‘I see…’ Charles gulps a storm of arising questions that would make him sound stupid on top of feeling it. ‘Can you rest on Saturday morning?’
‘A bit, but I’ve got to tidy the flat. I’m gonna rematch my pillowcases, just for you.’
Charles flattens his hand onto his heart and smiles. A smile that should stick, because Loris is teasing, but that fades away as soon as Charles lifts his beer again.
‘I’m done here. Can we join them?’
‘Yes. I don’t want your friends to resent me.’
Charles wouldn’t know what to ask to be at ease again or how to ask it without feeling more idiotic. He’s not certain why he’s unsettled. The bubble is still holding, but undefined shadows are now surfing on its surface.
‘So you agree that band is crap,’ Enzo says, sounding so French, Charles would have linked some dots had he heard him earlier.
‘No, I said their music isn’t my cup of tea.’ Aliah sighs and shakes her head. ‘But let’s move on to a conversation Charles can take part in.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ he replies as he takes his seat. ‘I’m happy to listen. I’m not much of a talker.’
‘You’re not? Your posing sessions with Loris must be fascinating, considering he prefers to let us monologue while he’s in the zone.’
‘I kind of sleep through them.’
‘Really?’
Charles reaches for his pocket, the tip of his ears burning under their inquisitive looks. They’re aware he’s posing for Loris. What else has he told them? What portrait is Charles meant to live up to?
‘What happens in my flat stays in my flat, Aliah, you know that.’ Loris slumps onto the chair near Enzo. ‘Didn’t you say you had juicy work stories?’
‘Oh, yes!’
Charles meets Loris’ caring eyes above his can, and the wave of danger recedes. He leaves his pen in his coat but takes his phone to have something to fiddle with in case his stress-level surges again. He swipes away a notification and places it onto his thigh, but Phoebe snatches it, her eyes bulging out.
‘I knew you had to have some flaws, but this is a ginormous one.’
His lock screen is an old photo of him, George and Elsy, in the terraces of the former Tottenham stadium. He and George were sporting their custom-flocked shirts. Elsy was supporting the other team, as usual.
‘Who are they?’
‘Elsy and George. Friends of mine.’
‘Single?’
‘George?’
‘I don’t care, they’re both hot. Even in that repulsing setting.’
‘Yes, they’re single…’
‘Sweet. Bring them along next time.’
Phoebe winks and refocuses on Aliah. Charles keeps a straight face, because Loris is side-eyeing him, but he scratches his thumb, agitated for a brand-new reason.
The shameful realisation that he’s not sure if George is single.
Last Charles heard, his friend was worried about catching feelings for the woman he was seeing. Torn between planning another date or cutting her off, he intended to go data analyst on the situation. But last Charles heard was a few weeks ago. George doesn’t gush about his love life unless someone asks, and Charles hasn’t wondered about it once.
The loathing voice that assaulted him in the taxi rumbles again. He’s so hellbent on finding safe ways to make it through each day, he’sbecoming self-centred. He should know his best friend’s relationship status. He could have figured out that Loris’ ex was a boyfriend. He didn’t ask Alex how his family has been doing lately. He never checks that Elsy isn’t actually hurting when she jokes about her failure of an affair. He hasn’t—
And there he goes again. Self-flagellating instead of engaging with the group. He growls, then squeezes his can. His growl wasn’t as internal as the deprecating voice, so the table went quiet.
