Chasing Charlie

by Linda McLaughlan

  Nothing! For three bloody weeks!

  My mind clattered through the past few weeks, totting up everything Sam had spent money on that wasn’t her bloody rent. Toiletries and make-up for that bloody party. And the dress. And the nights out. God, she was so selfish. So completely and utterly self-absorbed. I logged out and shut the laptop, then went to the toilet (comprehensively scrubbed with disinfectant the day before – and not by Sam either), seething as I peed my tea away and wondering how much longer I could put up with it. How long could I continue living with this child before I’d have to take action?

  45

  SAM

  I had it all figured out. The next step in Operation Chasing Charlie was to view him at home. Not his London flat. No, this mission would take me further afield, to the countryside, to his parents’ house. Well, not to the house itself but certainly nearby. My trusty sidekick Facebook told me that was where he was going tonight. I had made do with the single glance of him across the courtyard outside his work and had somehow made it to Friday without contacting him but now I was hungry for more. It was like a scab sitting there on my knee just asking to be picked. I had to know – was he still unhappy? Or had he been having a particularly bad day when I saw him? If he was still unhappy this weekend, I’d feel better about the fact that he still hadn’t been in touch. If he was happy . . . well, I didn’t want to think about that.

  I sat on the Tube, turning over my plan and feeling very pleased I actually had one. It was preferable to giving in to my miserable heart, which was busy feeling utterly lost and really wanted to go to bed and cry for a long time. I was still reeling from the anti-climax Charlie’s birthday party had proved to be. But I wasn’t going to give up now. Not after all the hard work I’d put into luring him so far. I would keep on moving forwards. I had to get there; I just had to be patient.

  A bunch of women sat opposite me, obviously friends going home together after work. They were deep in discussion about a mutual friend and the steamy affair she was having with her boss, completely oblivious to the other passengers on the train.

  ‘She may as well be wearing a sign around her neck—’

  ‘Totally glowing—’

  ‘It’ll only end in tears.’

  ‘No, it’ll be worth it. Look at her!’

  ‘I saw her workmate the other day, whatshisname, Robert?’

  ‘Is that the cute one?’

  ‘What, the cute gay one or the cute dark one?’

  ‘Aren’t they both dark?’

  ‘OMG, stick to your story.’

  ‘OK, so he said that—’

  ‘Isn’t Robert the one with the square face? You know. He looks like a Lego man.’

  ‘No! He left ages ago, got a job somewhere else—’

  ‘That’s right! He got a job in marketing at Legoland.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No!’

  How long had it been since I had had time like that with my girls? I thought back. I couldn’t remember. Too long. Far too long. I sat up straighter. I had the distinct impression my head had been pulled out of a hole. Had I been so wrapped up in this Charlie business I’d become the kind of girl that dropped her friends for a man? Had I really become that kind of person? I shook my head. I couldn’t bear listening to the friends a minute longer so I stood and moved towards the door, ready to leap out at Queen’s Park. The need to immerse myself in my friends was suddenly urgent, as pressing as the need to think non-stop about Charlie had been ten minutes ago.

  Hurrying along Harvist Road, I imagined a relaxed Friday night in with Mara. I’d ask all about how she was and really listen to her. Be the best friend I could be.

  But there was no one there. Not even a note. I frowned. Friday night, and Mara wasn’t home? My tummy dropped. Friday night. It was Friday night and no one had called me to organise meeting up. I blinked, thinking back. We hadn’t met up last Friday night either. I called Claudia but her phone was off.

  46

  CLAUDIA

  I sat at the kitchen table while Mara made coffee, absent-mindedly running the tips of my fingers across the smooth surface. It was late on Saturday morning and the kitchen was filled with Mara’s crossness. I didn’t prod her for details. I found that, given space and time, Mara usually got around to talking about whatever was bothering her. Sam had never understood this, which I always thought was unfortunate and remarkably blind of her.

  ‘Where’s Sam?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. She was here this morning, her door was shut before I went shopping but she left without doing her Saturday jobs.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘She has Saturday jobs?’

  ‘Well’ – Mara set a plunger and two mugs down – ‘I don’t mind if she does them on Sunday but I’d prefer she did them on Saturday to get the weekend off to a good start.’

  Mara’s mouth was pinched as she poured warm milk into both mugs, stirring the liquid aggressively as she added the coffee. She sat down and looked at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘You not saying something usually means something, Claud. Am I being unreasonable?’

  ‘Unreasonable? Oh what would I know? I don’t have to share my space with anyone else. I imagine some ground rules would be helpful. But perhaps . . .’ I paused, about to rephrase what I wanted to say, then decided against it. ‘You might be treating Sam a little bit like a child?’

  ‘She is one though! She missed her bloody rent this week for the third bloody time!’ Mara held up three indignant fingers.

  I stepped around my thoughts once more. Mara was obviously burning up about all this. But it had to be said. ‘Could it be she acts like a child because she gets treated like one?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. It’s a pain in the neck though, regardless of how it’s come about. She’s almost thirty years old! Honestly.’ Mara took a long sip of coffee and sighed. ‘I don’t know what to do about it, Claudia. I can’t carry her for much longer. She’s gone completely silly over this Charlie business. Every day for two weeks there’s been a new exfoliator or body cream or something in the bathroom. Not to mention the dress – and the rest. But no bloody rent!’

  ‘I paid for her dress,’ I added, instantly regretting it.

  ‘Great! So that was money that could have gone to rent and it didn’t. It’s disrespectful – to me, to our friendship, to’ – Mara waved her arm in circles at George and the kitchen – ‘our home!’

  I reached out and caught Mara’s angry hand and squeezed it. ‘Babe, you’re really upset about this, aren’t you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be? If one of your best friends gave such a small shit about you?’

  ‘But she does care about you, of course she does. She can just be horrendously ditzy.’

  ‘Call it what you want, Claud. I’m completely over it.’

  It always amazed me how effectively anger smothered memory, leaving only a handful of irritating traits to chew over relentlessly, as if they were the only food the angry person had available. I saw it time and again with conflicts I was required to mediate at work – people who had once been friends, who knew each other really well, pacing around their grievances, completely forgetting that the person they were upset with had any feelings at all – let alone complex ones. And here was Mara, chewing over a few – highly irritating, I agreed – misdemeanours of Sam’s, as if that was all there was to her. Completely ignoring her warmth, years of loyal friendship and the highs and lows they’d shared. Forgetting all the weeks she had paid her rent or hadn’t brought a bug into the house. Forgetting who she was beneath the dizzy exterior. But what would I know really? I pictured my tidy, peaceful flat. Nobody else to negotiate; no one at all. But in that moment the image of my empty flat was far from comforting and I felt my chest squeeze a little.

  ‘I’ve got some news, actually,’ I said before I could stop myself.

  ‘Good, let’s talk about something else.’ Mara set her cup down a
nd smiled.

  ‘It’s not good.’

  ‘Oh?’ The half-hearted smile fell off.

  I felt a lump lodge in my throat, out of nowhere. For a moment I thought I wouldn’t be able to speak.

  ‘I . . .’ I swallowed. ‘I’ve been diagnosed with an STI.’

  ‘What?’ Mara looked shocked.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, Mara, you know what I’m like,’ I said, more bitter than I wanted to.

  Mara frowned. ‘Yes, I know you’re a grown-up, onto-it woman!’ She reached across the table and grabbed my hands. ‘And here I am bleating on about Sam, when you’ve got much more important issues.’ Then a change came across her face and she grew paler.

  ‘Wha-what . . .’

  ‘It’s only chlamydia,’ I finished for her.

  Colour flooded back into Mara’s cheeks. ‘Oh thank God.’ She let out a huge sigh through her teeth.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Do you know—’

  ‘Who gave it to me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, strangely enough, yes, I think I do. At least tests point in his direction. But—’ I shook my head. ‘I can’t believe it could be him, he’s so . . .’

  ‘Grown-up?’

  I looked up at her in wonder. That was it! That was what I had been trying to put my finger on. He was an adult, not a boy in a man’s body.

  ‘That guy from work, I take it, John something or other?’

  ‘How did you know?’ What was going on? Mara had her ignorant blinkers on thinking about Sam but then turned her head towards me bursting with insight.

  ‘I could tell by the way you’ve talked about him in the past.’

  ‘I’ve hardly spoken about him and not very nicely when I have.’

  ‘Exactly. If you didn’t care about him you would have got a lot more mileage out of it. And this time, even when you made fun of him, you were holding something back. There was something in your eyes.’

  ‘There was?’

  Mara shrugged as if it was completely obvious. If it was so bloody obvious, I thought, why had it taken me so long to realise how I felt about him?

  Mara collected the mugs and cafetière and took them to the sink, casually asking over her shoulder, ‘So when are you going to tell him you like him?’

  47

  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.

  48

  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.