Page 65 of Charlie Sunshine
“How do you know?” I stare at her. “Rupert?” She nods. “What else did he say?” I lean forwards so quickly I nearly fall out of my chair.
“Not much more than that. Although apparently Misha has shouted more today than someone trying to get off the Titanic.”
“Oh, dear, that doesn’t sound good.” I gesture for my phone. “I need to talk to him.” I hesitate. “Unless I take off and meet him outside work.”
“You can’t. You’ve got book club tonight.”
I slump. “Fucking book club.” It meets after the library closes and the attendees typically linger over wine and cheese. I won’t be finished before nine tonight.
“I’d agree with that assessment. You must have the patience of a saint with that little lot.” I eye her. She raises her hands. “Oh, no. No fucking way.”
“Please, Bethany. You’re mybest friend.”
“I hope not. You seem to be screwing those at the moment.”
“Just the one,” I say indignantly. “I’m not working my way through the whole group.Please,” I say imploringly. “You could do it. Everything’s ready. You’ll only need the alcohol to get it going, and I baked as well,” I add as an incentive.
She looks regretful. “Charlie, I would. You know that. But I can’t.” She hesitates. “I’ve got a date.”
“A date?” I say, staring at her. “Who with?” She wiggles uncomfortably, and I gasp. “Oh my God, it’s Rupert, isn’t it?” She nods. “Yes!” I cry. “That’s perfect.” I tilt my head. “But what changed your mind? You’ve always said a very definite no.”
She pleats the hem of her short plaid skirt with nervous-looking fingers. “I don’t know,” she finally says. “He’s not my normal type at all.”
“He’s not a wanker, you mean?”
“That’s the type I know best. I’m comfortable with them becausethere aren’t any false expectations. What am I going to do with someone who keeps his word and treats me nicely?”
“That bastard,” I breathe.
“I also don’t know what he sees in me,” she whispers. “I mean, he’s from a wealthy family. He’s clever and kind. What would he want with a sharp-tongued witch like me?”
“What?” I snap. “For a second I think you implied that he was better than you which can’t be true, because you might be a witch, Bethany Harrison, but you’re brilliant with it. You’re funny and sharp and clever and kind and beautiful.You’rethe catch here. Not him.”
She flushes and nudges me. “Thank you, Charlie.” She looks undecided. “Maybe Ishouldcancel,” she says. “Postpone the date. I could do your book club.”
“No way,” I say at once. She opens her mouth to argue, and I shake my head. “You’re going on that date. I want that for you. I’ll be fine with book club. I’ll just have to talk to Misha afterwards when I get home.”
If he’s there, I think morosely.And hasn’t fucked off for a shag with someone much less complicated than me.
The rest of the afternoon passes at the speed of treacle coming out of a tin. Finally, it’s time to close the library and get the book club meeting started.
After locking the main doors, I greet the group waiting for me on the soft furnishings in the reading room. We’re smaller in numbers tonight—it appears to be mainly my older people who have shown up.
“I’m just going to get the trolley with the drinks and food,” I say. “Joan, can you put out the books for next week on the table? You can have a look at them and start thinking about what you want to add.” One member a week gets to pick a wildcard book for the week to go with the books I select.
Joan smiles and starts to do as I ask. She’s a pretty middle-aged lady whose husband left her last year for another woman. One of her attempts to restart her life has been the book club, which pleases me because she’s a lively and funny member.
I find the trolley and put the kettle on so I can fill the urn. While I wait, I fish out my phone. My finger is shaking slightly as I swipeacross the screen. I slump against the wall and groan. Misha still hasn’t replied, and it’s gone seven at night. There’s no way he’s still at work. He’s either in denial over what happened, or he’s really angry with me for my disappearing trick this morning—anger he has every right to feel.
The kettle clicks off, and I push my phone into my pocket. I can’t think about this now. I’ve got book club to get through.
I push the trolley through the darkened library, the wheels loud in the hushed spaces. The reading room lights shine on the group as if they’re on the stage. Everyone is clustered around the table, talking loudly.
“I made Bakewell tarts,” I say cheerfully, but my words falter as the group parts, and I see who’s at the centre. “Misha,” I gasp.
TWELVE
CHARLIE
