Page 7 of Charlie Sunshine
Jona finishes singing about the cavalry stopping and Michael Bublé comes on, intent on utilising the one period in the year when he’s actually played on the radio.
“Charlie, what thefuck?”Misha whinges. “Christmas music!”
I shake my head disapprovingly as I cross the kitchen and switch on the kettle. “Okay, Mr Grinch. It is the second week in December. Christmas music is allowed.”
He folds his arms over his chest. “And when did you start listening to it?” he asks knowingly.
I slump. “Second week in November.” He laughs, and I wave a teaspoon at him. “It’s Christmas.”
“So you say. Makes no fucking difference to me. I still need to make money for people.”
“Okay, calm down, Gordon Gekko.”
He moves to the side to make a pot of coffee. I bought him a very expensive coffee maker last year, but he still insists on using the old percolator he’s had for years. He takes his coffee so strong you could stand a spoon up in the sludge. I wonder what my chances are of converting him to ginger and lemon tea. Probably not good first thing in the morning.
“Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?” I ask. He winces, and I narrow my eyes. “Please tell me you’re not doing it all on Christmas Eve again?”
“It’s a good time to do it,” he protests. “Really gets you into the Christmas spirit.”
“Well, it certainly did last year,” I say sourly. “You were so stressed after the shopping that you drankallthe Christmas spirit and threw up in my wardrobe.”
Misha shrugs that off blithely, and looks around the room for a diversion. His gaze intensifies as it lands on my pyjamas. “What is on your shorts?”
I raise my eyebrows. “My penis?” I offer.
“On the fabric, you twat.”
I look down. “Little Father Christmas figures,” I offer.
“And you are wearing them because you’re actually five?”
I lean back against the cabinets. “I’m wearing them because I’m not a soul-dead banker who probably starches his underwear.”
“Only if I ever wore any underwear,” he advises me and winks cheekily.
We’ve both made these sorts of remarks before. They’re an established part of our banter. But as we stare at each other, the silence lengthens and thickens. The doorbell chimes, and we both jump. As it chimes again, we look over at the door as if it’s going to answer itself. I notice out of the corner of my eye that his chest is rising and falling rapidly.
“Who can that be at this time of the morning?” He sounds so much like an old lady that I want to laugh.
Instead, I cross over to the door and peer through the peephole. I look at the figures in the hall, blink and then look again. “It’s my dad and Aidan,” I say.
“Here?” he says incredulously. “At nine thirty in themorning?”
I bite my lip and try not to laugh.
“Oh shit, I need to get dressed. Let them in, Charlie,” he urges and whizzes past me, his buttocks bouncing tightly under their towelling covering.
I’m still looking after him even as I open the door and usher my dad and stepdad in.
My mum and dad were best friends and made me after a very drunken mistake at university. When my dad confessed to her that he was gay, the friendship never suffered. Instead, they decided to raise me together and moved into a house with my mum taking the downstairs flat and my dad the upstairs. When I was two, he met Aidan, who moved in with him. They’ve been together ever since and got married last year. My mum met and married a lovely man called Phil a few years ago, and they now live in Norfolk on his farm. I miss having her close, but she’s very happy.
“Hello. Earth to Charlie,” comes a dry Irish-accented voice. “Goodness, Sam, your son appears to have frozen. Do we switch him off and on like the help desk always suggests?”
I blink and turn to find Aidan watching me. I mentally check that there’s no drool at the corner of my mouth from looking at Misha’s bum. Phew, there isn’t. My stepfather’s expression is as sardonic as usual, his green eyes glowing in his angular face.
“It’s called rebooting.” My father edges around his husband and steps into the flat. “Surprise,” he says, his voice warm and rich.
“It certainly is,” I say, accepting his hug and inhaling the scent of sandalwood. It’s the cologne that my mum makes, and he’s worn it since I can remember. “What are you two doing here?”
