Page 3 of This Thing With Charlie

I told him he should be a teacher.

He told me to go fuck myself.

I laughed out loud at his descriptions of life in Ancient Greece, and he asked me questions about the weirdest illnesses I had ever encountered.

I told him as well, spilling embarrassing stories of people with household items in crevices where no household items should ever go. I told him stories of life and death, of sickness and pain. I told him of the time a woman gave birth in the hallway outside my office, and the time someone died on my desk. I also boasted that someone named their child after me because I was, apparently, the nicest doctor they had ever met.

“Youarenice,” Charlie said, pouring me a cup of hot water from the posh-looking machine behind us. He cut up a lemon and sucked the juice from his finger before putting a slice in the cup, alongside a ginger teabag. “Even if you are a doctor.”

It’s what I had asked for when he offered, and I jokingly scolded him for serving me his germs on the lemon—since I was a doctor and all that.

He laughed and said he could have served me much worse.

I blushed and didn’t know why. Instead, I grabbed my cup of germs and bade him goodnight.

I lay in my bed an hour later, my head still unable to settle down. For the first time in weeks, after only a few hours of talking about nothing with a man who had made me smile, I felt a little human again. I drained the last of my ginger tea and curled up under the sheets with a sigh.

I went to sleep and woke up the next morning. I threw a tie around my crisp, ironed shirt and combed the hair on my head. I walked through the town that I would have to somehow make my peace with and nodded at the line of people outside as I entered the rundown Health Centre that was now my place of work.

If I doubted myself before, I definitely doubted myself now as I got stuck with patients whose accents I barely understood and children with snotty noses who would no doubt make me ill before the end of the week.

I realised that nothing had changed, and nothing ever would. Little did I know that life as I knew it was truly over.

This thing with Charlie strangely became the highlight of the following week. I would stumble into the hotel lobby, exhausted from humans I barely remembered, from colleagues with questioning faces and curious smiles. Then there were the terrifying ladies who manned the clinic reception desk. The two of them made me feel about five years old every time they stared at me, dressing me down with passive-aggressive comments and fake-looking smiles. That wasn’t anything new; every health centre I had ever worked at had their own scary reception staff, burly stern people who ruled the local community with an iron fist.

In Chistleworth, the health centre was held hostage by Mrs Hallet and Mrs Pasankar. Both of them frightened me with their good cop, bad cop management of the appointment system. And Mrs Pasankar, especially, had me running for Clinic Room 3 with my tail between my legs every time she opened her mouth. This morning, I’d made the horrific mistake of asking her for a cup of tea after a particularly strenuous few hours, which saw me covering both the diabetic clinic and the sexual health clinic, alongside the weight-loss support group. They were apparently all my responsibility. She reminded me, after pointing towards the kettle in the corner, that I should provide my own teabags and milk. I hadn’t, and I needed to somehow muster up enough bravery to ask her to reschedule those clinics onto different days before I developed an ulcer and put myself into an early grave. I grumbled and said something about scheduling conflicts, to which Mrs Pasankar swiftly put me right, pushing a laminated sheet of rules in my face, explaining the dos and don’ts for GPs and nursing staff.

I backed away, stumbling back into the waiting room, tripping over both the threadbare carpet and my own feet in fear. One day, I would fall over and break my neck. Something that no doubt would please both Mrs Hallet and Mrs Pasankar, judging by the stern looks they were sending my way every time I nipped out to the waiting room to call my next patient. I had been told to use the public announcement system, but I couldn’t make it work. I was sure they were laughing behind my back as I slunk back into my hideaway at the end of the day, hoping they would both have left by the time I got my coat on and my computer shut down.

It was Thursday, and I’d had enough. I was willing to forgive everyone and anyone, just to have my London clinic back with the patients that felt familiar and the view out my window looking onto a grey brick wall. Here, my clinic window painted a Christmas scene of frost and trees. The sun lingered behind hills and rooftops as I walked briskly through town, keeping my head down until I felt the warmth from the open fire in the hotel lobby, letting my coat drop and taking my usual seat at the bar.

Barception. Charlie corrected me as I said something about the reception having become my new favourite place in the world. “It’s called a Bar-bloody-ception, Daniel. See? You get your keyanda drink. And by the way? This one’s on me. I passed my exam last week, so now I can celebrate. I’m going out this weekend, and I am going to get sloshed. Totally rat-arsed.”

“Where’s the place to go out in this town then?” I asked casually, smiling as he made a face.

“If you’re eighteen, you go to Starlight, down on Market Street. It’s full of girls wearing polyester and blokes in cheap shirts, but I guess, as a grown-ass doctor that won’t be your scene.”

“Probably not.” I laughed and took another sip of the beer he’d poured me. Another guest ale this time, smooth as silk as I greedily let it calm me down. It hadn’t been a good day. The newness and unfamiliarity of a different place of work, causing me to make rookie mistakes and filing mishaps, hadn’t made my attempts to get my colleagues on my side any easier. Mrs Hallet now thought I was even more of an imbecilic tosser than before, followed by Mrs Pasankar giving me an appointment timing lecture in front of a waiting room full of patients. I was rather sure that the word was out all over town that Dr Gilbert, the new GP, was a hopeless fruitcake and should be avoided at all costs. I’d already had requests to see me that I was sure were just the bored inhabitants of Chistleworth coming to have a look at the new doctor, to bring gossip down to the pubs in the town square. Pubs I would never dare to frequent, especially after today.

“There are some good pubs around. You should try the Gastro on the high street. They are all about vegan wholefoods and stuff like that,” Charlie said, curling himself up on the barstool opposite me, just like we always sat. It was a comforting routine, him cross-legged, sipping Coke from a tall glass. Me nursing a pint, letting the day wash off me with every smile he would shoot my way. “Personally, I prefer normal junk food, like burgers and stuff. There’s an American place down near the college. I’ll take you one day. They do ribs and meatloaf, you know, proper comfort food. Their macaroni and cheese is fantastic.”

“You’d take me out for dinner?” I teased, leaning forwards as laughter spilled out of my mouth.

“Yeah? Why not? I like you.”

You see, dear reader, that was what had become the problem. I liked Charlie too. I liked his company. I liked spending time with him and listening to him talk. He was my only friend in this brave new world I found myself in, my sounding board and listening ear, and… the man who made sure I ate.

It was a strange thing, but I supposed this hotel was nothing like those big chains down south. Here it was, just him and me, and he would tell me tonight’s dinner special in passing and, two minutes later, serve up a steaming plate of whatever he thought I would fancy.

He was usually right. Today, placing a plate of sizzling sausages resting on a generous dollop of mash, covered in an ocean of gravy. There was nothing sophisticated or posh about the dinners he served me, but it was homely. Comforting. Very much him.

“I’ll eat with you if you don’t mind,” he said, placing an identical plate on his side of the bar.

Then we ate together, making the evening even more comforting than he would ever know it was.

“I brought you something,” he said suddenly, his mouth full of food, wiping the side of his mouth with a paper napkin.

“Oh?” I replied, loading another spoonful of orgasmic mash into my mouth. “You cooked this?”

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