by Lily Morton
“She knows Misha will just tell you everything anyway,” my mum says to Charlie. She shrugs. “Plus, you keep Misha calm. It’s either you or Valium.”
“Or crack,” I observe.
“That’s banned from a Dad Do-Over, and well you know it,” my mum says serenely. “Or I’d have smoked it years ago.”
There’s a clatter of footsteps on the stairs. “Showtime,” my mum says happily.
I sit back on my chair as Anya blows into the room. And blow is the right word. She’s glowering and stomping while muttering under her breath. Her previously long black hair has been dyed a bright red, and it’s a tangled mess. She also seems to be allergic to the colour wheel as she’s dressed entirely in black.
She looks surly and like a typical teenager, but I still have to repress a smile, as no matter how crabby she seems, she won’t go against the family meeting. It’s like our superpower.
“Are you okay, Anya? Is your asthma playing up?” I ask silkily.
“No,” she says, slinging herself into the chair and giving me a look that suggests I am the stupidest person in the world. “Why?”
“Because you’re huffing so hard it sounds like you need an inhaler.”
“Misha,” she whines. “Do we have to do this?”
I lean back and cross my arms. “Well, no. We can totally leave off the discussion of your health and focus on the topic of railing bondage at senior school. In fact, let’s have a debate about that. What are your views, Anya?”
“No, I don’t need an inhaler,” she says quickly, and I can’t entirely hide my smile. She’s always amused me even though at times I’d like to lock her in her room for the rest of her life and board up the windows. My mum insists it’s because we’re both headstrong and very similar, but I’m nothing like this spawn of Satan.
“Nice try,” I say. I tap the table consideringly and then push the toy towards her. “Meeting is called to order. The floor is yours, Anya. Let us sit and play soft music and discuss the ins and outs of handcuffing yourself to railings.”
She glares at me. “It was totally justified.”
I groan. “That invariably means it wasn’t.”
“Misha, you don’t understand,” she says passionately. “Your generation have fucked up the world, and now it’s our turn to fight for what’s right.”
“My generation. I’m twenty-seven. My fossil fuel days are still a ways ahead of me. I haven’t finished being flippant about alcohol consumption yet.”
“Mum, Misha is being sarcastic,” Anya immediately says.
“Mum, Anya is being belligerent,” I counter.
Charlie snorts, and I shake my head to clear it of childish retorts. “So, how many other people got suspended with you, Anya? Please tell me it was your entire school year.” She mumbles something and I put my hand to my ear. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you said it was just you and Laura Saunders. Where were all the other eco warriors?”
“It was drama class,” she says sulkily. “And they were casting for the end-of-year play.”
“Well, what about Laura Saunders? Doesn’t she do drama?” my mum asks.
“She had PE but she’s on her period and didn’t want to go swimming.”
“Oh, the young and their social conscience,” I mutter.
Anya throws her hands up. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. It’s such a shame that you’re not like Charlie.”
My mum sighs almost mournfully, and I narrow my eyes at her. “Wait. Are you agreeing with her?”
“Not at all,” my mum says quickly and entirely unconvincingly. I stare at her and she folds. “Charlie is lovely though. You have to admit it. And you’re very sardonic at the best of times.”
I shoot Charlie a look and he winks cheekily which makes me smile even though I don’t want to.
I turn back to the table to find all three of them smiling at me. “What?” I say defensively.
“Nothing,” Teddy says and they all nod as if they’re synchronising themselves for the idiot Olympics.
I knock on the table. “So, you’re suspended for two days. How lovely, Anya. What will you do with yourself? Maybe you could go and harvest some rare owl semen to save them from extinction or, I don’t know, maybe do your homework.”
She huffs. “Of course you’d mention homework. That’s all you think about.”
“Well, I certainly hope you’re not thinking that you’re going to enjoy yourself,” my mum says. “Not while you’re suspended. When you’ve finished your homework, you can help me around the house and cook dinner.”
“Thereby ensuring that nobody else enjoys themselves either,” I say. “Even homework looks attractive next to Anya’s cooking.”
Teddy winces at the thought, but Anya ignores my jibe.
“Homework’s not important when the world is being starved, Misha.”
“Well, it’ll be a bit important if you’re the one who’s going to starve because you didn’t get your GCSEs,” I say mildly. “But then you won’t be able to cook much if you’re going to spend your days handcuffing yourself to other people’s property.” I pause. “Hang on,” I say slowly. “Where did you get the handcuffs from anyway?”
Anya shrugs. “Mum’s room. They were under her pillow.”
My mum gasps and turns bright red. “Oh my God,” she says faintly.
“Oh, sweet baby Jesus.” I sigh. The table bursts into bedlam as all three women in my family start to talk very loudly.
Over the shrieky sound of my mum talking about respect and personal privacy, I slowly lower my head to the table where I bang it against the wood gently. “Have I gone deaf yet?” I say to no one. “Please, dear Lord, let it happen soon, or at least give me amnesia.”
“Okay,” my mum says loudly. “Maybe it’s time that we move on and discuss item two on the agenda.”
“Yes,” I say faintly. “I’m all for moving on from the handcuffs. What is item two?”
“Jim asked me to marry him last week and I said yes. We want to do it in the spring.”
Anya and Teddy immediately exclaim in excitement and throw themselves on my mum, covering her with hugs, while Charlie stands up and busies himself at the stove.
I wince, hopefully unobtrusively. “Can we go back to the handcuffs?” I whisper, but luckily they don’t hear me.
A tiny corner of my mind knew this was coming. When Jim moved in with my mum, he took me out for a pint and earnestly assured me that he loved my mum and the girls and would always look after them. It doesn’t make this any easier though. I listen to them talk excitedly about dresses and flowers and honeymoon destinations and hope that my quietness goes unnoticed.
Charlie wanders over with his hands full of mugs of hot chocolate. He puts them down on the table and squeezes my shoulder. “Seems like this is the time for hot chocolate,” he says with his special warm smile that always, without fail, makes me happy. I look up at him and something in his face lets me know that he understands my quietness, that I’m not alone. And some of my ennui slides away. It never stays long when Charlie is around.
He puts my mum’s mug in front of her and hugs her, murmuring something softly into her ear. She smiles radiantly, looking at Charlie as if he hangs the moon. It’s a Lebedinsky family trait.
I squeeze his hand in thanks and pull him to sit at the table. “Don’t sit over there,” I grumble. “You belong here.” He grins and slides into the chair next to me.
An hour later we climb into the car and I suppress the urge to heave a sigh of relief. The first few minutes of the drive home is silent, but I know Charlie won’t be able to keep that up for long. Sure enough, he stirs as we pull up to some traffic lights.
“So, how do you feel?” he asks. It’s a quiet question, but I hear his expectation that I’ll answer him honestly.
I stare straight ahead. “About what? Climate change, the ups and downs of the royal family?”
“No silly, much more important. What do you think about your mum getting married?�
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I shrug. “I’m fine. Why?” I give in and look to my side to find him eyeing me knowingly.
“I hope you don’t think that you’re going to lose her, Misha. She’ll still be your mum.”
“Charlie, are you under the impression that I’m seven? Of course I know that.”
He nods. “Hmm, and what about the bit about her taking another man’s name? Are you okay with that too?” I can’t help my flinch this time, and he immediately grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly. “Misha, it’s perfectly okay to feel sad about that,” he says softly. “I know it feels like she’s letting go of your dad, but it’s just a name at the end of the day. She’ll always have your dad in her heart just the way you and the girls do. Nothing and nobody will ever change that.”
I sigh, looking down at the clasp of our hands before bringing them up and kissing his fingers. “I know,” I say quietly. “It was just a bit of a shock at first. It threw me and sort of reinforced the fact that I’m the last Mr Lebedinsky. Made me feel a bit sad.”
I wouldn’t admit that to anyone but Charlie. I can’t tell my mum because it would hurt her feelings, and I’m not good with sharing emotions. But somehow it’s okay with Charlie. It’s safe.
He smiles at me. “Your mum noticed how quiet you were.”
I sigh. “I know. I’ll call her in a bit and have a chat.”
He gives a murmur of approval and reaches over to draw me into a hug. I hug him back, tightening my grip and sniffing the warm vanilla scent of him. We’ve done this so many times, and I’ve felt nothing except contentment, but now that odd awareness stirs inside me again. I can feel the broadness of his shoulders and the silkiness of his hair brushing against my face. He shifts and his lips press for a second against my cheek. It sends a warning trill down my spine, and to my horror I can feel my cock stiffening, the way it did yesterday in the hallway when he stared at my body and licked his lips.
I jump as a car horn blares behind me and someone behind us shouts, “The light’s been on green for two minutes, you fucking muppet.”
Ordinarily, I’d shout something back, but I’m actually relieved that the stranger has broken my moment of incredible stupidity. I stick my middle finger up at him anyway just to reassert my sense of self, and then put the car in gear and pull away, hopefully leaving that mad moment with Charlie far behind.
Chapter Four
Charlie
I look at the clock by the bed and groan. Time to get ready. Misha’s flat being in Shad Thames might have cut down on my commute time, but I still have to get out of bed to actually get to work. I think longingly of portals and time machines and then give up.
Pulling on a pair of pyjama shorts decorated with tiny dancing snowmen, I make my way out into the main flat. It’s hardly a surprise to find it quiet and empty. Misha starts his day earlier than the birds.
I don’t entirely approve of Misha’s work ethic, as it’s less “work to live” and more “die if I don’t get into the office before it gets light.” It doesn’t seem healthy to me. I was brought up to embrace life outside work. I look around the flat in appreciation. His job does pay well, though, and this place is stunning.
My favourite room is the kitchen, a big room that runs off the lounge. It’s a world away from the kitchen in my old flat which had units that had likely once been white, but had become a dirty grey. The lino was cracked and the countertops old and worn. Misha’s kitchen glows in the morning sunshine. The expensive grey tile floor is warm on my feet, and the cabinets are a beautiful honey-gold wood that complements the granite worktop.
Misha uses the space only for making coffee and mixing his drinks, but I’m looking forward to properly cooking in here. My desire to learn how to cook was inspired by growing up with both Aidan and my mum. Aidan’s an excellent cook who is always in his kitchen; he’d been adamant that I learn the basics. My mum, in contrast, couldn’t boil an egg. So if I wanted to survive, or spend much time with Aidan, it was important to learn how to cook.
Tea made, I grab my hoodie from the back of the sofa and let myself out onto the balcony. I keep away from the edge because of my epilepsy, but there’s a sofa out here and I settle down on it, pulling a throw over my legs to ward off the cold. The view is amazing. Misha’s flat looks out over the Thames and has a side view of Tower Bridge, but my eyes are always drawn to the walkway below. I could sit here and people-watch until the cows come home. It’s a vibrant place buzzing with life at all hours of the day and night, so there’s always somebody to watch.
At the back of the building runs Shad Thames, one of the prettiest streets in London. It’s a narrow and cobbled road filled with lots of quaint shops and restaurants, dominated by the old goods gantries that criss-cross overhead and now house residents’ patio tables and chairs and pots of flowers. In the summer you can walk down the street and inhale the scent of flowers and catch the mist of water on the air as the homeowners water them. When I first moved in, I spent a happy few hours exploring the area and noting the rich trading history highlighted with names such as Cayenne Court and Tea Trade Wharf. The history buff in me was in heaven.
The flats are very expensive, but Misha’s dad had two big life insurance policies and Misha used his share to put down on the property. I know his mortgage is still hefty but he makes a lot of money with his job.
I sit for a while, the steam from my tea wafting fragrantly in the cold air as I watch an old lady walk a poodle that appears to have more diamonds on its collar than Tiffany’s have on their shelves. Then I reluctantly make my way back inside, hugging the wall like a twat as usual. Time to get ready.
The aura happens as I move through the lounge. I catch the scent of bitter almonds, and the usual strong wave rises up through my head, making everything feel like it’s lifting. I just have time to grope for the sofa, and then I’m out.
When I come to, I’m on the floor. I lie there taking stock of myself, resisting the impulse to close my eyes and sleep. Sleep is all I want after I’ve had a turn.
From the arm of the sofa, I pull down the forest-green chunky knitted throw that my mum made for me. I’m always freezing after a turn, and I wrap it around me gratefully, inhaling the scent of lavender as I lie back down with a sigh.
My roll off the couch hadn’t caused much damage. A big turn will often mean a hard fall straight to the floor, but I don’t feel evidence of bruises or bumps on my back or my head. There’s only the usual shitty feeling of having the worst hangover in history—every muscle and bone aching, coupled with a strong sense of confusion and a slight hint of embarrassment.
Any embarrassment would have increased dramatically if this had happened in public. I’ve woken up before to find myself surrounded by people who were convinced I was drunk and disorderly. I quit drinking as soon as I had my diagnosis, and it’s ironic that I still get to feel the shitty aftermath of a hangover but without any of the fun beforehand.
Of course, the biggest irony is that, while I look exactly the same on the outside—sunny and upbeat as always—on the inside my emotions feel as out of control as my brain. Before, I stayed positive about my treatment, but now I have all these alien feelings of rage and fear. Rage that my body has betrayed me after everything I’ve done. I’ve followed the rules. I’ve been proactive. Why hasn’t it fucking worked? Why are these seizures still with me?
And the fear? It’s always there now, like a grit that lingers between my teeth. My family and friends are starting to ask questions about my epilepsy reviews and why the hospital and the doctors aren’t doing anything. I’ve put them off because I don’t want to admit I haven’t been to the hospital or the doctors in eight months. I can’t bring myself to go, because I’m terrified of what I might hear.
What if the medication has stopped working? What if they can’t find another suitable one? They’d struggled to find this mix and get it right the first time. If the tablets don’t work, then that leaves the spectre of brain surgery—a prospect that makes my nuts tuck
up.
I’d done research after my diagnosis. Many people have the operation and it successfully stops the seizures. But there’s a risk that brain surgery might affect the patient’s personality. So, I’ve chosen the option of burying my head so far in the sand I’ll be seeing ostriches and kangaroos soon, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
I look at my watch and groan. I think longingly of calling in sick to work, but I can’t do it. I’ve had a lot of time off since being diagnosed, and although the council has been very understanding, I still feel guilty. Also, there’s the issue that seems to crowd my entire life—I want to be like everyone else, even though I’m not.
So while I’d like nothing better than to climb into bed, pull the duvet over me, and snuggle down into the covers until I’ve formed a little nest, I will get up. I’ve got training assessment meetings this morning while the staff decorate the library for Christmas. Then I’ve got the Christmas story time to do for the children.
I pull myself up, feeling like I’ve been kicked by a bull who’s then turned around and sat on me for a while. Staggering to the bathroom attached to my room, I look longingly at the bath. I always feel gritty after a turn. Most of that’s in my head, but some of it must be because I spend more time rolling around on floors than Russell Crowe ever did in his heyday. I used to love having a bath and could spend hours in there with a book until my skin wrinkled. However, it isn’t worth the risk now and I stick to showering.
However, I don’t have time for any of that today, so I make do with a quick wash while avoiding my reflection in the mirror. God help the poor staff who have to look at me today.
I gather myself together and head out to the kitchen to make some toast to go with my breakfast of epilepsy meds.
Misha
I exhale with relief as I enter the library and a wave of heat hits me. It’s bloody freezing outside today, the wind whistling around my ears and poking icy fingers under my suit.