ONE
‘What a phenomenal waste of time!’
Elsy slams a box of ibuprofen under Charles’ nose, tearing him away from nebulous thoughts he instantly forgets. He knocks over his empty pint glass and narrowly catches it before it falls on the other side of the bar counter.
‘Damn it, Els. You know I hate it when you startle me.’
‘You were wandering very deep in Charland, weren’t you?’
Charles sighs and picks up the pen he let go of when he jumped. He clicks its nib in and out six times, following the erratic beats of his heart, shaken by this abrupt trip back down to Earth. He should be used to his best friend’s passion for making explosive entrances. But for a minute, or more, he had forgotten she was meant to join him.
‘This pub is so creepy.’ Elsy perches on the next rickety stool and frees her wavy auburn hair from a ponytail. ‘I’m not sure the old drunk sitting near the door is still alive.’
‘So what’s going on with you? Why was it a waste of time? What did they say?’
‘I spent an hour there just to be told to take period medicine!’
An hour in A&E seems like a reasonable wait for someone who’s neither unconscious nor bleeding out, which means Elsy must havethrown a few ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ at the staff.
No one at the Royal Free Hospital knows who Elsy is, but she can effortlessly pass herself off as a friend of the Middletons.
Glad that he didn’t witness the scene, Charles brushes her white medical wristband, jarring between her golden bracelets. ‘Nothing serious, then?’
‘Hang on. Excuse me! Would it be possible to get a drink?’
Elsy punctuates her question with a tight-lipped smile, affronted that the barman didn’t scoot over to serve her.
‘I guess. What can I get you?’
‘Do you do cocktails?’ she asks, staring at the ‘We don’t do cocktails’ sign on the wall.
‘I can overcharge you for a shot diluted in juice.’
The guy comes from a French-speaking country. But he’s not shortening all vowels or incapable of stressing syllables, like most Francophones. His accent is a subtle echo that lingers when he’s finished speaking. Charles has been craving cheese, crêpes and Breton cider for the past forty-five minutes.
‘Please do. Surprise me. On his tab.’ Elsy glances at Charles. ‘You’ve opened a tab?’
‘Yes.’ He presses his knee against her thigh. ‘Now, tell me. Are you alright?’
Soon after lunch, Elsy called him to explain she was experiencing sharp chest pain that she compared to a gnome trampolining on her thorax. Charles would have attributed such pain to a new kind of panic-induced episode, but Elsy doesn’t do panic. She ruled out potential causes found on Google, and she concluded – still without panicking – that she was perhaps having a heart attack and should leave university early to seek medical advice.
For reasons that Charles didn’t question, she shunned her usualprivate practice and instructed him to wait for her in this seedy pub after work.
‘It’s a boring inflammation of the cartilage. It’ll go away with rest and cheap pills.’
‘You should go rest, then.’
‘They meant we can’t play tennis this week. I’m fine.’ She squeezes his fingers, her silver-flaked polish reflecting the neon lighting above the bar. ‘Don’t fret about it, Chips.’
Charles cracks a smile and squeezes her hand in turn, half a dozen times.
He’s realising how worried he was now that he’s not anymore. It’s messed up. Worry usually stifles him for the less concerning grounds for alarm, yet he blanked out through Elsy’s medical emergency.
‘Can I see some ID?’
Elsy gasps and looks daggers at the barman. ‘Some ID? Did you checkhisID?’
‘No.’
