Page 12 of Charlie Sunshine (Close Proximity #2)

FIVE

CHARLIE

It’s rainy and cold the next morning as we wait to cross the busy road leading to the private car park where Misha keeps his car.

I shift my weekend bag from one hand to the other and look at Misha.

He’s wearing grey-green chinos and a white T-shirt peeks from under the hem of a grey jumper.

His old motorcycle jacket completes the outfit.

It’s a casual look, but he looks as put together and expensive as ever.

As opposed to me. I’m wearing jeans and an old black jumper which I’m sure is a lovely complement to the dark shadows under my eyes.

I’m so tired I could lie down on the wet pavement and go to sleep, and I don’t know why because I was in bed and asleep by nine o’clock last night. A big patch of skin over my side is also hurting. It’s likely a bruise I got during my last turn.

“Charlie?” I’m not sure how many times Misha has said my name, but from the exasperation in his voice, it’s obviously more than once. I give him an apologetic glance and he says, “You’re a bloody space cadet this morning. The lights are on green.”

We walk quickly across the road and down into the bowels of the car park. He clicks his key fob, and I hear the expensive-sounding chirp of the car ahead of us. He makes quick work of sticking the bags in the boot, which is as pristine as the rest of the car.

I think nostalgically of my old Volkswagen Golf. You couldn’t see the seat material, as everything was covered in books, papers, and sweet wrappers. I sold it when I became epileptic and lost my license.

“What are you thinking about?”

I look over the roof at Misha. “My Golf.”

“Ah, how I miss the days of putting on a hazmat suit to travel with you.”

I climb into Misha’s baby and run a hand down one of the leather bucket seats. “There is a benefit to being extremely anally retentive about cleaning,” I muse. “And being a soulless banker.”

“That makes me sound like one of the undead.” He laughs. “Not to worry though. According to Jamie, you’ll be in no danger from little old vampire me, unless it’s death by the Famous Five’s picnics or ginger beer.” He pauses. “Or rampant sexism and questionable parental decisions.”

I sigh. “Misha, promise me you won’t mention that this weekend.”

He considers me and then nods solemnly while mouthing the word, “No.” I open my mouth to chastise him, but he starts the engine and looks over at me. “Rock, paper, scissors on who gets to choose the music?”

I shake my head. “Misha, I’m not sure why you keep doing this. Surely the better option is just to let me play my music.”

“Only if we want to die from an overabundance of upbeat poppy tunes and Christmas music.”

“My music tastes are very catholic.”

“The Pope does look like he might appreciate Taylor Swift.”

“Everyone should appreciate Taylor Swift,” I say firmly. “She makes me happy. And you should listen to her. It might have a positive impact on your mood.”

“Only if we’re classing positive impact as wanting to throw myself out of a fast-moving vehicle.”

“Give it up,” I advise him and get out my phone, synching it to his Bluetooth .

Misha frowns as he looks at the display. “You actually have something called a happy playlist,” he says in a tone of great disgust.

“Yes, and by the time we get to Brighton you’ll be so happy you’ll be glowing.”

I settle back in my seat, listening to the opening song of my playlist. The next thing I know I’m waking up, and we’re passing a sign saying that Brighton is five miles away.

“Shit, did I go to sleep?” I say groggily.

Misha looks over at me, his smile not entirely concealing the concern that’s been in his eyes for months. “As soon as we got out of the garage,” he says. “It appears that Taylor Swift actually has a somnolent effect on you, which has sent her a couple of points up in my estimation.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

He looks blank. “Why?”

I watch his long fingers on the steering wheel controlling the car with such ease. I jump when I realise that I’m spacing out. “Because I just left you to drive while I went to sleep. You haven’t had anyone to talk to.”

He shrugs and clicks the indicator to turn left. “Yes, but I had your super-duper happy playlist to keep me company.”

I stretch and yawn widely. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m so tired.”

He shoots me a look before focusing back on the road. “Maybe this weekend is a bad idea. It’s going to be wall-to-wall drinking and…”

I know what he was about to say. There’s only one thing that Misha hesitates over, and that’s giving me his opinion on my current boyfriend, Harry.

After we had words over Harry and didn’t speak for a week, Misha’s been religious about remaining neutral.

I think back to that period of silence and wince. It was horrible.

It’s not like me to cut anyone off, let alone my best friend. I was brought up in a household that stressed communication and I knew at the time that Misha was right. I just couldn’t bring myself to admit it.

Something about Misha’s flippancy at the time caught me on edge.

He’d seemed so gloriously removed from it all.

Happy in his single state with no cares or concerns to interfere.

Just endless hook-ups with beautiful men.

After I’d shouted at him, he’d been so nonplussed that he lost his temper too.

The result was the two of us licking our wounds and not talking for a week, while Harry wandered around with a huge smile on his face.

There is nobody that Harry dislikes more than Misha.

Misha and I had given in at the same time, and I’d been so frantic with relief to have him back that even Harry’s ensuing two-week sulk hadn’t impacted me. If there was one fallout from the row, it was Misha’s new reluctance to criticise. It’s almost as if he’s frightened to poke the sleeping bear.

“I know you were going to say something about Harry,” I say in a singsong voice.

“Oh no,” he says quickly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’d certainly dream of it. You just wouldn’t do it.”

I look around with pleasure as we drive along the seafront.

Big Georgian houses, painted white and cream with the odd rebel blue, line the road overlooking the turquoise-painted railings that guard the entrance to the beach.

The grey mass of the Atlantic Ocean is topped with white horses that hurl themselves onto the pale dun of the shingle beach.

It’s a dreary day, but my spirits still lift at the sight of the sea, and I wind my window down so I can inhale the scent of the salty air.

“Why don’t you just lean out of the window with your tongue out?” Misha questions.

I laugh as we draw up outside the hotel. This proves to be a cream-painted four-storey Georgian building.

“It’ll be fine,” I say. He looks at me queryingly, and I elaborate. “The weekend.”

I’d have been better off saving the convincing for myself.

A half hour later, I stand at the window of my hotel room looking down at the view of the water and the pier.

Night is drawing in, and the lights of the pier glow in the dim light.

The distant sound of music can be heard even through the window.

I turn back to the room and sigh at the sight of the big bed.

It’s made up with expensive linens and looks lush and inviting.

Just right for a dirty weekend. However, the only thing I want to do is crawl under that heavy crinkly duvet, rest my head on the squishy pillows, and sleep for a week.

I think about what Harry’s reaction might be if I tell him that and sigh.

It wouldn’t be complimentary. He’s expecting this weekend to be a complete sex fest to make up for the fact that I haven’t wanted sex for weeks.

He actually told me that, and I’d laughed at him even while knowing he wasn’t joking.

I sigh. Great. Sex is now an obligation to be filed alongside paying the utility bills and getting my arse crack waxed.

It never used to be like this. I love sex.

I have since I lost my virginity at fifteen to my boyfriend at the time.

I love it gentle and soft and wild and raunchy.

I love it in all its forms and nothing makes me wilder.

But for the last month, I’d rather have had a cup of tea and an early night.

The thought of someone on top of me moaning and groaning just makes me feel weary.

Especially Harry. I’ve come to realise that we have nothing in common at all.

He likes expensive restaurants and seeing and being seen.

I prefer not having to dress up all the time, and I’d be happy in McDonalds if it was with the right person.

Harry is not that person. The only reason we’ve lasted these last few months is because I’ve been too knackered to have the row that will break us up.

The door opens, and Harry appears. He’s still dressed in his suit, and with his blond hair ruffled by the breeze, he looks as gorgeous as ever. His eyes immediately search the room, and when they land on me, he looks fed up.

“What on earth do you look like, Charlie?” he says disapprovingly.

“Sorry?” I ask, startled.

He looks me up and down. “You look awful.”

“I’m just tired,” I say coolly. “It happens to a lot of people.”

He shakes his head and dumps his bag on the bed. “How on earth can you be tired? You’re a librarian, not a heart surgeon. What could possibly make you tired? Overdue books?”

“Maybe it’s the worry of what danger befalls people who are criminally patronising,” I offer.

His brow furrows. “Sorry,” he says, crossing the room and drawing me into a hug. I stay stiff, and he kisses my hair. “It’s been a rough week for me, and I was looking forward to seeing you, but you look terrible. ”

There’s a faint accusatory tone in his voice. As if it’s totally my fault that I look bad and have managed to spoil his day.