Page 15 of Charlie Sunshine
“You going out?” he asks. “That’s your pulling gear.”
“I’m meeting someone for a fuck. It’s pretty much a sure thing.” I shrug. “I could wear my pyjamas, and I’d still get laid.”
He shakes his head. “When does confidence become arrogance?” he wonders out loud.
I smirk at him.Time to give some shit back. “But enough about my attributes, Rupert. We haven’t got long enough to discuss those. Let’s address instead why you’re here.” I tap my finger against my chin. “You’re here to pick Charlie’s brains about love matters.”
He squirms. “Don’t call it that,” he whispers.
“Why don’t you just ask her out?”
Rupert has been mad about Bethany, Charlie’s friend, since he met her when we all went to a club a few years ago.
He shrugs. “She’d never be interested in me. I just like to hear about her, and Charlie’s always so encouraging about getting us together. Even though it’s useless.”
I can’t help but agree with Rupert. The two couldn’t be more ill-suited. Bethany is feisty and forceful, and Rupert isn’t. He’s kind and steady. But Charlie still believes they’d suit and does his best to matchmake, usually with terrible results. Like the time he invited them both to dinner at his old flat. He made seafood paella which was disastrous, as Rupert is allergic to shellfish and far too polite to ever say anything. The night had ended rather abruptly when he threw up on Bethany’s shoes. I shudder at the thought. I make it a principle to stay completely out of any matchmaking schemes, but Charlie remains hopeful.
“He’s very encouraging, but he’s a worse matchmaker than the chap who thought it would be great for Bluebeard to settle down,” I warn Rupert. “Just look at the blokes he picks for himself. There have been more than a few prats.”
“Maybe he’s just not found the right one yet,” Rupert says comfortably, taking a bite of his cake.
I look instinctively over at my best friend who is watching the television happily and listening to something that Jesse is saying. His eyes look very blue tonight, and his hair is pulled back in a topknot that shows off the clean lines of his face. He looks up suddenly, and for a second, we stare at each other. Bewilderment crosses his face, and, fearing what he might be seeing, I swallow hard and look determinedly at the television.
I watch the programme for a few minutes. “What is thepointof this?” I wonder out loud. “If I wanted to see people making bread, I’d go to Greggs.” Everyone happily ignores me, and I go back to munching on my cake.
I’ll eat this and then I can meet my bloke for the night. A good shag and I’ll feel like myself again.I settle further into the sofa.Jesus, this is comfortable. My limbs melt into it like I’m butter and it’s toast.
Ten minutes later, I sit forward. “Hang on. Prue’s being very picky. That poppyseed bread looks perfect,” I say through a mouthful of another piece of cake.
“Say it, don’t spray it,” Felix says disapprovingly.
Later on, everyone leaves, including, to my surprise, Harry. I can’t say I’m sorry. I’m not sure I like the idea of hearing them fucking while I lie in bed in the next room.
Charlie and I are just locking up when I realise with a start that I’ve missed out on the chance of a shag. Somewhere in a pub nearby is a very pissed-off bloke. I listen to Charlie chattering happily as he loads the dishwasher with the plates I bring to him, and I smile. I still wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else but here tonight. With my best friend.
THREE
CHARLIE
On Monday night, I watch Misha as he parks the car in a small space outside his mum’s house. He’s so competent at everything that he puts his mind to. I would have gone back and forth a few hundred times, cranked the wheel until I had muscles like Popeye, and then moved on to a different spot. Misha just pulls up, reverses, and with one smooth turn of the wheel he’s in. Everything he does is charged with the certainty that he’s going to succeed. It’s an air that he’s always carried with him and totally explains why he’s a hedge fund manager at a relatively young age.
When we’ve parked to his satisfaction, we get out of the car, and I lift my face to the breeze, feeling the sting of rain. I look around the street on which I grew up.
Muswell Hill is a wealthy neighbourhood in North London. I love the place because it still feels a bit like a village with tree-lined streets and good local schools, but it’s a village where you practically need a mortgage to use the local shops and cafes.
We moved here when my mum was pregnant with me, and my dad inherited a house from an aunt. He and Aidan still live in the housewhich is just a few steps away. It’s an Edwardian semi with the original bay windows, and I know if I step into the hall, I’ll find a Minton tiled floor still scuffed with the marks made by my bicycle when I was a kid. The windows are dark tonight. I presume my dad is at still at the university where he’s a professor, and Aidan must be working a shift at the hospital where he manages a casualty ward.
Misha comes to stand next to me and looks at his own family home, which is a mirror image of mine. He sighs, and there’s something weary in the sound. He’s always like this when a family meeting is called. Probably because he feels a lot of responsibility for his mum and the girls since his dad died. I rub his arm, feeling how tight the muscles are.
“You okay?” I ask, concerned.
He scrubs his hand down his face. “Just mentally preparing myself for what’s coming.”
“They’re teenage girls,” I say consolingly. “How bad could it be?”
He looks at me incredulously. “I’m sorry, have youmetthem? The trouble could be anything on a scale between staging a sit-in outside the council buildings or robbing a mail train.”
“When did they become cowboys? Surely I should have been told about these developments?”
