Chasing Charlie (24 page)

SAM

This was meant to be a good idea, I said to myself, as I cycled furiously, one eye on the dark sky ahead. I'd set off from Petersfield twenty minutes before with renewed energy for my mission. But the uncomfortable reality of Operation Chasing Charlie soon put paid to my enthusiasm. There was more traffic than I remembered, forcing me to brush along the hedgerows, my exposed ankles at perfect nettle height. And the bloody rain – I hadn't factored that in at all – was nearly upon me. Oh no, here it comes, the first spots. I hesitated slightly and then took the next left. There was no way I could sit in my proposed hiding spot to scope out his family home – I'd have shelter in the pub. The spots turned into fat, rapid drops and then, out of nowhere, a wall of water.

What the hell am I doing? I leant my bike against the crumbling wall of the pub and ran inside, stopping in the foyer to let the worst of the water stream off my body onto the coir mat. I wore a fleece on my top half, which I could shake the drops off, but my jeans – why did I wear jeans? – were absolutely soaked. I gazed at them in despair. All I had in my little backpack was a bottle of water and an apple. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

Eventually I summoned some courage and went inside. It was a busy Saturday afternoon, packed with people with nothing better to do than stare at my bedraggled state. I avoided all ninety eyes and went straight to the fire to stand as close as I could, and started turning slowly, a damp pig on a spit. Think. I had just enough money (gleaned from my Dad's small change) for a half of cider, which I'd have to make last for as long as it rained. Just. Bloody. Brilliant.

I was so busy ignoring the stares and chuckles of the locals it took me a couple of seconds to register that someone was saying my name. But then, as I turned to acknowledge him, nerves bloomed in my belly.

‘I thought it was you!' the man exclaimed, his arms reaching out to embrace me, his face as handsome as ever and shockingly like his son's.

‘Mr Hugh-Barrington,' I heard myself say, somehow forming words with my suddenly rubbery mouth. Just when I thought this afternoon couldn't get any better!

‘Call me Charles, please,' he said and we hugged awkwardly, him going in for the two-cheek kiss, but I was cold and jittery and consumed with nerves and I completely forgot what to do and attempted a hug. The result was an awkward embrace during which the side of my head was pecked.

‘You're soaked!' He looked me up and down, still holding onto my shoulders, and I realised I was shaking. ‘You need a brandy. Carla! A brandy, make it a double!' he called over his shoulder, and then motioned to me to stay where I was while he moved – quite urgently, I noted – to his seat in the far corner of the room, coming back with his jacket, which he draped round my shoulders before I could think about protesting.

‘Now, as soon as you're dry' – he eyed my legs again with a well-practised gaze – ‘you'll come back to ours.'

I felt the colour drain from my face. ‘Oh no, Mr . . . Charles, I can't, sorry,' I stammered, scrabbling frantically for a good reason.

‘No, you must. Charlie's here – he'd love to see you. And Jimmy. You can have some soup.'

‘Thank you for the offer but I've got to get back . . . ah . . . someone is coming to my parents' house and I haven't seen them for ages.' I swallowed. I knew I didn't sound convincing. I tried to smile. ‘Anyway, I saw Charlie not that long ago, at his birthday party.'

‘You did?' Charles Snr raised his eyebrows and then frowned. ‘He didn't mention it.'

My heart sank. He didn't?

Charles remained frowning. ‘So you would have seen the old boy getting dumped then. Rather unceremoniously, all told.' He sniffed and then met my eye. ‘He's rather down in the dumps and before that he had a lurgy of some sort or another. Horrid couple of days spent on the loo.' Charles brightened. ‘Anyway, here I am wittering on, what is it you young folk call it – too much information? I'm sure an old friend visiting him would do him the world of good.'

Oh God! He's had the bug too? Will he know it was from me?

‘I . . . er . . . I didn't know her. Lucy, I mean.'

‘No? I suppose you've been out of the picture for a long time—'

I smiled thinly.

‘It's rather strange really. It appears he was smitten with her and has found this out rather too late, the silly old chap. Should have made more of a go of it when he was with her.' He shrugged. ‘But there you go, it's always the way. The grass is always greener, until you get there and realise it's not, eh, Sam?'

I tittered feebly and had an overwhelming desire to sit down. I took a wobbly step towards a tired leather armchair near the fire and sank into it, apologising as I descended.

‘I say, are you sure you're all right, old girl?' Charles stepped forward and felt my forehead. ‘You're awfully hot.'

‘I've just been next to the fire for too long, I think. I'll be all right in a minute.'

‘Look, you stay right there, I'm going to get the car and bring it to the door, and I'm going to take you home, no arguments!' He was gone before I could even string a sentence together. I leant my head back. Nothing for it then. I'd have to see Charlie, saying what? I was just in the neighbourhood? Yeah right, like he'd believe that. There was no such thing in the countryside – he knew that, I knew that and, worst of all, he'd know I knew that.

SAM

Charles – I was struggling to call him that – ushered me solicitously through the family's usual entrance, past welly boots and tweed jackets and wet Labradors, into the kitchen and sat me down at the table while he went off to find the others. I looked about, overwhelmed by the familiar smell and surroundings. It hadn't changed at all. New curtains perhaps. The kitchen table sat in the middle of the warm square room. Along two walls ran the kitchen counters – broken up by a deep Belfast sink and a great big cream Aga rumbling quietly. A huge Dutch dresser stretched cheerily along one wall, housing floral plates, a jumble of Emma Bridgewater mugs and random photos, fliers, invites, cards, all stuffed in and around them, and pinned to the wood. On the last wall, a three-seater sofa sat under a large window that looked out to the kitchen garden. The throw was different – the dog hair covering it looked the same. It felt so homely in this kitchen, with its happy lemon-yellow walls. I had forgotten just how homely it was. My memory had held a much more starched version for all these years.

Lydia interrupted my thoughts. ‘Sam, how nice to see you.' I got to my feet to greet her – this time getting it right. Peck, peck. ‘Charles tells me you got soaked, how dreadful.'

Lydia scrutinised me with sharp eyes. She was dressed casually, a soft white cotton shirt tucked into jeans, her blonde hair as ordered as ever. I hovered, standing next to the table as she went to the sink, unsure if I should sit down again or offer to help.

‘What can I get you – tea? Some soup?'

‘Soup would be great, thank you.' And I sat down again.

‘So . . . what are you doing with yourself?'

‘I work in film and television.'

‘Oh?' Lydia sounded surprised.

‘Yes, as a third AD. I help keep things ticking along on time on set.'

‘That sounds interesting.'

‘It can be sometimes.'

Lydia brought my soup over with a cup of tea for herself and sat down delicately in a chair two spaces away from me.

‘What was it you did at university again?'

Oh. That question. I just loved that question. It really made me feel like such an achiever.

‘Well, I did a year of a BA in media studies but it didn't grab me so I left and went and worked abroad instead,' I answered, hating how apologetic I sounded. I never sounded that way when I was talking about it with friends but with people of my parents' generation, or older, it was different. It was as if I slid straight to the bottom of the food chain as soon as someone asked me about uni. As if I was a great big waste of money and time.

‘Didn't grab you?' Lydia's politely sarcastic tone completed my slide. ‘Sometimes it's just about knuckling down, doing what has to be done. I doubt Charlie would be where he is now if he'd just told himself it didn't, how did you put it? “Grab him.”'

Lydia smiled a thin smile. I could feel her inverted commas digging into my face. What could I say to that?

‘I . . . I guess I was too young, or something,' I stuttered. ‘I needed some action, some real work.'

‘And now?'

‘Now?'

‘Do you ever think of returning to your studies now you've had some . . . action?' Lydia looked at me with raised eyebrows.

‘Absolutely not!' Suddenly I didn't feel like I was bottom of the food chain, after all. If Lydia thought I was inferior just because I didn't complete my degree then I didn't care. I grinned at her, to show her that she couldn't just press me down into the floor with her pointy questioning.

‘Why would I waste money when I've got a good job? So many people go to university not really knowing what they want to do and end up wasting loads of money and time. OK, so it took me a little while to find something I liked doing but I didn't cost my parents any money while I was finding my way. . You were lucky that Charlie loved what he did right from the beginning.'

Lydia gave me an inscrutable look. ‘I suppose that's true. I hadn't thought of it like that. Still—'

‘Anyway, it isn't like I had the luxury of my parents backing me. They could've helped me a bit but I would've walked away with a whopping big debt if I'd done a whole degree, or more than one or whatever.'

I wanted to press this home to her, shake her out of her comfortable bubble, remind her that not everyone could just do something because they wanted to, or thought it was the done thing. That some people – most people! – have to actually plan things, weigh things up, and a lot of the time decide that, on balance, they can't actually afford to do it. Not that I was thinking about money at the time I dropped out of uni. I left because I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't settle; I had itchy feet and something else – oh yes! My thoughts clarified as I watched Lydia sip her tea thoughtfully. Something about feeling wretched from being dumped by your son early on in the year had something to do with it. Didn't it?

It was about then that the yellow walls ceased to feel cheerful and started to make me feel a little ill. Lydia and I continued to chat about this and that. I was blethering on, filling her in about my family when all of a sudden I lost my train of thought. My head felt woolly, confused.

‘Are you feeling OK? You don't look very well.' Lydia put her hand out and for the second time in an hour I had my forehead felt. ‘I think you may have caught a chill.'

‘I'm fine,' I said but I didn't feel it. I felt hot and buzzy and all . . . swimmy again. Again? Oh yes, that's right. ‘Actually I think I might be feeling a bit poorly. I wasn't feeling well last week.'

Lydia sighed. ‘And I thought it was just my young men who can't look after themselves. Obviously you women are just as hopeless.'

‘Sorry.'

Lydia smiled quickly and stood up. ‘You look like you need a rest. Those boys aren't going to be back inside for a bit yet so why don't you go and put your head down for a bit? I'll dry your clothes for you while you sleep and then you can stay for some supper.'

‘Oh no, that's too much trouble.'

‘Don't be silly, of course it isn't. Anyway, Charlie will want to see you.'

I caught Lydia's eye briefly and I saw the scepticism I was feeling myself at this idea reflected in her eyes. Part of me just wanted to get the hell out of there as soon as possible but most of me had already decided that going to sleep right then was the only thing I was capable of.

‘Thanks.'

*

When I woke again it was dark. I fumbled around and turned on the light and took in the pretty bedroom. When I remembered I was at Charlie's house I sat upright in a panic and reached out for my phone. It was six o'clock! I must have been asleep for a couple of hours, maybe more. My afternoon came back to me, a series of embarrassing moments jangling for first place in my head. I groaned.

At the foot of the bed were my clothes in a neat pile. Lydia must have dried them for me and returned them as I slept. The idea of her quietly laying them there didn't half make me feel uncomfortable, like I was living too much on display. It felt like everyone – Mara, Claudia, Kate, Rebecca, Mum and Dad, even Ed – knew how I felt about Charlie, how ardently I was waiting for him to whisk me away. And now his mother had me turn up sopping wet on her doorstep, rescued by her husband, for Pete's sake, and I was so fragile I had to be put to bed and even have my clothes dried for me. This is too much, I thought. I wanted my heart plucked off my sleeve and stuffed into a box, somewhere dark where no one could see it. And to not be lying in bed at Charlie's house where anyone could wander in and see me sleeping!

I dressed and was about to go downstairs when I remembered about Mum and Dad. I grabbed my phone. They'd be worried sick about me. The phone rang and rang; no one was there.

‘Mum, Dad, it's me. Just to say I'm at Charlie's. I got wet and ended up staying here for a bit, and fell asleep. I haven't seen Charlie yet. I'm going to see if they can give me a lift home. I'll call you later.' I tried Dad's mobile, and then Mum's. Both went straight to voicemail. For a moment I imagined them driving around the countryside, looking for me in a panic. And then I remembered. They weren't even home! They'd gone to visit Mum's friend in Wales for the night. I let out a sigh of relief. Guilt trip averted.

‘Here she is!' Charles Snr announced my entrance in a jolly boom.

I stood in the doorway. Charles Snr was next to the fire, a drink raised in my direction. On the sofa next to him sat Charlie and I met his eye briefly. He smiled politely at me. I pulled my tummy in and smiled back. And then, rising out of his chair, was his brother. I coloured. I'd completely forgotten about Jimmy. He turned and held out his arms.

‘Sam! What a lovely surprise!'

I hugged him in a daze.

‘Jim . . . you're . . .' I looked him up and down, taking in his strong frame (more solid than Charlie's leaner version), his hair (still blonde), his fully formed features. ‘A man!'

‘It's nice of you to notice, Sam.' And he wiggled his hips a little as Charlie and Charles Snr laughed.

A man maybe but still the puppyish little brother beneath it all.

‘Come and sit down, Sam. You can't stand in the middle of the room ogling my brother all night,' Charlie said.

‘I'm not ogling,' I said, feeling myself blush some more. ‘I just can't quite get over how different he looks.'

I tried to smile what I hoped was a natural smile as I crossed the room. As I walked past Charlie, he got off the sofa to greet me and I tried desperately to pull my tummy in further.

‘Hi.'

‘Fancy meeting you here, Sam.' Charlie bent and kissed each cheek. I felt a shiver pass over me, although I wasn't sure if it was him or the lack of oxygen from pulling my stomach up to my lungs. Charlie was dressed in casual country attire – jeans, an old shirt and sweater, his hair ruffled by the fresh air, pink spots on his cheeks, and somehow – how this was possible was beyond me – he looked even more sexy than he did in a suit.

‘What can I get you, Sam? A gin and tonic? Or would you prefer wine?' Charles Snr smiled warmly at me.

‘A gin and tonic would be lovely,' I answered. A gin and tonic was, of course, the last thing I actually needed. I felt light-headed, and out of my depth. But I had a whole painful evening to get through with Charlie here in the bosom of his family. A well-supported bosom that definitely didn't include me. Oh God, I needed that G&T more than anything else.

‘What are you up to now, Sam?' Jimmy asked me, his eyes bright and friendly.

‘What, other than crashing your family weekend?'

‘Don't be silly, it's lovely to see you again.' Jimmy nudged his brother. ‘Isn't it, mate?'

Charlie was staring at the fire. He had the look of someone who had been doing that rather a lot. His tease about me ogling Jimmy just now had obviously been a short break in some serious introspection. Jimmy looked back at me and made a face. There was an awkward pause as we both tried to think of something to say.

‘Here we are!' Charles came back into the room, with a drink for me and another one for himself. ‘Cheers! Here's to long-lost drowned rats.'

‘That's not very nice, darling.' Lydia followed him, with a bowl of fat olives in her hand. She set them down on the coffee table in front of the brothers and sat delicately on a pretty upholstered stool next to the fire.

‘Help yourself, Sam,' she said. ‘Jimmy! Save some for other people.'

‘Sorry, Ma,' Jimmy winked at me.

‘Talking of long-lost people in our lives, I saw Bunty the other day at tennis. Did you know her Sarah is just back from Kilimanjaro? Such a marvellous girl, and squeezing it in with her career. Do you ever see her, Charlie? Charlie?'

‘What?' Charlie looked up from the fire, bewildered. ‘Sorry, Ma, I was thinking about something else.'

Sure, I thought, I knew exactly what he was thinking about.

‘Sorry darling.' Lydia looked at him with concern. ‘I've got terrible timing sometimes. Here I am talking about women when they are really the last thing you need in your life right now. They've caused enough trouble for the time being.'

‘They certainly have. One in particular,' Charlie muttered.

‘Well, she obviously has her eye on other things; you're better off without her.'

Charlie looked at his mother in pain, as if she held the answer to all of his problems. I had never seen him look so vulnerable.

‘Do
you
think she's seeing someone else?' he asked.

I was sure that if I hadn't been there, Lydia would have crossed the room and gathered up Charlie in a big hug. She certainly looked as if she wanted to.

‘I don't have a clue what she's up to, darling. But if she's not there for you, then she isn't worth clinging on to. A man needs a woman who will be there for him. Isn't that true, Charles?'

Charles Snr made a noise that signalled agreement and Charlie sunk back into the sofa, apparently satisfied with her answer. It was quite shocking how much he looked up to Lydia. I just couldn't imagine turning to my own mother for comfort like he did, or respecting her opinion on things as private and as precious as heartache. I doubt I'd turned to my mum with real problems since I was about twelve. But perhaps I should? Perhaps that would bring Mum and I closer? Yet when I tried to picture it, all I could see was Mum giving unwanted advice in breathy tones. It was always too much. Lydia was too restrained for my taste; my own mother was too eager. Something in the middle would be quite lovely.

‘You're welcome to tell me all about her.' Jimmy gave Charlie a playful whack on the arm and winked at me. I tittered back nervously.

Lydia looked in mock despair at Jimmy. ‘I'm sure
you're
quite capable of reeling in the women by yourself.'