However, he could easily be a strategy advisor for Tottenham, because the one unfolding is demoralising.
George comes back and throws a bottle of water next to Charles onhis way to his drinks cabinet. After a couple of seconds in front of his whisky selection, he turns around, holding a full decanter and two tumblers.
Charles recoils. ‘Ugh. No.’
‘Not for you.’ George mutes the match and plonks himself down on a footstool between Charles and the screen. ‘So, about rugby guy, what did you mean by “I was with him”?’
‘What?’ Charles feels a shade of colour fade away from his cheeks. ‘Nothing. I meant… just what it meant. Why?’
‘Something about your face when you said it and, three, two, one, there it is again.’
Charles turns away, sensing the shade rush back with a couple of guests.
‘Also, now that you’ve mentioned his nationality, I’m intrigued by your text. “French have massive long pills”. Was it a metaphor about a body part that you—’
‘No! I was taking about a real pill! About medicine! Loris gave me— He, Loris, that’s his name, he gave me paracetamol, and in France they sell stronger dosage. That’s all!’
‘Alright, alright. But do you feel like telling me what “being with him” implied?’
Charles brings the bottle of water to his lips to blur the contact with George’s razor-sharp eyes.
His explanation involved lying by omission in any case. But now, lying would be taking George for a dupe. The worst way to repay him for his constant support.
‘It implied being… in his bed. With him. Sort of naked and… and under him.’
Charles drinks again, his gut catching fire at the memory.
‘Very well.’ George downs a whisky in one, grimaces and grabs the other glass. ‘Onefollow-up question.’
‘One follow-up… Really? Just one?’
‘I’ve got seventeen, but only one matters. Multiple-choice question. Are you: A, losing your mind over this drunken mistake that you regret big time? B, happy that you tried but unwilling to repeat the experience? C, looking at me but imagining the next time you’ll be naked in his bed?’
‘No! I’m not picturing myself under him when I’m looking at you!’
‘We’re leaning towards option C, though?’
‘Yes…’
‘Wicked!’ George slaps his thighs and stands up to go back to his armchair. ‘Mate, we scored! Blimey, I missed it! Did you see it? Can you turn the sound back on?’
Slack-jawed, Charles points at the full glass of whisky that his friend has abandoned.
‘Oh, that was in case I had to bring you from A to B. I can’t soberly handle your self-flagellation. But all good.’
‘What about your seventeen questions?’
‘I’ve got eighteen now, but I’d rather watch the match. Is it okay? You look disappointed.’
‘I’m not! It’s great, I wasn’t planning on… I didn’t want… I don’t want to discuss it and… Well, yes, actually. That’s it? Sharing this is a huge deal and that’s all you make of it? Seriously? You’re not even curious about…’
George grins proudly, so Charles blinks, struggling to understand what just happened.
When it registers, he rolls his eyes.
He’s so stupid it hurts.
‘So! Now that you’re dying to talk, where shall we start?’
