‘Absolutely not now.’
Charles grasps Loris’ hair and straddles him, kissing him senseless, as if the survival of the universe depended on it. Perhaps it does after all. He can’t chance it.
The universe matters, and Loris may very well be all of it.
TWENTY-ONE
After two hours spent sorting the contents of his notebook, Charles has a clearer overview of his novel in progress.
He’s written a few satisfying dialogues, summaries of many scenes and detailed descriptions of his characters and their dynamics. He’s yet to come up with a setting, a compelling plot and a single narrative paragraph that doesn’t make him want to rip out both his eyeballs. His prose is either dull as a business paper or overly poetic.
He strongly overestimated his talent, which has to be a first and proves to be a bleak experience.
He can’t even attribute his writing struggles to his family turmoil, because his primary justification for disregarding his family turmoil is to keep his creative process unhampered.
The only solution to remain sane is to blame Loris, who’s invaded Charland.
So Charles closes his notebook and his eyes to mind-travel back to the flat. Indulging in his growing collection of steamy memories is safer than pen-clicking over his shortcomings. It’s also wiser to fantasise about Loris when he’s on his own – rather than at work or dinner. He has to avoid thinking about foreplay and naked rubbing when he’s interacting with colleaguesor—
His mother.
Her knock on his bedroom door is always sharp and fast. Charles usually takes six seconds to steel himself for the exchange, theorising on the reason for her visit. Today, he strides to the door.
Alice looks like she could have used six extra seconds. Her face bears the marks of a tension he had never seen before.
‘May I come in?’
‘To talk about Fred?’
‘Charles, please.’
Her narrowed eyes are imploring, but her voice is as calm as usual, devoid of the anguish she’s showing.
Charles remembers the hours she spent on the phone after the accident, accepting condolences with the vocal aplomb of a telemarketer while shaking on her chair, damp creases on her ashen cheeks.
This vision pierces his heart, so he hastens to seal the hole with a paste made of resentful memories. He can’t afford to feel for her.
‘Your father was in a lather over your sudden decision to manage an emerging artist.’
‘Oh dear. Will he burn my friend’s work?’
‘I convinced him that it was a good idea. At least, a harmless one.’
‘Because you think it’s a good idea?’
‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
Charles lets her in, his perplexity undermining his determination.
Alice saunters inside, feigning to discover the decoration on his walls, as if she never used her set of keys to come in when he’s out. She brushes non-existent crumbs off his duvet and sits on the bed.
‘Is it the true reason why you have been in and out of here like a draught this week?’
‘Yes and no. Loris deserves my full attention. But I would avoid youlike the plague, regardless.’
She contracts her fingers on her thighs but nods. ‘You could have found worse of a pursuit. You can carry on.’
