‘But your intellectual capabilities were never in question.’
‘What was, then?’
Charles looks up from the traces of coffee at the bottom of his mug, then back down reflexively, because Milton’s stare feels like an iron pressed against his forehead. But as his father drinks from his cup, Charles glances at him again, in search of a flash of hesitation that’s already gone. It was brief, nearly imperceptible, but Charles spotted the crack in Milton’s unflappable confidence.
‘Your resilience. You exhibited a deflated temperament following the ordeal we all had to move past. You struggled to recover, and we feared that it could hinder your potential.’
Charles gapes internally. His father is acknowledging his grief and mental health. He’s the one role-playing now.
‘I apologise if our overzealousness led you to believe we think of you as half-brained. Rest assured that it comes from the confirmation that you are strong-minded. It isn’t lost on us that you had to work hard on yourself, and that we may have failed to commend that part of your journey.’
It would be an Oscar-winning performance if there were a category for stone-faced monotonic deliveries.
Milton is speaking with a forked tongue, to keep quiet about the true reason why he wasn’t sure Charles would start his MBA.A reason that must be even more shameful than emotional disorders in his parents’ book.
‘So, as a token of our appreciation…’
Milton pushes the newspaper towards Charles who loses the thread of his puzzled thoughts.
‘You had one of my articles from last year published?’
‘You are not good enough for theFinancial Timesyet, but I like the confidence.’
Charles swallows a lump of disappointment, then one of relief, then one of complete and utter confusion. What’s going on? Why is he disappointed? Why does he have to manage this conversation with a contaminated bloodstream?
He unfolds the newspaper and discovers a leather watch case, whose crown-shaped logo makes him jump. ‘No. It’s too much.’
‘It’s perfect.’ Milton flattens his hand onto the case, inviting Charles to wait and to spare them both an uncomfortable exchange. He stands and points at the plate. ‘Are you saving yourself for the roast or afraid to be sick?’
‘The latter… I won’t have dinner with you. Elsy is hosting a… tea party.’
‘Whatever it is code for, do not overindulge in it. Enjoy your day, Charles.’
‘You too…’
Milton grabs his newspaper and leaves Charles alone with the watch, an intensifying nausea and his phone vibrating on the table.
He sends Phil to voicemail and opens his chat with Loris before the drum kit in his skull evolves into an out-of-tune brass band.
09:52I can’t today. I’m busy and too hungover to recall and analyse what happened. But for sure I didn’t have a panic attack so don’t worry!
He’s a Rolex-worthy coward, and there’s no chance he will get away with that. But he won’t take a reasoned Loris-decision until he comes to fifty Charles-conclusions. And right now, he can’t even assess if he will reach his bathroom in time or should make a beeline for the downstairs toilet.
***
Loris didn’t just refuse to let him get away with his answer, he chose the worst moment to reply.
Charles was entering the Buchanan property, impatient to recontaminate his bloodstream. Convinced it was a follow-up question from Phil about their ski holiday, he displayed the message.
18:05 WITH ONE LCool but as soon as you recall initiating a make out session on my sofa I’d love your analysis on why your mouth wanted mine so bad
Charles has been frozen in the driveway for five minutes, his insides sizzling. He’s not recalling their kiss, he’s reliving it, and one of the main Charles-conclusions he had forged in the afternoon is falling apart.
The logical conclusion that his inappropriate impulse wasn’t about Loris, but about himself. That he was lost, desperate to be held and to feel whole, and that he would have clung on to any anchor, regardless of its shape. But the want engulfing him tonight has everything to do with Loris. It has his face, his body and his hands leaving ember marks on Charles’ skin.
‘Trying to catch a cold, Chaz?’
‘What? No, I’m… Hi.’
