Page 29 of Charlie Sunshine (Close Proximity #2)

I shake my head, biting my lip. “I snuck out,” I say, words coming out in a rush. “Like a ninja. I was just flummoxed. I spent all night worrying about what we’d done. By the time morning came I didn’t know what to say to him.”

“So, you just got up and left him in bed and walked out without even saying good morning or making him a drink or giving him a celebratory blowjob?” I shake my head slowly, and she glares at me. “Oh, Charlie, that’s absolutely terrible. It’s not like you.”

I groan. “I know . I’m not that person at all. I always try really hard with a bloke when we’re dating. They don’t need to know about problems and shit.”

“Maybe that’s your problem.”

“What?”

“Well, you shouldn’t have to try so hard to be so happy and lovely for a bloke. No one is like that all the time, and anyone who expects it is just on a fast track to a relationship with his right hand.”

“But I should have been better for Misha, of all people,” I say in an agonised whisper. “I just started thinking about him waking up and maybe hating what we’d done, and then I fucking freaked out, and boom!” I clap. “Before I knew what I was doing, I was outside the flat and in a taxi.”

“And has he messaged you yet?”

“I haven’t dared to look,” I say, shamefaced.

She grimaces and gestures with her hand. “Hand it over.”

I reach in my pocket and place my phone in her palm and watch anxiously as she swipes the screen. “Has he left any messages? Oh shit, does he sound hurt?”

She shakes her head slowly. “There’s nothing.”

“Oh.” There’s a long pause. “Oh, well, maybe that’s good.” I can hear the shock in my voice because I thought he’d have blown up my phone by now. Misha doesn’t do silence in any area of his life. He’s forthright and honest.

“Will he be awake yet?” she asks.

I check my watch quickly and slump. “Yes, definitely at this time. He’ll be at work.” I hesitate. “And he hasn’t left any messages?” She nods slowly, her expression both cross and sympathetic. “Oh well, maybe that’s good, then,” I say faintly. “No harsh words.”

And it is good that he isn’t shouting at me, but that doesn’t explain why I suddenly want to talk to him so desperately that my skin itches.

Not when I had every chance to do that before I crept out like a nasty twat this morning.

I think of my last sight of him lying tangled in the white sheets of my bed, his olive skin glowing in the morning sunshine, his face soft in sleep.

Bethany’s silence speaks a thousand sorrowful words.

I keep talking. “I mean, we’re obviously on the same page regarding the fact that we made a silly move last night.

We’re probably going to totally avoid mentioning it ever again and eventually we’ll go back to normal and be friends.

It’s good that we’ll do it like that. Less chance of us hating each other. ”

My voice trails off. Bethany tilts her head as she observes me, looking as though she’s composing a eulogy for my sanity.

I clap. “Let’s get to work,” I say loudly and grab the phone from her, slipping it into my pocket. “I won’t check it again,” I say robustly.

She nods, both of us knowing that I will be checking my phone every five minutes like an overgrown schoolboy.

I do check it again. I check it so many times that Bethany finally removes it from my hand during our afternoon break.

“Wait,” I say crossly as she pops it in her pocket. “I need that.”

“What for? As an accessory for the outfit of sad sack you appear to be wearing today?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

She shakes her head as she gets up to switch on the kettle. “Has he contacted you?” she asks, turning back to me.

I twirl a piece of my hair around one finger. “No,” I say softly. “I’ve fucked up this time big style, Bethany.”

She steps closer and strokes her hand over my hair. “Yes, you have,” she says simply. I look up in protest, and she raises one eyebrow. “You’ve fucked up massively. It’s not okay to leave a one-night stand without saying goodbye, let alone your best friend of twenty years.”

I scrub my hand down my face. “I know,” I say, my voice muffled. “I don’t know what I was thinking. It was such a shitty thing to do.”

“I think possibly the problem might be that you’re in some strange sort of no-man’s-land in this relationship. It’s a huge change.”

“Massive.” I take the tea she hands me. “I’m not sure I was thinking straight this morning.”

“After seeing the two of you on the dance floor last night, I’d say there was nothing straight about your thinking.”

“What should I do, Bethany?”

“Have you messaged him?”

“About thirty times,” I admit. “I deleted all of them apart from one.”

“And what did that say?”

“We need to talk.”

“Well, I’m glad you kept the wordy one.”

I snort. “Stop taking the piss and tell me how to make this right.”

“Well, that depends on what you want, Charlie.” She smiles kindly. “Do you want to go back to the norm and just be friends, or do you want more? ”

I stare unseeingly ahead, considering her words.

I remember how Misha curled around me last night, his head on my shoulder, his scent all over me.

I think of the intense warmth and comfort I’d felt.

The sex had been the best ever, accompanied by a deep sense of rightness, as if everything in my life had suddenly clicked into place.

“I think I want more,” I finally say.

“So why the hesitation if it was so good?”

“Because this is Misha. Carefree man-whore Misha who avoids commitment like it’s the Black Death. The person who’s always been just my best friend. It’s like he’s been wearing a mask for years, and he took it off last night, and it’s bloody freaking me out.”

“But you still want more?” She smiles when I nod. “Good. I’m glad. You two go together like sausages and gravy.”

I grimace. “I can think of more romantic pairings.”

“Yes, but do they fuck off and leave their bed partners alone without a word?” she says sweetly. I glare at her, and she claps. “When it’s right, it’s right.”

“You should write the messages in greeting cards.”

“It would certainly pay more than library work. I’ve got one. How about ‘Oh, Misha, you make sweet music in my soul, but beware because I’ll cut up your heart and keep it in a bowl.’”

“A bit too graphic for Hallmark, and why would I put a bodily organ in a bowl? It’s not sanitary at all,” I sniff.

She sits back and regards me steadily. “You need to tell him all this. Tell him that you freaked out. He’s in the same position as you. I bet he did his own freaking out.”

“Really?” Misha always seems so cool with everything. I gesture to my phone, suddenly and overwhelmingly desperate to hear his voice. “Give me my phone.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to talk to him now. What if I’ve hurt him?” I pause. “Oh my God, Bethany, what if it was a mistake for him and he’s avoiding me? Now, when I’ve realised that I want more? He’s probably out at a club right now fucking someone to get the taste of me out of his mouth.”

“I think that might be information overload.” I glare at her, and she smiles.

“It’s also only four in the afternoon, Charlie.

He’s not that debauched despite giving it a good try over the years.

He’s still at work where apparently he has pissed everyone off by being a completely surly dickhead for the entire day. ”

“How do you know?” I stare at her. “Rupert?” She nods. “What else did he say?” I lean forwards so quickly I nearly fall out of my chair.

“Not much more than that. Although apparently Misha has shouted more today than someone trying to get off the Titanic.”

“Oh, dear, that doesn’t sound good.” I gesture for my phone. “I need to talk to him.” I hesitate. “Unless I take off and meet him outside work.”

“You can’t. You’ve got book club tonight.”

I slump. “Fucking book club.” It meets after the library closes and the attendees typically linger over wine and cheese. I won’t be finished before nine tonight.

“I’d agree with that assessment. You must have the patience of a saint with that little lot.” I eye her. She raises her hands. “Oh, no. No fucking way.”

“Please, Bethany. You’re my bes t friend.”

“I hope not. You seem to be screwing those at the moment.”

“Just the one,” I say indignantly. “I’m not working my way through the whole group. Please, ” I say imploringly. “You could do it. Everything’s ready. You’ll only need the alcohol to get it going, and I baked as well,” I add as an incentive.

She looks regretful. “Charlie, I would. You know that. But I can’t.” She hesitates. “I’ve got a date.”

“A date?” I say, staring at her. “Who with?” She wiggles uncomfortably, and I gasp. “Oh my God, it’s Rupert, isn’t it?” She nods. “Yes!” I cry. “That’s perfect.” I tilt my head. “But what changed your mind? You’ve always said a very definite no.”

She pleats the hem of her short plaid skirt with nervous-looking fingers. “I don’t know,” she finally says. “He’s not my normal type at all.”

“He’s not a wanker, you mean?”

“That’s the type I know best. I’m comfortable with them because there aren’t any false expectations. What am I going to do with someone who keeps his word and treats me nicely?”

“That bastard,” I breathe.

“I also don’t know what he sees in me,” she whispers. “I mean, he’s from a wealthy family. He’s clever and kind. What would he want with a sharp-tongued witch like me?”

“What?” I snap. “For a second I think you implied that he was better than you which can’t be true, because you might be a witch, Bethany Harrison, but you’re brilliant with it. You’re funny and sharp and clever and kind and beautiful. You’re the catch here. Not him.”

She flushes and nudges me. “Thank you, Charlie.” She looks undecided. “Maybe I should cancel,” she says. “Postpone the date. I could do your book club.”

“No way,” I say at once. She opens her mouth to argue, and I shake my head. “You’re going on that date. I want that for you. I’ll be fine with book club. I’ll just have to talk to Misha afterwards when I get home.”

If he’s there , I think morosely. And hasn’t fucked off for a shag with someone much less complicated than me.

The rest of the afternoon passes at the speed of treacle coming out of a tin. Finally, it’s time to close the library and get the book club meeting started.

After locking the main doors, I greet the group waiting for me on the soft furnishings in the reading room. We’re smaller in numbers tonight—it appears to be mainly my older people who have shown up.

“I’m just going to get the trolley with the drinks and food,” I say. “Joan, can you put out the books for next week on the table? You can have a look at them and start thinking about what you want to add.” One member a week gets to pick a wildcard book for the week to go with the books I select.

Joan smiles and starts to do as I ask. She’s a pretty middle-aged lady whose husband left her last year for another woman. One of her attempts to restart her life has been the book club, which pleases me because she’s a lively and funny member.

I find the trolley and put the kettle on so I can fill the urn.

While I wait, I fish out my phone. My finger is shaking slightly as I swipe across the screen.

I slump against the wall and groan. Misha still hasn’t replied, and it’s gone seven at night.

There’s no way he’s still at work. He’s either in denial over what happened, or he’s really angry with me for my disappearing trick this morning—anger he has every right to feel.

The kettle clicks off, and I push my phone into my pocket. I can’t think about this now. I’ve got book club to get through.

I push the trolley through the darkened library, the wheels loud in the hushed spaces. The reading room lights shine on the group as if they’re on the stage. Everyone is clustered around the table, talking loudly.

“I made Bakewell tarts,” I say cheerfully, but my words falter as the group parts, and I see who’s at the centre. “Misha,” I gasp.