Page 2 of Charlie Sunshine (Close Proximity #2)

“I don’t know,” he says evenly. “If your extrasensory perception isn’t working properly, I’d suggest you open it to find out.”

“So snarky,” I marvel and flick the lid open only to go still. “ Misha, ” I sigh.

“You can’t wear that old bracelet anymore. You’ve lost it three times this week alone.”

“This looks so fucking expensive though,” I lament, touching the bracelet gently where it lies inside its velvet-lined box. The bracelet is made of woven black cords that feel incredibly strong, and it’s got a laidback hippie feel to it that Misha had known very well I would love.

“Never mind the cost,” he says immediately. “Do you like the colour? I can take it back if you don’t.”

“It’s lovely,” I say softly. I touch the lone bead on it. It’s made of platinum and carved upon it in beautiful script is the word epileptic and the ‘snake and staff’ medical symbol. “I just wish …”

He pulls me to him in a tight hug. I breathe in his bergamot-scented aftershave and feel some of my tension evaporate.

“I know,” he says fiercely. “Not any more than me, but it is as it is, and it certainly doesn’t help you if you aren’t wearing something that tells people you’re epileptic.”

“I know.” I sigh and pull back. “Okay, put it on me. The world’s most expensive medical-alert bracelet.”

He fastens the cord around me, fussing with its placement on my wrist. I look at his long eyelashes and the tanned angular face that’s so intent on me.

To the rest of the world, Misha shows an arrogant self-confidence and a sardonic sense of humour.

The people he lets into his inner circle know him for a loyal and brilliant friend, and he’s been wonderful with my epilepsy.

I didn’t grow up with it. I rarely even got a headache until I was twenty-four.

Then, three years ago, I took the stairs at my flat too quickly.

I missed a step and fell down two flights, and everything changed.

I fractured my skull, and although I recovered, I had something new to deal with. Epilepsy.

At first, I struggled with the diagnosis, but then I rallied and applied myself to the condition the way I’ve done with everything in my life.

I’m an optimistic person—my glass is always two-thirds full.

Misha once described me as relentlessly cheerful.

Therefore, I read everything I could about the condition.

I cut out drinking and smoking. I started to walk everywhere and stopped swimming, which I’d lost my love affair with when I realised I could actually drown.

I’d spent most of my early twenties in clubs, but I stopped going because late nights and little sleep are triggers too.

My new lifestyle and finding the right mix of medication gradually began to work, and the turns eased off until they were non-existent.

I felt happy, good about my chances for conquering the worst of my condition.

I was coming up to a full year without a turn, which meant I could drive again rather than walking or busing everywhere.

Then one day, eight months ago, I had a turn in a supermarket.

Over the next several months, I began having more and more, and now I’m having one or two a day again.

I push that worry away and smile at my best friend. “Thank you for bringing the bracelet,” I say softly. “I know that’s the real reason you jettisoned work, and you shouldn’t have.”

He grins. His teeth are white and even, and his smile contains its usual sardonic edge. “For you, anything,” he says and nudges me. “Can’t have any harm come to my flatmate.”

“Yes, who would pay the mortgage?” I say lightly. “You’d really struggle if my massive wages petered out.”

“You council employees. Always earning the big bucks.”

“The only exposure we’d have to big bucks is if a male deer ran through the fucking building.”

Misha laughs, and I hug him tight.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I say.

He nods. “I’ll pick you up outside.”

“That’s out of your way, Misha,” I immediately protest.

He shrugs. “You’re here. Therefore, it’s in my way.”

Later on, I set the alarm and pull the back door of the library closed, locking it and testing it like normal.

I can feel tiredness dragging my body down, and it’s compounded by the headache pulsing at the back of my skull.

I had a turn this afternoon, and I must have hit my shoulder on something as I went down, because the area feels tender and sore.

From the beginning, I insisted that my seizures be called turns because the word “seizure” sounded horribly medical to me. Misha says “turn” makes me sound like I’m auditioning for a role in Cabaret , but I still persist.

The car park is dark apart from the thin light that emanates from the security lamp over the door. Hearing footsteps, I spin round and then immediately relax when I see Misha coming towards me.

“Are you on your own?” he demands.

“Why, Mister Lebedinsky,” I say in dulcet tones, fluttering my eyelashes. “Were you lying in wait to launch an attack on my virtue?”

“I’m about twelve years and ten miles away from a crack at that.” I laugh, and he shakes his head. “Why is it so fucking dark around here, Charlie?”

“Because night has fallen.” He stares beadily at me. “And the owner of the car park hasn’t replaced the bulb in the security light.”

“Have you told him that he needs to?”

“No, Misha,” I say sarcastically. “I thought I’d leave it to him. Maybe if I send enough good thoughts over to Malaga, he’ll realise and come straight home.”

“I’m absolutely positive that librarians shouldn’t be this snarky. Is there anyone in the building I can get to google it?”

I shove him. “We don’t google ,” I say in a scandalised tone. “We utilise the skills that our very intensive library research course has taught us.”

“And then what?”

I slump. “We google. ”

He laughs and holds out his hand for the cloth bag I’m carrying. I shake my head and hand it over, watching with satisfaction as he nearly drops it. “Fucking hell, have you got bricks in here?”

“Why would I be carrying bricks?” I ask, picking up my rucksack and moving over to the neatly parked and very expensive-looking silver Mercedes.

“I don’t know. Who the fuck knows what librarians get up to?”

“We are a very cosmopolitan crew,” I acknowledge.

“After picking you up from the staff Christmas do last year, I’m not entirely sure that cosmopolitan is the right word. Debauched would be nearer the mark.”

“I told Bethany not to get Sue that extra Baileys,” I say gloomily. “Can we not talk about it? I’m getting flashbacks.”

He fiddles with my bag and grins at me. “ More books? Do you, or do you not have a very nice iPad with all your books loaded on it?”

“I know.” I sigh, climbing into the front seat after he clicks the locks and setting my rucksack at my feet.

“I just can’t resist a new box of books.

” He slides into the driver’s seat after depositing my cloth book bag in the back, and I grin at him.

“It’s a bit like you resisting the last twink in a club at kicking-out time. ”

“Well, why didn’t you say that?” he drawls. “ Now I understand.”

Misha starts the engine and pulls off, and I sink back into the leather seat and inhale the scent of expensive car. “This is lovely,” I say softly. “So much better than the Tube.”

Pulling out onto the main road and immediately joining the traffic, he shoots me a quick look. “Say the word, and I’ll pick you up every night.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m perfectly capable of getting on the Tube and walking. The exercise is good for me.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s doing you much good at the moment.” I open my mouth and he holds one hand up. “I know, I know. But you don’t look well, Charlie. I don’t like the idea of you on the Tube in case you have a turn.”

“Well, now I have a nice new bracelet, so people won’t think I’m pissed up anymore,” I say lightly. “Anyway, thanks to my swanky new lodgings, I’ve only got to get a bus. It’s cut a huge part of my commute down.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t make an appointment for a review?” he asks cautiously. “You might need your meds changing?”

“I don’t,” I state. “Seizures happen. A lot of people with epilepsy still have them even once their AEDs are sorted.” I’m relieved that I deliver these facts in my usual optimistic tone. He still looks as if he might argue, so I say, “Drop it,” quietly.

And even though he does it reluctantly, he still does as I ask. I knew he would. I was banking on it.

It doesn’t seem possible, but my old flat looks even more seedy when there’s nothing in it.

I gather my stuff into a pile and we take turns carting it down to the car.

Misha attempts to take some of it off me on the stairs but subsides when I shoot him a quelling glance.

It takes half an hour, but finally, we’re done, and we stand in the living room.

I sigh. “Jesse, Eli, and I had such good times here.”

He looks around disapprovingly at the peeling paper and stained carpet. “I’m surprised none of them included you getting an emergency tetanus.”

I repress a smile at the sight of him in this scruffy room in his Hugo Boss suit. He looks like a peacock that’s been stuffed in a budgie cage. “Don’t be snobby,” I scold. “We can’t all live in a posh flat by the Thames with wall-to-wall shagpile and twinks.”

“ Shagpile? Have I somehow transformed into a gay version of Hugh Hefner?”

“I’m sure you’ve got a velvet smoking jacket hidden somewhere in your flat,” I muse. “I bet you wear it at night and plot world domination while you’re stroking a pussy.”

“I have never stroked a pussy in my life, and I don’t intend to start anytime soon.

” I laugh, and he shakes his head. “I could never plan world domination in here anyway. I’d be too afraid of the roof collapsing on me.

” He edges closer to one of the walls. “What the hell is that?” he says, pointing at a large, strangely shaped stain.

I sigh happily. “I used to think it looked exactly like Mr Daydream from the Mr Men books.”

He stares at me in abject disapproval. “I cannot understand you sounding so nostalgic about this dump.” He examines the wall and the stain more closely.

“It looks more like Mr Rising Damp and ooh look, over there is his friend Mr Subsidence.” He eyes me beadily.

“And you paid rent for this place, the three of you? Or am I imagining that and the landlord actually paid you to live here?”

I snort. “We were very happy here.”

Misha smiles. “We did have some good times, didn’t we? Do you remember when you lost that bet and had to run down the corridors in your underwear singing Barry Manilow’s ‘I Can’t Smile Without You’?”

I shake my head. “How embarrassing.”

He smirks. “Not for you. You knew all the words. And you threw in all those lovely high kicks and jazz hands for free.” I scowl at him, and he flings his arm over my shoulder and drags me closer. “You feeling melancholy?”

I shrug. “A bit. It feels like the end of an era.”

“It is, sweets. You and Jesse and Eli moved in here straight from university.” He pauses. “And proceeded to recreate being teenagers for another six years after that.”

“Better than recreating the fall of the Roman Empire like you bankers do in the West End on a Friday night.”

Misha laughs. “Point taken.” He kisses the top of my head briskly. “You ready?”

I look around the flat one last time, taking it all in so I can remember it.

We did have good times, and now Jesse and Eli are settled with their men, and they’re happy.

And me? I swallow. My life seems to be getting more complicated rather than less.

I realise that I’m running my fingers over the epileptic bracelet and that he’s watching me with a concerned look on his face.

I immediately plaster a smile on my own.

“Ready? Let’s go and get moved into that Shad Thames shithole.”

He shakes his head and lets me tug him out of the flat.