Page 12 of Charlie Sunshine
“It tastes like gravy jelly, but you like it for some strange reason.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I’m making Bolognese for dinner. Do you want some?”
I catalogue the blue eyes that are the colour of my favourite pair of jeans, the mouth that’s almost too wide for his face, and all that beautiful hair waving onto his shoulders in shades of butterscotch and toffee. He’s glowing in the sunlit kitchen.
“No,” I say quickly. “I’m out tonight.”
If my usual hook-up partner isn’t around, I’m going on Grindr. Every time I’ve looked at Charlie in the last few days, I get a jolt of awareness, and I need to nip that shit in the bud.
Objectively, I know he’s stunning. Last time we were out at a pub, a bloke walked into the jukebox because he was staring so hard at him. I’ve become accustomed to Charlie’s looks over the years of being his friend, and I need to carry on with that programme. I don’t know whether it’s because we’re living together for the first time or that I haven’t had a shag recently, but something’s changed, and I need to put an end to it. Charlie is staying in my friend box.
Later that evening, the constant ring of the doorbell alerts me to the fact that something is different about my flat. I don’t usually encourage people to come round here, preferring to meet them out. I’m not sure why. Maybe because this is my quiet oasis that I still treasure even four years after moving out of my mum’s house and leaving the bathroom for the three women to fight over. I shudder at the thought of those mornings. Even my old flatmate had been a virtual stranger. A long-haul flight attendant, he was out of the country more than he was in it.
The bell rings again, and I narrow my eyes.Who the fuck is here?I’m meeting my Grindr hook-up at a bar, so it’s definitely not someone for me. I hear laughter and speed up getting dressed, slipping into my skinny black jeans and black T-shirt. After grabbing my old Clutch Cafe motorcycle jacket, I open the door and am immediately assaulted by the most delicious smell of baking.
“Oh my God,” I groan. “That smells lovely.”
I pad down the hallway and into the lounge and stop dead. On the huge orange sectional sofa—which I’d totally bought to make Charlie happy—are four men. Jesse, Charlie’s old flatmate; Zeb, his boyfriend; my cousin Felix; and Rupert, my friend from work.
“What the fuck are you all doing here?” I ask.
Felix shakes his head. “I think I must have got your share of the family charm. I’msosorry about that, because you really do need some.”
“So snarky,” I say. “And so in my house. Where you normally aren’t.”
He sniffs. “Well, normally your house is as arid and dry as the fucking Sahara Desert. Now, however, it has Charlie. And cake,” he finishes reverently.
I instantly remember my quest to find the source of the smell. “Oh God, has he baked?” I groan.
Jesse nods enthusiastically. “I’ve missed Charlie so much,” he says. “So,somuch. Living with Zeb just isn’t the same.”
“Maybe you should have moved in with Mary Berry then,” his boyfriend says, rolling his eyes.
“Never,” Jesse says robustly. “She doesn’t fill out a pair of jeans like you, Zeb.”
I shake my head and look at Rupert. “And you?” I say helplessly. “Why are you here?”
“Misha!” Charlie says in a shocked voice. “Oh my God, if tact were an artform you’d be painting with your own bodily waste.”
Felix throws his head back and laughs. “Oh Charlie, I do love you so, and it’s for exactly these tiny moments.”
I glare at my cousin and then focus on Charlie. He’s dressed in jeans and an amber-coloured crewneck jumper that makes his hair seem even blonder than usual. His face is flushed, probably from the oven, and he looks better than I’ve seen him in ages. I immediately promise myself that I’ll have people over more often if it keeps him looking like this. Then I focus on the plate he’s carrying.
“Oh my God, is that your boozy Black Forest cake?” I say through a mouthful of drool.
He nods. “We’re watchingThe Great British Bake Offand eating cake.”
“It’s genius,” Jesse offers.
“AndyoulikeThe Great British Bake Off?” I say to Zeb.
He shrugs. “Well, I like cake.”
I can’t blame him. Charlie is the best baker I’ve ever known. In fact, he’s fantastic about cooking all round. But it’s his cakes that people love. This particular one is my favourite. It’s dark and rich, filled with layers of fluffy sponge, cream, and the black cherry jam that his mum makes.
“Can’t you just take a piece and go home?” I say to the happy group of idiots on my new sofa. I consider the TV where the show’s jaunty theme has started to play. “And watch something else. Something good.”
“You don’t likeThe Great British Bake Off?” Felix sounds as insulted as if I’ve just said that his shoes don’t match his outfit.
My eyes narrow. “I’m not so sure whether it’s the programme, the chance of cake, Charlie’s company, or using my shower that’s drawing you here.”
