I was glad to be busy. I dealt with telephone consultations, as a chatty temp manned the reception for me, scheduling home visits and appointments for the people in need of my help. She didn’t seem to mind my quietness, and I was grateful for her easy manners, making work a nice change from my usual anxious weekdays.
There was nothing for my lunch, but I soldiered through, my stomach still high on the curry from the night before and the bacon sandwich Penny had wrapped up for my breakfast.
I would miss living at the Nordic Star, which suddenly felt more like home than any of the places I’d ever lived. I would miss the evenings sitting by the fire, the hearty home-cooked dinners, and the company of the man who dominated my brain. He was dominating me all right, and I laughed as I thought of whips and chains. I didn’t need any of those, he just held me captive with his stupid red hair and unfashionable, lumberjack shirts.
I asked Penny for his number when I returned to find her manning the place. She laughed citing Data Protection rules and told me to look him up on Facebook.
I considered walking across to the bakery and declaring my undying love to him by shouting in the street, but I wasn’t sure of my undying love. And I still hadn’t considered the physical part of all this.
I needed to talk to him, and my head was once again spinning out of gear.
I slept all through Sunday, waking only to venture down to the supermarket to buy some junk food and drinks. I wondered what Justine would think of me, walking in a haze of thoughts and grabbing random items as I lined up at the tills to pay for my meagre shopping.
I wondered what my parents would have thought of Charlie, if my mother would have been proud. She’d never met Justine and only met Rita when she was too ill to remember who or what she was. My father would have probably loved him as fiercely as he had loved me. I took some comfort from those thoughts as I noticed the couple in front of me.
There was this burly redhead of a man with piercings in his ears and tattoos showing under his shirt and a black man in a sharp business suit who stared at him with admiration. Reaching out to stroke a stray hair out of his partner’s eyes, they spoke about a recipe for Brussels sprouts with some kind of nutty dressing. They were clearly in love, laughing over shared jokes, and for a minute, I thought to speak to them just to find some common ground. I didn’t because what was I supposed to say? But I watched them, listening to their easy conversation, and wondered how long they had been together. I looked at their fingers for rings, smiling at their matching gold bands. They made me happy as I stumbled home and ignored Penny’s pleas for me to come and have my dinner.
Instead, I sat on the bed eating crisps and chocolate biscuits and drowning my loneliness in cheap vodka.
Looking back, it was probably the worst week of my entire life because Charlie had disappeared without a trace.
On Monday, the bakery displayed a “Closed for the holidays, see you next year” sign, and the flat above was dark and deserted. There was a new person manning the Bar-for-the-sad-and-depressed-ception, a student full of acne who barely said a word. Not that I spoke much either and conversations with strangers was the last thing I was looking for. I tried to look casual walking through the lobby, every seat taken with guests holding drinks, families in silly jumpers and couples looking sickeningly sweet, again gut-punching me with the realization of how lonely I had become. I snuck back up to my room, feeling sick to my stomach.
I lived, breathed, worked, ate crap and slept badly. The rest of the time? I couldn’t really function because my head was a mess.
It was December 22 by the time I’d had enough. I mustered up some bravery, not even bothering about my captive audience, and walked up to Mrs Hallet, who followed my every move like I had a starring role in a Christmas Pantomime.
“What’s the name of the guy who works in the bakery?” I asked casually, waving a pen around in my hand.
“Graham Shaw?” Mrs Pasankar offered up. “Plays golf with my husband. Terrible arthritis in his hands.”
“No, the younger man,” I answered with irritation in my voice. “Charles… Charles something.”
I wasn’t fooling anyone as Mrs Hallet chuckled and lowered her glasses off her nose.
“Doctor Gilbert, you know better than this.”
“What?” I said innocently.
“We know you and Charlie have been having a thing.”
“Thing?” I stuttered out, lowering my voice. “Mrs Hallet, I need him to come in and see me. Can you just make an appointment?”
It was a total lie, but I was desperate. Desperate and depressed. There was clearly no hope for me in this town.
“Would you like me to transfer Charles to your care? It’s not really how we do things around here.”
I was busted. I probably looked sheepish as well.
“I need to see…” I walked away. Mrs Hallet shook her head.
I sat in my office and trawled Facebook hoping to come across him as a mutual friend. Thing was, I didn’t have any Facebook friends in Chistleworth, and my pathetic self was just that.
Pathetic.
A knock on the door broke the terrible silence as Mrs Hallet let herself inside, closing the door behind her,
“Dr Gilbert, I have left a message for young Charlie, but I think you might be better off trying to find time for him after the holidays. Graham usually goes to Manchester over the Christmas Week to see his family, and I bet you anything that’s where your Charlie has gone too. I knew his mother… may she rest in peace. Tragic family. Charles was so young when she passed away, but he’s turned out a fine man. Very studious. Graham is enormously proud.”
“And Graham is… Charlie’s?”
“Oh, it’s a bit complicated. T’was a big scandal at the time. Graham and Moira were having an affair, and then Moira got sick, and Douglas, Charles’s father, had cancer already. It was a terrible time and drove Graham sick with worry and Douglas… It was a long time ago, so the details are a bit muddy. Charles and his brother went to live with Graham in the end. He took them in and treated them like his own. He’s a lovely man, Mr Shaw.”
“So, Charlie is Charles Shaw?” I asked with a twinkle in my eye.
“God, no, his surname is Porter. Charles Porter. Fine name. Now, Mrs Kasinska has been waiting almost ten minutes past her appointment time, so could you perhaps gather your thoughts long enough to get her called in for her clinic visit? Her feet are really bothering her this time of year, and we need to get her signed up for the diabetic clinic again. She hasn’t attended for over a month, and Mrs Pasankar is getting annoyed. And you know what Mrs. Pasankar is like when she is annoyed.”
I did. So, I nodded, half gobsmacked at Mrs Hallet being so kind. I shook my head in disbelief and jumped out of my chair and called Mrs Kasinska, resuming my search for a Charles Porter on Facebook as I waited for her to take her seat... and there he was... my Charlie.
I sent him a message before I could stop myself, just a, Where the hell have you disappeared to? Followed by, I miss you, you twat.
Romance had never been my strong suit. I realised that now, watching bewildered as the screen did nothing. And then I found Mrs Kasinska was reading over my shoulder from the visitors’ chair.
I was the worst GP ever. I knew that too.
What do you want? He had replied sometime during the afternoon. I reread the words over and over again as I headed down the hill towards town, feeling almost faint with the lack of lunch. I needed to look after myself better. I needed to figure out what to do with Christmas. I needed to stop being such a child and get myself back under control.
I didn’t know what I wanted, but I graciously accepted Penny’s offer of dinner at the bar-for-lonely-twats-ception, where I had to share space with a bunch of surly teenagers and their geriatric grandmother. I sat there and ate the microwaved pie she served me with gratitude and fervour. As Penny poured me another pint, I started to compose a message in return.
I want to ask you a load of
embarrassing questions. Was that the best I could do?
What kind of questions? came back. And what level of embarrassing are we talking about?
Why have I not got your number? I sent, shaking my head in disbelief.
Because you’re a selfish twat. I smiled and then smiled again as Penny took my plate away.
Please talk to me about sex. What is it that you would want to do with me? Say, if I found you a little bit attractive and was a tiny bit curious.
I blushed and cringed as I sent it.
Don’t.
He was right. I shouldn’t. And yet, I was doing it again.
I miss you, and all I can think of is you. I don’t know what is wrong with me.
You’re the doctor. He followed that one with a load of ambulance emojis.
I know about anal sex. I know about prostate exams. I am familiar with lube. The rest of my gay education is sadly lacking.
Tell me something I don’t know.
He was pissed off, but at least, he was talking to me.
I gave up on him as I took my pint and headed up to my room. I stared at the Messenger screen and took a deep breath. Then I pressed the little handset and brought the phone up to my ear.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said back.
“Where are you?” I blurted out because, obviously, I was behaving like some jealous possessive boyfriend already.
“I’m staying with my brother in Manchester,” was all he replied.
“Oh.” Why did I not know that he had a brother? Or did I?
“Yeah.”
“I really need to… Charlie, I really want to just sit down and talk to you. Do you think… we could do that?”
“We’re mates, aren’t we?” he replied.
He was still angry with me, and that somehow made me calm. That was the way it should be because I deserved it. I deserved all the sarcasm and snootiness he fed me because I did still have some overdue grovelling to serve up.
“When are you back?”
“I don’t know. I need some time out, and I need some time away from you. I don’t want to be your midlife-crisis-bi-curious-rebound adventure, Daniel. I just don’t. So, I don’t know how we are going to move on from here. That’s why it’s better if I just stay away for a little while, then maybe one day next year, we can go for a drink and laugh about all this? You can show off your new girlfriend, and I can show off my Grindr date. All nice and civilised.”
“You’re being a dick.”
“I know,” he giggled softly.
“I’m not having a midlife crisis,” I tried, but he almost cackled in my ear.
“You are totally having a midlife crisis, looking for a quick rebound that you can then tell funny stories about at dinner parties, charming tales of when you were so out of control that you almost bagged yourself a boyfriend. It’s not fair, Daniel. It’s not.”
I loved that he kept saying my name. I loved how it sounded when he said it.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“You would. You would start this thing with me and then go into a fully blown gay panic, and I would be left with egg on my face and a broken heart. It’s hard enough to deal with that you don’t really fancy me in the first place.”
“I do… fancy you.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up, Daniel,” he said and hung up on me.
I supposed I deserved that.
I texted him on December 23 and told him I missed him.
He replied back with a link to how to correctly perform a prostate exam.
I have performed several prostate exams throughout my career. My patients usually don’t look like they enjoy them.
I could almost hear him smile, from wherever he was.
You need to be gentle, assume the correct position and use lots of lovely lube.
He was such a dick.
That idea doesn’t do much for me, to be honest.
Yup. I was a dick too.
Daniel, you are not a virgin. I know this because you have talked about sex with whichever wife it was. So, I’ve kind of figured that one out. You have had sex. You’ve been married twice and shagged your way around some kind of nursing dorms. You told me. So, don’t come here and piss me off, acting like you have no idea how to make another person feel good. Sex is sex, whatever the gender. You use your body, your hands and your mouth for oral, and then if anal is on the cards, you might want to perform a slow two-fingered prostate exam and then swap your fingers for your cock. With a condom. And lube. That’s my top tip, should you ever find yourself in bed with a dude. Works with girls as well by the way—if they fancy anal. Consent is kind of a good thing to get from any gender. Okay?
I sat there in agony, reading back what he’d written. Then I threw myself into packing my things together and going to work.
He didn’t text me back, and I didn’t text him either.
I missed him to the point that my body ached as I went to bed, spending my final night at the Nordic Star Hotel alone and miserable. I masturbated in a crazy frenzy, hoping he’d know what he was making me do. He didn’t, of course, but I called out his name as I came into the sheets, my brain throwing out fretful images of freckled skin and stolen kisses.
Perhaps I was having a midlife crisis. Maybe Charlie was my rebound thing. Maybe I was just going crazy, stuck in this godforsaken town where suddenly only Mrs Hallet and Mrs Pasankar were left to count as my friends.
I picked up the keys to my new house on the morning of the 24th and had my aptly named Christmas Lunch corner-shop sandwich sat on the steps of the wreck I had bought, waiting impatiently for the moving company to deliver my things from the storage facility. When they arrived, a cheery collection of lads who carried my sofa and TV and placed everything randomly along the walls on the ground floor. Justine had taken our bed, so all I had to sleep on was the new mattress I’d ordered that mocked me from the hallway, still wrapped in its plastic.
I stared at the movers as I signed off on the delivery, ticking boxes on a form as they wished me a Merry Christmas and Happy New Home and all that. I looked at their faces, their bodies and shapes, and realised none of them did anything for me. I was not attracted to the burly bearded foreman or the youngish attractive bloke driving the van. I was not remotely interested in the spotty teenager with the dreadlocks or the surfer dude guy with the bleached-blond hair.
I needed to get over myself and get back to normal but pretending to be happy and cheerful was hard when your house was full of rat droppings, and there was an obvious leak in the roof.
I gave up and called him because it was Christmas Eve, and I was tired and weary, sitting on my plastic-wrapped sofa, staring at the TV I still hadn’t plugged in. I had no Wi-Fi or Sky subscription anyway, so my hopeless self just sat there.
He answered on the second ring, and my whole body relaxed in relief.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, sounding more like his normal self.
“Merry Christmas,” I said back, smiling.
“Hang on, I’m just switching the camera on so we can see you.”
I stared at the phone as a horde of children appeared on the screen with Charlie in a Santa hat fighting for room with a baby on his lap.
“Everyone, say hello to Charlie’s friend Daniel!” Charlie shouted as the children all waved and cheered.
“Hellooo!!” I shouted back as they all laughed and stared at me.
“You Charlie’s boyfriend?” one of them asked, pointing a finger at the screen.
“N… ma… maybe?” I tried. Because. Yeah.
“Daniel is a doctor!” Charlie declared, making the children do Ahhhs and oohhs.
“Do you like blood?” someone asked.
“Can you operate? Like cut people open?”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I wasn’t good with children.
He rescued me, walking out of the room as the children chattered on behind him trying to follow him wherever he was taking me.
We we
re suddenly outside, going down a small staircase leading to a garden path, where Charlie took a seat on a rusty, old garden bench.
“Those are my nieces and nephews. Gorgeous kids, but they drive me mad.”
“You’re not having kids then?” I asked, smiling at him. He was gorgeous. I was definitely attracted to him. There was no question in my mind when he was right there. On the screen. A million miles away from me.
“No, no. I have enough fun hanging out with those little monsters. I don’t want kids. What about you? Do I hear the pitter-patter of little feet somewhere in your future?”
“Charlie,” I said sternly. “I don’t want kids. I don’t want a marriage. I don’t want all those things because I’ve tried living like that and, frankly speaking, I suck at being someone’s husband. I suck at relationships, and I suck at playing happy families. I don’t have any aspirations to adopt or find a wonderful surrogate anywhere. So, there you have it.”
“Then what do you want?” he said, chewing on his fingernail again.
“I want to try to be with someone who will make me happy. That’s what I want. I want to fall asleep with someone next to me and wake up with a smile on my face just because you’re there.”
“I’m not the daydream you have made up in your head. I’m a twenty-six-year-old bloke with issues. I’m on my own because I haven’t got time for anyone else in my life. You said it yourself, I’m burning the candle at both ends, and I will probably drop dead from a heart attack one day, and all your efforts to woo me will be wasted.”
“I’m a doctor. I’ll save your life.”
That made him chuckle.
“Daniel, I went out clubbing last night and shagged a bloke in the toilets. I also had a threesome with my best friend a few weeks back, and he still won’t return my calls. I’m not the person you think I am because that person doesn’t exist.”
I didn’t want to hear him talk like that. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want him to be with other people. I just…
This Thing With Charlie Page 5