Page 49 of Charlie Sunshine
“They say that talking to yourself is a bit of a bad sign,” comes a voice from the door.
I swivel my chair around and find Rupert watching me, a smile tugging at his lips.
“It’s not a bad sign when you consider the standard of conversation around here,” I say quickly. “It’s actually the sensible option.”
He laughs and wanders into the office, throwing himself into the chair opposite my desk.
I eye him. “Can I help you?”
“Why?”
“Well, you spend so long sitting in that chair, the fabric is conforming to the shape of your arse.”
He smiles good-naturedly. “Just checking that we’re still on for tomorrow night?” He groans when I narrow my eyes. “Misha, have you forgotten?”
I snap my fingers. “The club.”
He nods happily. “Eighties night.”
“How smashing,” I say wryly. “Loads of pissed-up people wearing far too much neon and bad music to accompany the experience.”
“And is Bethany still coming?” he asks in a woeful attempt at an offhand manner.
I grin. “Why, Rupert, surely you’re not coming because of her? And here I was thinking that the draw was expensive lukewarm drinks and squeezing yourself into a Frankie Says No T-shirt.”
“Well, obviously that’s a draw,” he huffs.
I laugh, but sober quickly at his next question.
“And Charlie’s coming? I haven’t been to a club with him for years.”
I run my hands through my hair. “He stopped going because late nights and tiredness are triggers for the seizures.”
“So, what’s changed?”
I bite my lip. “He says that he needs to develop a new way of dealing with the epilepsy.” Rupert looks at me enquiringly, and I elaborate. “Before, when he got diagnosed, he threw himself into being the perfect patient. He cut out everything that could possibly impact him, and according to him, he narrowed his life because of that.” I shrug. “Apparently, he’s decided to live his life differently because you never know what’s around the corner.”
“He’s not going mad with it though, is he?” he asks worriedly.
I shake my head. “No,” I scoff. “This is Charlie we’re talking about.” I search for the words. “He says he’ll come to the club, but he won’t drink because that’s not good for him. He wants to dance and have a good time, but he’ll only go if he manages to have a nap beforehand.”
“Well, that sounds reasonable. Why are you looking so constipated about it?”
I shake my head. “You know me. Thinking about Charlie’s well-being is a constant state of affairs with me. I can’t just turn it off.”
“And you don’t mind that?”
I stare at him. “Are we somehow playing Twenty Questions and I wasn’t made aware?” He looks at me expectantly, and I shrug. “Of course I don’t mind. Why the hell would I mind? It’s Charlie.”
“Handsome Charlie.” When I narrow my eyes, Rupert rushes on. “I hear he’s looking to date again.”
“Where did you hear that?” I groan. “Bethany?” He nods, and I wave my hand at him. “Come on, then. There’s obviously more. You’re practically bristling with curiosity. Let’s hear the rest of the news alert from the one-woman gossip central of Southwark.”
He runs one finger along my desk’s edge. “Apparently, you were insistent that you were going to help him find a date and yet somehow you’ve failed to come up with anyone suitable. Even in a city this size and with your contact list.”
I roll my eyes. “Perhaps you and Bethany would like to set up a podcast and broadcast the depth of your knowledge to the rest of the world. London’s loss is the world’s gain.”
He laughs. “Come on, why haven’t you found anyone for him? He’s spectacularly good-looking, funny, very clever, and the kindest person I know. This should be a piece of cake, which incidentally he can also make.”
