Chasing Charlie (14 page)

ED

From: Ed Minkley

Date: Monday, 16 February

To: Covington Green <>[email protected]>

Subject: Dodgy

Charlie.jpg

Cov,

Here he is, Charles himself. I feel awful but I had a quick look at Sam's account when she left her laptop lying around. If this comes back to bite me on the bum, it'll all be your fault! So the competition . . . must be from a nice resort somewhere hot. See how the dapper mug's eyes are slightly hooded, as if he is so relaxed he can barely open them. Don't tell me, you've probably been to the same resort, you preppy bastard. Of course occupying the moral high ground means I wouldn't ever consider visiting such a place. I know – they're probably fantastic. Yada yada. There were loads of pics of him with the same leggy blonde thing, probably the girlfriend. I just don't get it – this is who Sam is chasing? There were loads of other pics – of Charlie on boats, on waterskis, drunk Charlie, Charlie with a series of ladies who all look the same. All meaningless bullshit – playboys and empty-headed women having their jollies, completely oblivious to how the real world lives, their lifestyles revolving around having fun, fun and more fun. Fuck, they looked like they were having a bloody good time doing it! Can't they look miserable now and then? Just for my sake?

Anyway, when I was on his page I saw his party invite and a list of people going to it. There was Sam. Seeing her name there made me feel like shit. I wished it was my party she was coming to. Get the violins out, mate!

But back to business – I've made a note of the place and time of the party and also the name of Charlie's work . . .

You are making me feel extremely dodgy, mate. For a guy who likes saving the planet, you sure lack moral fibre.

Ed

SAM

I was texting at the table, and without Mara there to tell me not to, I could fiddle with my phone all night if I wanted. Mum, bless her, had requested a girls' night out with her daughters. And like many of the barely concealed plans to get Rebecca and me to spend time together that Mum had tried over the years, this one was bound for failure. She was bustling – in fact she was even managing to bustle while she was sitting down, for Pete's sake. She was on a mission and I had a terrible feeling the mission was that this girls'-night malarkey would become a regular occurrence. Right on cue she began gushing once the preliminary – and in both Rebecca's and my case begrudging – hellos had been dispensed with.

‘So Suzanne has this thing with her daughters.' She paused and looked at each of us in turn, making sure we were paying attention. I lifted my head from the phone long enough for her to stop looking at me. I had no desire to hear anything more. It was Suzanne who inspired Mum to enthusiastically slap up friezes, a different one for each room, throughout the entire house, a good five years after they'd gone out of fashion. Suzanne, whose hair was so emphatically blow-dried it should come with a public health warning. Suzanne, who generated a special, Suzanne-sized sigh from Dad every time she ‘popped in'. Suzanne, who lived next door.

‘Once a month, they meet for a night together. A girls' night,' she added, hooking her fingers around the imaginary sentence hanging in the air in front of her.

We were silent.

‘So I thought that might suit us.' She made big rotating motions with her hands. ‘I mean, I know you're both really busy.' She shook her fingers in Rebecca's general direction. Oh yes, it was the full repertoire of her bustling plan-making. Lots of arm motions, lots of trilling. Way too much trilling.

‘What do you think?'

‘Well, it's a good idea in theory, Mum, but as you say, we're very busy,' Rebecca said, while I sort of hmmmed in half-hearted agreement.

‘Great!' Mum beamed. ‘Now let's have a look at this menu. It certainly is different, isn't it?'

We were eating Lebanese food, on account of Petersfield not having any, so in Mum's book that definitely counted as ‘different'. Anything that wasn't curry or Chinese would probably fall under this bracket. And different is what Mum loved. She wasn't a small-town bigot, no way. She always got very excited about new experiences.

‘Look at that lovely picture!' (A faded, slightly food-spattered print of a hubbly-bubbly pipe.)

‘These cushions are nice!' (Running her multi-ringed fingers over cheap velveteen.)

‘Do you think these people are all Lebanese, you know, to get some authentic food?' (Said in a stage whisper, as she peered around at the other diners, none of whom jumped out as particularly, or even partly, Lebanese.)

Once through this little routine she settled back in her chair, happy as anything. Here she was with her girls in an interesting place. What could be better?

‘So James hasn't returned any of my calls,' Rebecca stabbed across the table.

‘Oh dear, that must feel awful for you, darling,' and the conversation galloped off around the rocky, windswept terrain that was Rebecca's broken heart. And as nauseating as it was I didn't mind it that much, at least not for the moment. I tuned out and tuned back into checking Facebook and noticing (not without considerable relief) that there were no new photos of Charlie with any beautiful women on there from today. In fact, I was discovering quite quickly that Charlie wasn't really on Facebook much. Most of the photos posted were uploaded by his friends, not by him, which was probably a good thing. I was trying to see it as a good thing anyway. He was too busy doing other things – that was good, right? Of course it was. The problem with him not Facebooking of course meant that I started imagining all of those other things he was too busy doing and it invariably involved him looking all sharp and gorgeous, with some silky stick on his arm who wasn't me.

‘Ooooh! Here comes the food, girls, put your phones away!' Mum shook her hands and the waiter looked worried for a moment. I think he may have thought she was about to break into song or, worse, dance.

‘Delicious! Girls, doesn't it smell amazing?'

She was right. Tantalising dishes smelling of garlic, mint and warm spices were placed on the table, and I quite happily dropped my phone into my bag. My mouth was watering. I piled my plate up high with a bit of everything and dug in.

After a bit, Mum turned her attention to me. ‘How's Mara?' she asked.

I nodded, not wanting to let any of the bulgar wheat escape. It was too good! How come I can never get it to turn out like this? I thought. I could never get bulgar to do anything but sit in a wet cardboardy lump.

‘How's her job at the library?' Mum was insisting. She had heard all about Rebecca's life – now it was my turn. This was what Mum called fair. Personally I called it annoying.

‘Good, I think.' Dammit, some of the out-of-this-world salad escaped into my lap – a double waste, as I wasn't actually sure if that answer had been correct. I realised, as I tried unsuccessfully to rescue the tiny grains from beneath my crotch, that I actually hadn't asked Mara about work for a long time. She could be having a really crap time and I wouldn't know. God, I could be a shit friend sometimes.

‘And is Ed still staying?'

‘Yes but he's off up to Scotland for some work a week on Monday.'

‘Is he well?'

I shovelled another forkful in and nodded at Mum. Of course the parents loved Ed; after all, being Mara's twin was all the credentials he needed. In fact sometimes I did wonder if Mara and I were ever to stop being friends which of us my parents would rather keep.

‘He's very dry, isn't he?' Rebecca chipped in. ‘As in, his sense of humour.'

‘Sorry?'

Mum looked at Rebecca. I could see by her expression that she was surprised Rebecca even had an opinion about him. I groaned inwardly. Next thing would be Mum getting her hopes up that Rebecca and I were actually spending time together and enjoying it. But I wasn't expecting what came next.

‘I went out with him the other week,' Rebecca explained, glancing across to make sure I was listening.

‘You what?' Then I twigged – the party.

‘He's a clever guy,' she said, as if that was a surprise.

‘Of course he's clever,' I snorted. ‘Mara's smart!'

‘Yes, she is smart, but Ed, he's very social, isn't he?'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Well, he's very charming, very amusing. Easy to be around.'

‘So is Mara.'

‘If you're her friend, perhaps,' Rebecca said, after a small pause.

I glared at her. I knew how awkward Mara could be socially but I was the only one who was allowed to point that out.

‘Well, it's nice you're getting to know him. Maybe it'll take your mind off things, darling,' Mum said brightly.

Rebecca put her head on her side and looked at her plate, arranged so carefully with careful little heaps of food. It was her cute-coy look. My least favourite. I moved my head around to look at Mum instead before I reached out and wiped that stupid look off Rebecca's face. Mum smiled.

‘How about you, darling? Have you seen Charlie again?'

I wished I didn't blush so easily.

‘He's been really busy . . . and so have I,' I stammered.

‘Right . . .' Mum said, waiting for more.

I didn't have to look to know my stuttering would be giving Rebecca huge satisfaction. But I honestly didn't know what to say. I wanted the conversation to move along but all I could do was worry the skin on the sides of my nails. But then I also couldn't let an opportunity to surprise Rebecca pass.

‘I haven't seen him much but we'll catch up next weekend. I'm going to his birthday party,' I said in the most nonchalant tone I could muster. As if it was, in fact, an afterthought, something I'd only just remembered then – not something filling my whole fucking being every fucking second of every fucking day.

‘That's lovely!' Mum said.

Rebecca looked confused, almost agitated.

‘But I told you he's got a girlfriend!' she squeaked.

‘I didn't invite myself. He asked me. Anyway, what's wrong with me going? I'm just an old friend he bumped into – what exactly is the problem with that?'

‘The problem is you're his ex-girlfriend!'

I held my hands up. ‘Settle down, petal. What the hell is your problem?'

‘Girls, girls, please!' Mum hissed at us, flapping her hands around in the air between us, as if trying to disperse smoke.

Rebecca glared at me for a moment more and then I could see her reining herself in. Back, back, back she retreated, her emotions back in their metal box, her mouth a thin line.

‘I don't have a problem,' she said icily, ‘but I doubt Lucy will appreciate it.'

I gazed at the hubbly-bubbly pipe masterpiece on the wall so she wouldn't see how much I had thought about this. ‘Well, either Charlie doesn't think it's an issue or, if you're right and Lucy will care that his ex is there, he obviously doesn't think much of her.'

‘He doesn't care for her much,' Rebecca said quickly. My head whipped away from the picture. I just caught the regret in her face before she tried covering it up with some story about how he'd let her down recently but then made it up to her . . . blah blah . . . but I wasn't listening. I'd heard all I needed to hear. Inside I was beaming. In fact, I was so pleased I could have almost kissed Rebecca. Almost, but not quite.

Mum had to leave early, as there was a limited service on the trains to Petersfield that night, so everyone was spared any more awkward conversations about Charlie. The bill came and both Rebecca and myself insisted on splitting it three ways, both vying to prove to Mum who was more grown up. But the waiter came back with my card, a look of apology on his face, and my heart sank. Oh crap.

In a flash, Rebecca was pressing a note into his hand and shooing him away.

‘No, no, I'll get it,' Mum objected, fumbling for her purse. But it was too late. The waiter inclined his head in thanks and disappeared with the money. He knew better than to argue with a woman like Rebecca. She looked stronger than most of the men he'd done his military service with and he couldn't get away from her fast enough.

I couldn't get away fast enough either. I said my goodbyes and walked briskly to the Tube, trying to shake off the smarting shame I felt with Rebecca covering me. Now I owed money to her on top of Claudia, Mara, and God knows how much to Mum and Dad. Claudia insisted I needn't pay her back but I could sense Mara was getting tense about the money I owed at the flat. I'd been short on my rent the previous month and had forgotten to contribute to food for the past couple of weeks. Damn money, I hated it. I felt ashamed and disorganised and weak. It was always such a mystery – I'm paid a chunk of money, not bad money either, for every job I do, and every time I think brilliant! Now I've got loads of cash, I'll be able to this and that with it. But then it goes. All of it and then some, and I'm in the bloody red again. Again and again and again.

I ran up and down every step at every Tube station, to try to burn the shame and anger away, finishing with a jog down Harvist Road. The house was silent when I crept in. The doors to the sitting room and Mara's bedroom were closed. On the kitchen table I found a note from Mara.

 

Sam –

Some bills have come in, and I did some sums tonight –

Food £66.50 (last couple of weeks)

Electricity/Gas £58 each

Thanks,

M x

 

Bloody brilliant.