I spend almost every minute of my day with Charlie, and honestly, I don’t know how I’ll be able to handle a minute less of her.
CJ
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day forty-eight sober
I just had a conversation with Toby.
This is big news. Toby is an astonishingly accomplished conversation dodger. He has done hours—days—of shifts with me and has still managed never to utter more than five words at a time in my presence.
It’s not that he’s unfriendly—he’s just very shy, I think. Everything I know of him is impressive: rumor has it he’s doing well in an Open University course, and he’s a runner, and we occasionally cross paths around the island when I’m out mountain biking (though he does often turn around when he sees me and run the other way). Most impressive of all, though, he’s a hugely gifted artist. Marly showed me the mural he’s painting at the farmhouse when I was there the other night, and it’s incredible—this massive stylized depiction of the Nicole family’s history on the island right through to the present day.
Anyway, today, Toby came tome. He sidestepped over from behind the till while I was sorting the fridges and cleared his throat. I was so surprised it took me a while to realize he didn’t just want me to move out of his way. Toby’s hair was, as usual, gelled to cover as much of his face as possible; I could see about half an eye.
“I need some advice,” he whispered.
“Sure. What can I do for you?” I said.
“I don’t know if you’ve…noticed…” Toby trailed off, playing with the laces of his hoodie.
I suggested we could sit down in the sunshine, grab a hot drink. As we are—famously—not yet up and running serving coffees,we’re all still making our own in the back room, and the picnic benches are languishing, generally used to store things or lean bikes against.
Toby remained completely silent as I made us both a coffee and we sat opposite each other on one of the benches. It was warm enough to sit out here, just—there’s a bite in the wind, now, and I was grateful for the latest of Galoshes’s hand-knitted jumpers I’d acquired. Everyone knows Charlie has changed her look since getting here—the sweet ribboned dresses are long gone, and she’s always in a pair of chunky boots under some sort of long skirt or her favorite jeans—but I have, too, really. I am very much a woolly jumper man these days.
“So what’s up, Toby?”
“You may have noticed…some tension…between Red and me.”
I said something vague like, Oh, really? As though I didn’t have this very issue written on my to-do list.
“The thing is…the only person I can talk to about stuff is my mum,” Toby said, his voice getting smaller and smaller. “Well…my mum and Red. Before. But…something changed. And I have…no idea what.”
“With Red?”
He nodded.
“You guys were friends? Or more than friends?”
“More than friends,” Toby said, in such a quiet whisper I had to duck forward to hear him.
“Really!” I said, then tried to dial down the surprise.
WhywasI so surprised? Toby is a good guy, and I’d have guessed that Red is just the sort of person to see through things like shyness and bad hair to spot herself one of those.
“I know,” Toby said miserably. “We had the most amazing few weeks together when she arrived. We stayed up all night talking, camped under the stars…I’ve never been so happy. She made me feel…enough. More than enough.” He hung his head. “Then she stopped talking. And I figured…she’d just seen sense…and gone off me. But she won’t…even look at me. I think she’s…upset…but I don’t know what I did…”
“Have you asked her?”
He blinked across the table at me. What I could see of his face was a picture of desolation. It was a helpful reminder that while life in your thirties has its challenges, anything beats being a teenager.
“Any time I try to speak to her…she just runs off. And she leaves all my messages on read. I don’t know…what to do…but you seem…you know, you seem like you’ve probably…dated loads of women…”
I choked on my coffee.
“I mean, I have dated some women,” I said. “But I wouldn’t say I’m an expert in romance. I am single, for starters.”
