He didn’t think Loris would still be awake.
01:17 WITH ONE LDon’t bother with the tshirt I don’t want it back
The thorn sinks deeper, and Charles brings a pillow to his face, to cry out the self-inflicted loss of the one thing he had chosen and built all by himself.
THIRTEEN
The next morning, Charles realises that he can overwhelm Charland by attending six Christmas functions in a week. He hurries to RSVP those that aren’t compulsory and, before each event, he sets a goal – proportional to his fickle ability to handle the urge to escape. From swallowing a full course without throwing up, to vaunting his business knowledge to strangers, he achieves them all and tries to relish the subsequent waves of satisfaction.
Those social gatherings are good role-play practice. The next step will be to become one with his character, but that’s not something he can force. It will come over time.
He also parties with friends, volunteers for projects at the office and travels to Leeds to watch Tottenham play from the hospitality box. George sticks to his word and doesn’t bat an eyelid at his self-persuasive remarks about the firm and the business school.
Charles packs his schedule, but that doesn’t prevent him from thinking about Loris. Forgetting him isn’t something he can force either. He needs to grieve the relationships he put in the ground. The one they had and the one it could have evolved into. Although Charles curses himself when he envisions the latter, because chimeric possibilities are the stumbling blocks he’s trying to clear his path of.
He thinks about Loris when he passes by theSofiaroom without going in, shunning the truths it contains. Or when he follows streets that lengthen his journeys but keep him away from the green door or the pub. He thinks about Loris every time he misses him and finds himself missing him the way Loris once said he misses his father – in random situations where he can’t help but wonder how he would have reacted. Charles thinks about Loris in the shower and slams the thermostatic valve to the right, to cool off and stop his hand from wandering down.
He thinks about Loris as soon as he’s alone and feels alone whenever he’s unable to think about Loris.
Charles is thinking about Loris on his way back home from work. He used to spend those walks making up summaries of his days that would please his parents without impressing them. He doesn’t need to tell fables anymore, his days do just that, so he’s free to miss Loris.
He’s picturing him under the neon lights of the pub when he spots Phoebe on the other side of the pelican crossing, her coloured hair and clothes standing out in a crowd of dark coats. She’s bobbing her head, probably to the rhythm of the music she’s listening to. The pedestrian signal turns green, she steps forwards, their eyes meet and the song ends. Or if it keeps on playing, she’s no longer enjoying it.
Charles stays still and grasps his pen in his pocket. It would be easy to pass her in the middle of the road where they can’t linger. Or to pretend he hasn’t seen her, like she’s now pretending she hasn’t seen him. But they both know they’ve seen each other. Charles can either pen-click during a short conversation or pen-click for days, imagining Loris’ friends criticising him for avoiding her. A dilemma he doesn’t need to spinach.
He speed-clicks six times and displays an uneasy smile that’s not meant to be anything else.
Phoebe seems captivated by the pink dots on her gloves, so Charles waves to catch her attention. She feigns neither surprise nor warmth when she looks up, but she stops and pulls her headphones down to rest around her neck.
‘Hi! It’s me. Charles.’
‘I know who you are.’
‘Yes, sorry, I… I’m really bad at small talk… How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’ Phoebe looks to the left, to the right, sinks her chin into her scarf and sighs. ‘You?’
‘I’m alright. Were you at uni?’
‘Christmas shopping.’
‘Oh…’ He points at her empty hands. ‘No luck?’
‘I’m about to meet the friends I bought presents for so I dropped everything home. Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Are you going to the North Haven?’
‘Is that okay with you, Dad?’
Charles fakes a cough and turns away to gaze at an estate agent window. Unfortunately, it doesn’t offer any housing option spacious enough to host his current discomfort.
‘Okay, thanks for the small talk, Charles, but—’
‘How is Loris?’
He gulps and multiplies the rent of a two-bedroom flat by three, then four, then—
‘Great. Why wouldn’t he be?’
