‘Els! Let’s go!’
Charles yanks her away from the two customers she’s recapping the failure of her former affair to. She stumbles against the stool, falls into his arms and sniffs the collar of his shirt.
‘You smell like debauchery. Let’s run to my place to get very naked, very fast.’
‘Your chest hurts.’
‘Nonsense.’
He smiles but shakes his head. The thought of causing her pain would inevitably prevent him from getting it up.
She grumbles and turns to the barman. ‘D’you want to get laid?’
‘I’m gonna respectfully pass.’
‘There’s no respectful way to do that!’
Charles loops an arm around Elsy’s waist to keep her at a safe distance from the many men who would disregard her brassy attitude if she offered her body. She grumbles again and kicks a paper ball straight between the legs of the drunk sleeping in an armchair by the door.
The night sky is as clear as it can get in Greater London. Charles wouldn’t mind staying on the patio of the pub, to sit cross-legged on one of the wooden tables and look up. He’s never gazed at the stars from here. But this pastime is only soothing when he’s on his own.
They cross the street to walk back home, which a sober Elsy in heels would flat out refuse. Luckily, she’s busy listing the reasons why she doesn’t care about the man she’s obsessing over and she lets Charles usher her through narrow residential streets.
Born, raised and expected to uphold an impeccable reputation in Hampstead, Charles has perfected a safe pedestrian map of the neighbourhood. One that limits the risk of bumping into a gossipy acquaintance of his family. Even as a child, dragged around by his nannies, he kept a record of the spots where his demeanour was observed by a stranger yet criticised at home later that week.
Charles loves the village vibe of Hampstead, four miles away from the city centre. He only wishes it were a village he had chosen and escaped to, not the one he often feels trapped in.
‘Are you coming over anyway?’ Elsy asks as he leads her away from the street he lives on.
‘Of course.’
He doesn’t recall his parents requesting his presence at dinner tonight, which is a solid proof that they didn’t. His selective memory tends to focus on unpleasant prospects.
‘Great! Let’s order sushi! And— Hang on, Chips! Why are we on foot?’
TWO
Charles becomes aware that he’s misplaced his pen twenty-six hours after using it in the pub. Twenty-six hours of serenity, otherwise he would have realised sooner. A record he could be proud of but, sadly, missing his pen results in a sleepless night spent ransacking his room, tidying it back to perfection and searching through it again.
In the morning, he sprints to the office where his pen is nowhere to be found either. He sets to work on autopilot, tapping the piano arrangement of Ravel’sBoléroonto his thighs between each of his tasks. It’s less efficient than clicking his pen, but it makes it a little bit easier to ignore his nausea – amplified by the impression that he’s continuously tripping on a staircase.
At 3pm, losing his marbles and the rhythm of the music, he asks if he can leave. His line manager, who treasures every minute he doesn’t have to manage his interns, allows it with a dismissive wave.
Charles exits the building and scuttles away, hopelessness sweeping over him.
He’s at one with his addiction to a stick of plastic. Among all the anxiety relievers he can afford, this has to be the healthiest. But he feels hopeless, because he didn’t need his pen for twenty-six hours and can’t pinpoint why. Did nothing trigger him for a whole day or washe tranquil enough to ignore the triggers?
If he recalled what his peaceful bubbles are made of, he would shape some by himself. But the thorns bursting them are the only memories that remain vivid.
Like his father’s comment last night.
They were halfway through the main course when Milton Ledwell stopped gushing about the next sculpture he will splurge on. He slapped his embroidered serviette against the table and shifted gears.
‘You should be doing fruitful work for Clifford. I will call him tomorrow. He needs to notify your supervisor that you are not there to be a secretary.’
Charles’ heart plummeted.
He plays stupid at the office, afraid to be given responsibilities that would entail expectations and pressure. He’s crafty in the way he acts stupid, though, and Clifford – the CEO of the wealth management firm – seems pleased enough. But admonished by Milton Ledwell over the phone, Clifford would inevitably bristle, ‘Your son shies away whenever we try to involve him!’ A truth that wouldn’t go down well at home.
