‘Your call.’
‘This is artistic blackmail!’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And I’m super busy!’
‘As you said, you’re a great multitasker.’
Charles could actually drive Loris to binge-read the book in one night if he played the Olwinski trump card he has up his sleeve. But it’s obvious that he will get his own way without it, so he prefers to wait for a more epic opportunity to fry Loris’ mind.
‘Can I work on the drawing during the reading process?’
‘If I get updates on both, yes.’
‘Fine.’
‘Excellent!’
Charles offers him his hand to shake, and Loris quits the pouting act to take it.
‘I need to dig out the book from the box of stuff I’ve never used since I moved to London.’
‘If you can’t find it, I have three copies.’
‘Another supremely shocking revelation!’
Charles nudges him and walks to his clothes.
As he grabs his jacket, his palm prickles with the phantom heat of Loris’ skin – the way that sometimes makes him wonder if he’s still wearing his beanie minutes after removing it. So he closes his fist to check that he truly freed Loris and isn’t having an inappropriate moment of absent-mindedness.
Charles steps out of the flat more reluctantly than he can explain. ‘Thank you for having me.’
‘Thanks for coming. We should do it again.’
‘Yes…’
‘Enjoy your evening, Charles.’
Loris has to force the S at the end of his name. It echoes like the call of an adventure Charles is free to launch himself into.
He climbs down six steps before looking over his shoulder. Loris is quick to pinch his lips, but not quick enough to conceal his sunny expression. Charles takes it with him onto the dark and windy street, and traces it on a canvas in his chest, hoping to tap into its powers in the future. It would be valuable to feel inspiring more often.
Inspiring and inspired.
In the Uber, he opens a note application on his phone to write the outline of a character. An obedient, uptight young man, frozen for eternity in an oil painting. Until the frame falls and breaks. The young man escapes to go steal beers and defy all rules with a girl he adores.
His name is Frederick.
Charles doesn’t need to invent him. He needs to trudge through seven years of warped memories and remember.
SEVEN
As much as Charles dreads social events at home, the impromptu gathering happening tonight has been easy to handle.
An Austrian couple, who he’s meant to remember from one encounter a decade ago, is the centre of attention. The neighbours, invited by Alice to show off to about keeping company with Austrian nobility, are busy strutting their stuff. And Charles’ parents are too focused on ensuring the smooth running of the evening to worry about their son making a good impression.
He’s making the best impression regardless. It’s simpler when he’s certain he won’t be singled out and grilled about topics that complicate his digestion. The part of the enthusiastic spectator suits him.
