Charles chortles, because her energy has just gone very George-like. He unlocks his phone, only to drop it again, its weight bouncing on the lining of his stomach.
Instagram is open. His direct messages with Loris’ account, where earlier he jump-sent ‘Are yyyyyy’, to which Loris replied five minutes later with three question marks.
He’s still online, but Charles’ brain logs out.
‘Is something wrong? Charles?’
‘I’m a hopeless disaster but, no, nothing too wrong.’
What is he supposed to do now? And when did he finish his drink?
‘You’re not.’ Liv seizes his wrist with an intensity that makes him recoil. ‘Look… George told me about your recent decisions regarding your future. And I’m sure he’s already told you what I’m about to tell you, but… Your father is a dangerous abusive dickhead.’
‘I know.’
‘You do, but you’re tolerating it. And I understand. I never blamedFred for being scared to stand up to him. Milton always had that crazy chokehold on you two, because he’s so good at manipulation. But what I couldn’t see back then, is that his threats of drastic actions were empty. The only power he’s got is the one you give him. What can he do? You’re twenty-two, you’re brilliant and you’re loved left, right and centre. You’re so loved, you know that?’
Left, right and centre? Charles’ head-globe spins faster.
‘Milton is caging you with the planted seed he’s played with your entire life. The belief that you need him to love and validate you. But the only version of you he’ll ever validate is one he can control. He owns you, or so he thinks, but he doesn’t love you. So, Charles, if what you’re doing makesyouhappy, then by all means, do it. But if your choices are influenced by the conditions that must be met for Milton to support you, I beg you to reconsider. He can’t hurt you more than you would hurt yourself in the long run if you gave up on what you want. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
Charles looks down at his phone, then back at Liv’s mindful and worried expression. ‘I hear that and… I think I need to go.’
‘You need to go? Where?’
‘To my safe place. I was building a safe place and I damaged it. I really need to go.’
‘But weren’t you—’
‘Thank you, Liv!’
Charles collects his phone and pivots. His head does two extra rotations compared to what his body just did, so when he strides away, he collides with the corner of a table. He mumbles an apology, pushes the door to the fire exit stairwell and scurries down the steps, stroking his painful hip.
In the deepest part of his chest, a peace treaty is being signed.
SIXTEEN
Charles left his jumper, coat and scarf behind. It didn’t matter in the heated car, but he’s now outside, ten frontages away from the flat, because he couldn’t remember Loris’ street number when he booked the Uber. His blood is turning solid, but he’s afraid to run on the icy ground. It would be easier if he had skis. Phil probably had a pair at the bar. Unfortunately, it’s too late to go back.
Charles eventually reaches the green door – on which he can’t see any number – and presses the bell, breathing with his mouth open to create a Macallan-flavoured steam. Macallan is a pleasant-sounding word. So is Craigellachie, the name of the village where the distillery is located.
When light pierces through the curtains on the first floor, Charles lets go of the bell. Bell’s is produced at the Blair Athol distillery. He learnt the map of Scottish whiskies when he was sixteen.
Why does he remember that, though, instead of the street number of Loris’ place?
That’s because there’s none. That’s right.
Is Loris back in London? Or did he take the Eurostar to go to—
The door flies open, and Charles chokes on his frozen breath.
‘Damn! Your chest is covered with muscles!’
‘Forfuck’s sake!’ Loris yanks him inside. ‘What’s your issue with dressing for the weather?’
‘Yes, I’m a bit cold.’
‘No shit.’
