Page 38 of Charlie Sunshine
He grimaces and gets to his feet. I rise, and the two of us stare at each other for a long second.
“I’ll see you at work, then,” I say finally. “But it really might be best if you kept out of my way for a bit.”
He nods and walks away. I stay in the corridor looking down at the tiny scrap of fabric on the floor. I hesitate for a second and then step over it to get to Charlie’s door. I get all the way into the hotel room before I swear under my breath and turn back to scoop up the cherry-red lace. I stand there for a long second looking down at it. My hand clenches around the knickers, the fabric scratching at my palm. Sudden hot thoughts run through my head, and I determinedly push them away. That way lies madness.
CHARLIE
I thank the nurse and make my way back to the waiting room. It’s a trip that I’ve done a fair few times this morning, as I’ve been submitted for a battery of tests. I’ve gone from nurse to nurse and been poked and prodded and stuck with needles. Freda, my epilepsy nurse, hadn’t been ecstatic at my missing so many reviews or to hear of the increased frequency of the seizures, but she didn’t scold, saying only that she’d see me at the end of the tests. It’s weird how threatening that sentence can sound.
So, here I am with another plaster covering a needle mark in my arm, making my way back to the waiting room where Misha sits patiently as he’s done all morning.
I look at his set face and the nerve ticking in his jaw. Well okay, not patiently, but he’s here, and I feel a rush of gratitude that I have him in my life. I’d woken this morning feeling groggy and shit, as is usual after a turn. He’d chivvied me out of bed, bundled me into my clothes, retrieved my bag which he’d packed in the night, and checked us out, all with minimal conversation. I got the impression that he was working quickly in case I changed my mind about going to the hospital.
I hadn’t though. Last night frightened me. The turn had got close to five minutes, and that’s dangerous, but it isn’t just that. I felt fucking worse than ever last night, and somehow by telling Misha the truth I’d opened up my mind enough to realise that I was putting myself in danger and inflicting damage on my body. All because I’ve been too frightened to hear the truth.
I feel a wave of relief and also resignation. I’m at the point that I’ve feared all these months, and now there’s nothing to be done but wait for the verdict. There’s a sort of freedom from all responsibility in that which is oddly comforting.
Misha looks up and instantly shifts his expression into his usual snarky one. “You’ve had more tests today than an undergraduate during finals week.”
I smile and fling myself into the chair next to him, taking the hand he offers me and squeezing it. “Bored yet?”
“Well, of course not,” he drawls. He gestures to the TV in the corner of the room. “How could I possibly be bored with the wonderful array of morning television? So far I’ve watchedThis Morningwith Holly and Phil who manage to be abnormally cheerful. I’ve never seen anyone talk through a smile before.”
“Surely that’s nice?” I say, smiling at the wave of normality he’s offering me.How does he always know the right thing to say?
He shakes his head. “It’s weird and a bit threatening.”
“Okay, Mr Cheerful. What else?”
Misha shrugs. “Some sort of ridiculous programme where people are dashing about the English countryside buying utter tat and acting as if they’ve picked up a Renoir.”
“Ooh, I like that programme.”
“You would,” he says sourly. “You’re congenitally suited to daytime television.”
I shift position on the hard chair and nestle into his side, and he obliges me by putting his arm around me and drawing me closer. A woman in the corner gives us a dirty look, but we both ignore her. Me, because I’m too tired, and Misha because he’s too arrogant to give a shit what anyone else thinks.
“So, did anything else happen while I was asleep last night?” A thought suddenly occurs to me, and I sit up straight. “Did Harry come back?” He looks slightly evasive, and my attention sharpens. I fold my arms. “Misha,” I prompt sternly, mainly just to watch him squirm. I always take pleasure in that. It’s part of my best friend charter.
He runs a finger under the neck of his jumper and darts his gazearound the room, settling on the leaflet stand. He stares at it as intently as if it were Charlie Hunnam’s arse.
“Misha?” I say again and heave a longsuffering sigh. “Just tell me what you did.”
He shoots me a quick glance. “We sort of had a fight in the hotel corridor.”
“What?” My voice is way too loud for a waiting room, and a few people look up before going back to their magazines. “How can you sort of have a fight?” I hiss. “You either do, or you don’t.”
“Okay, we definitely had a fight.” He holds his hands up in defence about whatever he sees in my face. “He said some truly shitty things and I’d had enough after—” His voice trails off.
“After what?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. I reach out and pinch his arm, and he huffs. “Okay, he stood back and let you fall. I can’t and won’teverforgive that, Charlie.”
I know instantly what he’s saying, and I can’t stop my flinch. He looks both enraged and worried.
“Bastard saw you going and didn’t stop you. That was it for me.”
It would be. Misha doesn’t let many people in, but the ones he does he’s fiercely protective over.
