Page 21 of Charlie Sunshine (Close Proximity #2)

“Could you live there?” The trepidation in his voice indicates he might believe I plan to run off and buy a house immediately.

I consider it. “Maybe when I’m a lot older, but not now.”

He nods and seems to relax. “What did you do?”

He already knows this, so I don’t know why he’s asking, but I oblige him. “Went for long walks along the beach, ate Phil’s dinners, slept for what felt like days, helped around the farm, and went to the hospital.”

His eyes sharpen, and now I know why he started with those questions. He was easing me into it. “And the hospital staff were happy with you?”

I smile at him. “Yes, I’ve already told you this.”

“I wanted to hear it face to face.” He’s worried I’ve been lying again to make him happy. I think it’s going to take a while for him to get over that.

“It seems that the reason for the increased turns was because of the change in tablets. Once I got back on the correct ones, it didn’t take long to stabilise. They think I could be seizure-free soon.”

“And you feel better in yourself?” His eyes are piercing, focussing on me with the intensity that makes him such a successful man.

Heat throbs in my groin again, and it takes me a moment to realise he’s waiting for an answer. I nod firmly. “I do. Just to get through a day without a turn was such a luxury. I didn’t realise how disassociated I felt, how tired and worn I was, until I had a whole day clear.”

“And it’s been just one turn this week?”

I grin at him. “Yep.”

He sits up. “We need to celebrate.”

I eye him suspiciously. “How? No trouble, Misha.”

He assumes his angelic expression. “I feel deeply wounded that I say we’ll celebrate and you leap to the erroneous conclusion that I’ll get you into trouble.”

“Well done with the big words,” I say wryly. “And my reasons are well-founded. Last time we celebrated we nearly got arrested.”

“Pfft,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “Not going to happen again. That was all Jesse’s fault anyway.” I open my mouth to continue the discussion, but he leans forward, happiness lighting his eyes. “But this is your celebration, so we can do it however you want.”

“ Any way I want?” I ask.

He narrows his eyes. “It worries me to say this, but yes. You have carte blanche, Charlie.” There must be evil in the smile I give him, because he sighs long-sufferingly.

“Okay, sunshine. Tell me what we’re doing.

” He shakes his head. “I somehow know that it’s sadly very worthy and cultural and will in no way result in us being arrested. ”

“Nope,” I say happily. “I want to go to the National Gallery.”

“I knew it,” he says sadly. “Ugh.”

“Want to back out?” I ask tauntingly.

He raises his chin. “Never. We’re celebrating, sunshine.”

“Then go and get dressed. We’re doing culture, baby.”

“This is not what I imagined,” he grumbles, getting off the bed and vanishing out the door. “Not. At. All,” he shouts over his shoulder, missing the look of happiness that must be written all over my face. God, I missed him. So much.

Trafalgar Square is as busy as it possibly can be even in the cold February weather.

Families stand around with their children as they jump about trying to look at the huge lion statues.

The fountains play, sending spumes of cold water into the air that make me shiver and pull my jacket closer from just looking at them.

Traffic mills around and the square is full of the sound of cars hooting and the occasional jangle of a cycle bell.

Voices talk loudly in many different languages.

I inhale, smelling petrol and the sweet blackberry scent of someone vaping nearby. “God, I love London.”

Misha shakes his head. He changed into jeans, a navy jumper, and his leather jacket before we came out, but he never shaved and there’s stubble on the sharp line of his jaw.

He looks warm and slightly rumpled, and I think I actually prefer him like this.

It’s as though he’s shed work, and now he’s all mine.

“Have you got some sort of martyr problem I wasn’t aware of?” he grumbles, keeping his hand on my arm as he manoeuvres around a group of tourists who are talking loudly and laughing.

“No, why?” I laugh, crouching to pick up a teddy bear that a child in a pushchair has dropped. I hand it to his mother, smiling at her thank-you, and we walk on.

“Because this place is so fucking crammed with tourists, it’s actually painful, Charlie. You’ve lived in London all your life, so you know better than to come somewhere like this on a fucking Saturday morning. It must be a bit of a change from Norfolk.”

“Norfolk was lovely, but it was a bit too quiet,” I say. “I like noise.”

“You’re like the anti-librarian. Don’t say that too loudly or you’ll lose your shushing and shelving qualifications.”

The National Gallery looms ahead, the iconic building instantly recognisable with its eight columns and the distinctive dome rising above them like bread in an oven. Red banners hanging from the columns snap in the cold wind as we descend the stairs and join the queue to get in.

I pinch his side. “Librarians do a lot more than shushing and shelving, and you very well know it.”

“I only know it because you bang on about it ad infinitum.”

“Mikhail Lebedinsky, have you swallowed a dictionary?”

He shoots me a wicked smile. “I suppose you’d consider that better than swallowing a cock?”

An old man gasps next to us, and I smile at him in mute apology before turning back to my best friend.

“Well, it’s definitely better if it improves your conversation level.

You’re like a caveman when we’re in a club.

I wouldn’t be surprised if you just threw your conquests over your shoulder and grunted at them. ”

“And yet still they fall,” he says in a singsong voice. He pulls me forward as the guide gestures. Removing his wallet, he smiles at her. “How much for two, please?”

“Oh, it’s free,” she says, her cheeks pinkening at the visible display of his charm.

Misha gapes at her. “ Free? ”

“Yes, sir.”

He turns to me, looking discombobulated.

I grin. “Art is free, Misha. Just as it should be.”

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” he says to the woman darkly. “He’s about to get on his soapbox. It’s too late for me, but you can still save yourself.”

She laughs, and I gesture him over to a clear Perspex box. “You leave a donation in here.”

“So, not free, then,” he says cynically. “Just forcibly voluntary.”

“Of course that would be your perception.” I shake my head as he forces a wad of notes into the box. “That’s far too much, Misha.”

“Not for someone who’s had to listen to so many of your weekly lectures on how our historical treasures and art should be free for the people. If two hundred quid stops that in its tracks, it’s cheap at half the price.”

“I take back the swallowing a dictionary remark,” I say as we walk up the stairs to the gallery. “You’re a Neanderthal with men and art.”

“I can’t remember the men. I haven’t had any since you’ve been gone,” he mutters.

“What?” I pull back and stop dead on the stairs, making a couple tut at me. “Are you telling me that you haven’t had a bloke for six weeks ?” I whisper.

He shrugs, looking abashed. “Just haven’t felt like it.”

I stare at him. “Has there been a lunar eclipse or some other sign that the world is about to end?”

He shoves me up the stairs. “No more chat, Charlie,” he says grimly. “Let’s do art.”

I snort and pull him into the first room.

The National Gallery is like a very elegant rabbit warren where you wander from room to room with the vague sense that you’re missing something.

But it’s a gilded rabbit warren with honey-coloured wooden floors and beautiful wallpaper in opulent jewel colours that make the rooms glow like they’re inside a music box.

“You love it here?” he asks, watching me intently.

“I do,” I say with a smile. “I love art. I love that it’s free. I love that today we’re sharing this space with so many different people whose only similarity is that they love it too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look around.” I grab his arm and turn him.

“That family over there is showing their children the pictures they love. Their kids will probably do the same one day for their own children. Then there’s the old couple sitting on that bench together looking at a picture that they’ve probably seen many times over the years.

And there are the students who sit on the floor and sketch the pictures.

This experience will be part of the story they’ll tell when they’re older and settled.

” I shrug. “Everyone’s different here, but they share the experience of art. It’s nice.”

He throws his arm over my shoulder. “Okay, show me,” he demands.

I swallow. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me that just the simple act of his arm over my shoulder is making me hot. He’s done it thousands of times since we were little and it never made me feel like my skin is too tight for my body.

“Show you what?” I croak.

“Show me all of it,” he says in a very doom-laden voice.

I move out from under his arm, clasping his hand to soften the gesture. “You really mean it, Misha?”

He sighs, but there’s a smile playing on his lips. “I really mean it.”

“Okay, but don’t say you weren’t warned,” I say, spinning and dragging him after me.

“Wait,” he says from behind me. “Nobody issued a warning . What do you need to warn me about?”

I wink at him. “Hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes. ”

“I want a cake after this,” he says darkly. “In fact, I want five cakes and a pint. No, I want ten cakes and at least seven pints.”

“I think you might be what some people call a snowflake.”

He laughs and follows me. Of course he does. We always follow each other. It’s understood and always abided by.