‘It’s okay…?’
‘It’s like the festival. Impressions. I don’t really remember losing my dad. I guess I was too young to understand. Then I grew up and I grieved up in the process. When I grasped that my dad had died, I was used to it already. If that makes sense.’
It does, but it doesn’t. Charles can’t relate. He can’t compare. But he clutches his ankle to refrain from jumping to his feet and hugging Loris, for longer than a few seconds.
Not to comfort him, he obviously doesn’t need to be. Not to comfort himself either. Consoling hugs always had the opposite effect, confronting him with the pain he was trying to repress. Charles wants to hold Loris because he feels immensely closer to him than he did a minute ago. And if the fist squeezing his heart could fragment it, it would also protect and put its pieces back together.
‘Still, it’s harrowing that you had so little time with him…’
‘It’s frustrating. I miss him, or the idea of him, in random moments. Like yesterday, I had to quick-fix a pipe at the pub and I wondered how he would have done it. It’s insignificant, but yeah… The small deals are when I miss him the most. For the big deals, I had the great man my mum met when I was eleven. So I’ve been okay, really, and I swear if I ever need a hug I’ll ask for one. Please cheer up. I’d like to stay on this topic, it’s gonna help your Loris investigation, but I can’t have you look all sad in the drawing.’
Charles cracks a smile, but turns away. He can’t relate to that either. He spent fifteen precious years with Fred. He would have many small and big deals to cherish if diving into their past didn’t wreak havoc on Charland.
He chugs what’s left of his beer and redirects his attention to Loris, who’s way easier to put up with than his own reflection. ‘Tell me.’
‘He was from Hampstead.’
‘Your dad?’
‘Born and raised and happy here, until he went to Paris, and fell in love with cheese and with my mum.’
‘That’s why your English is so good!’
‘Yeah. She kept speaking it at home after he passed away.’
‘But hold on… You’re British, then?’
‘Don’t be so disappointed. My dual citizenship protects me from Brexit-related hassles. And I feel extremely French, especially since I’ve moved here. But indeed, my passport reads Loris Joseph Harry Robson.’
‘Do you have family around? Is that why you came here?’
‘My grandparents live in Kent now. I go once a month. They’re not used to seeing me that often, they spoil me like a king. And yeah, my dad is the reason why I’m in Hampstead. He kept a diary when he was a teenager and— That’s the one.’
Charles’ eyes have darted towards the leather notebook above the desk.
‘It piqued my curiosity, made me want to walk in his footsteps, literally. So I… Wait, time out, Charles. Can you try to relax?’
‘Relax?’
‘You seem tense. Like it’s truly registering that you’re posing.’
‘It might be because you’re nearly on my lap.’ Charles stretches his neck, rolls his shoulders and shrugs them. ‘Tense is my middle name, you’ll have to make do with that.’
‘Or not.’ Loris gets up and passes behind the sofa. ‘Can I?’
‘Can you what?’
‘Try to unstiff you?’
‘Sure… What are you, now? A physio?’
‘Yeah.’ Loris slides his hands underneath Charles’ collar and places his thumbs on his cervical spine. ‘I took a basic course when I decided to coach kids. My god, how can you function like this?’
‘I’m used to it, I— Fuuuuuck…’
Loris has just twisted a ropy strand and sent a pang of acute pain all the way to Charles’ toes.
‘It’s worse than I thought. I’d need to hurt you.’
