that?

  He smiled. If he noticed my nervousness he wasn’t showing it.

  ‘A surgeon actually.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘It’s only one step up from a butcher really.’

  I winced.

  ‘That doesn’t sound good, does it? I don’t mean we butcher our patients. But it’s fairly straightforward most of the time. Single-focus stuff.’ He leant forward then and said in a provocative whisper, ‘Good for men.’

&n
bsp; ‘And not for women?’ And there it was, the conversation had ignited. There was nothing like a good bit of fighting to get rid of nerves. I may overuse it a little and yes, it is how seventeen-year-olds interact, but it works. Suddenly my nerves were gone. And the stupid grin that replaced Charlie’s more controlled charming smile showed he’d just been waiting for it to kick off.

  ‘I knew you’d say that!’ he almost crowed. ‘Still the feminist are we, Sam?’ He leant back again and pushed his hair off his face.

  ‘The feminist? What, I suppose you only know one?’

  Charlie ignored me.

  ‘What I mean, Sam,’ Charlie continued, ‘is that it suits men because we just get on with the job at hand without too much multitasking. It’s just a series of steps really.’

  ‘What if something goes wrong?’

  ‘Well, then things get a little more complicated, but you’ve got a whole team supporting you.’

  ‘Very impressive.’ I raised my glass to him.

  ‘No need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘I’m not!’ I hadn’t meant to sound insincere actually. Well, not much. ‘You’ve worked hard to get to where you are and I’m impressed, honestly.’

  He paused, assessing me across the table.

  ‘What about you, Sam? I’m sure you’re up to something interesting. You were always so . . . creative.’ I felt myself colouring under his gaze, and the few remaining butterflies left in my stomach set off again.

  ‘I was?’

  ‘Sure. Don’t you remember that sculpture you made of that headless girl, an arrow through her heart?’ He mimed plunging an arrow into his chest.

  Oh no, not that. Why did he have to remember that?

  ‘What was it about again, something Greek?’

  ‘Yes. Something like that.’ I laughed, hoping he wouldn’t pry further. The sculpture had actually been my way of expressing how I felt about him at the time: utterly brainless with Cupid’s arrow lodged in my breast.