Page 30 of Charlie Sunshine (Close Proximity #2)

TWELVE

CHARLIE

“Oh, do you know each other?” Joan asks, smiling. “That’s good. It’s so awkward being the new boy in the group.”

“New boy?” I ask.

Misha appears to be deliberately avoiding my gaze and staring intently at Joan.

“He knocked on the door,” Joan says, “and we let him in. Hopefully, that was okay, Charlie. He knew the password.”

“What password? We haven’t got a password,” I say stupidly.

Misha stirs. “I think you should have one and it should be ‘Rude Runaway,’” he says succinctly, still not looking at me.

I swallow, all too aware that everyone else is staring at me. “Oh okay, that’s an interesting thought,” I say, my voice echoing loudly. “It’s fine that M-Misha is here.” I pause to gather myself. “Let’s grab drinks and food and discuss last week’s books.”

The next few minutes are spent making sure that everyone has everything they need.

But even as I serve the tea or pour wine, I’m conscious of Misha’s figure standing on the far side of the table.

He’s dressed in one of his costly suits—a navy Marc Jacobs with a subtle check.

He looks wealthy and successful and as far away from me as if he were on Mars.

I edge towards him as the others take their seats, talking amongst themselves. “What are you doing here?” I whisper.

“What do you mean?” He gestures at the array of books. “I’m attending my first ever book club. How happy that must make you.”

“You don’t like talking about books,” I say through gritted teeth. “You say it takes all the enjoyment out of reading.”

“What a silly boy I am,” he says mockingly, his eyes glittering. “Because this right here is very enjoyable, Charlie, and let’s face it, I could really do with a reason today to turn my frown the right way up.”

As I try to think up a response, I become aware that all eyes in the room are on us.

“Everything okay?” Rita says loudly. “Shall we get down to it?” An older lady, she’s small and bossy and a massive gossip.

She was very rude to Joan when she joined, and now they have an ongoing passive-aggressive feud where they compete over who is the most bookish person in the group.

It’s one of the reasons why none of the rest of the staff want to run this club.

As if on cue, Joan sniffs. “Always in such a hurry,” she says sweetly. “I’m sure Charlie knows what he’s doing, Rita. He is the head of the group, after all.”

“That makes me sound like I’m leading a group of militia,” I say nervously. I sneak a glance at Misha, automatically expecting his usual sardonic amusement—a wink or a smile. But his face is stony and distant. I swallow hard.

“Okay,” I say far too heartily. After sitting down, I grab a book with a very gloomy brown cover. “Let’s get started. I thought we’d discuss this one first. What did everyone think of it?”

Rita puffs up like a pigeon. “Well, I thought that the central theme of disassociation was very well done through the use of beautiful metaphors and?—”

“Tart, Misha?” Joan says, interrupting Rita’s flood of words as she offers a plate to Misha .

“It has certainly been said before, but how did you know?” Misha says, taking one.

Joan laughs loudly. Rita’s mouth moves for a few seconds, but no words are coming out.

“They’re so yummy,” Joan says. “Charlie makes beautiful cakes and biscuits.”

“He does indeed.” Misha shoots me an inscrutable glance.

“Oh, you’ve had them before?” she asks, startled.

“Oh yes, I’m very familiar with Charlie’s buns,” he says. “Very springy.”

There’s a stunned silence, and I laugh nervously. “Fnarr fnarr.” The group stares at me, and I turn determinedly to Rita. “Please go on, Rita.”

“Are you sure?” she says, a slight snap to the question.

I nod, and she inclines her head regally.

“Well, of course, Charlie. You are the boss, after all.” She smiles at the group and many of them shift awkwardly on their chairs.

Mr Pinter holds his Bakewell tart to his chest protectively as if she’s going to take it away from him at any second.

“Hmm, as I said, I thought that the central relationship was handled beautifully, but occasionally it seemed a bit overdone to me. Too much reliance on metaphors and a simplistic view of love.”

Misha shifts. “Yes, but what did you think of the main character’s reaction of flight when they slept together for the first time? Did you think it was wise? Or a bit of a gitty thing to do?”

There’s a stunned silence, and I blink and look down at the book. I can’t remember that, I think, opening the cover . Where did he… Oh !

I glare at Misha, who sits back happily and bites into his tart.

“Erm,” Rita says in a high, flustered voice, rifling through her own copy of the book. “Erm, I really can’t remember that bit. I think I must have skimmed over it.”

“Say it isn’t so,” Joan says happily, and Rita glares at her.

Joan turns to Misha, taking a massive swig of her wine.

“Please elaborate, Misha. I must say it’s very nice to have new blood in the group.

Groups can get so stale, don’t you think?

Rather like councils when one member has been in power for too long.

When everyone is just ripe for the sound of a new person’s voice. ”

I swallow hard, but Misha hasn’t the sense to seem even remotely scared at what looks very much like an attempted coup.

“I’d be delighted to,” he says smoothly.

“When the two main characters slept together, the hero buggered off before the other character woke up. I found it disturbing and bothersome, to tell you the truth. Entirely spoilt my enjoyment of the rest of the book.” He stares into space with a winsome look on his face.

“Who would do such a thing in real life?”

Wanker, I mouth at him, and he shrugs happily.

Old Mr Jessop helps himself to another biscuit and watches Rita’s frantic flicking through her book with every sign of enjoyment. “Didn’t read it myself,” he says cheerfully. “Far too many pages. I read in bed,” he confides. “This sort of book hurts my wrist when I’m holding it up.”

“How delightful,” Rita mutters. “Perhaps Charlie should weigh the books before he makes his selections.”

“Far too many words ,” Mr Jessop says loudly. “Seems like even you didn’t have a chance to read them all this time, Rita.”

“Oh,” I say quickly as Rita flushes bright red with temper.

“Shall we move on to another book?” I pick up one of the books randomly from my pile.

“I found this enjoyable,” I say in a determined voice.

“The two women at the centre of the story were lively characters, and the mystery was very engaging. Did anyone else read it?”

A few people nod, including Rita, who looks rejuvenated at the change in book. “Oh yes,” she says loudly. “Of course, I guessed the mystery straight away.”

“Of course you did,” Joan mutters, taking another long drink and draining her glass. She waves it at me for another refill. Unfortunately, she gets drunk easily and, if she’s drunk, she’s quite verbal with Rita. I look at her dubiously before giving in and pouring more wine.

“Yes, I find that if you study human behaviour as much as I do that there are no surprises in life,” Rita says loudly. “The characters’ behaviour was very predictable, but engaging nonetheless.”

“Really?” Misha says, cutting through her speech like a great white shark through water when it’s spotted a seal.

“Oh God,” I mutter.

“Did you say something, Charlie?” Joan asks .

“I was just going to say ‘Oh God, I hope we don’t run out of wine,’” My voice sounds slightly desperate. “You know, because of all the… wine.”

“Did you have something to say, Misha?” Joan asks, her voice slurring slightly. “I must say I like the sound of your voice. It’s very deep.”

“Thank you,” he says, smiling at her with all of his considerable charm.

“I was just going to say that sometimes characters surprise us. I mean, take these two. Friends for so many years and then as soon as there’s a change in circumstance one of them can’t handle it and runs off quicker than a greyhound after a rabbit. ”

“Like what?” Rita asks. “ What change of circumstance?” She takes a large glug of her wine and starts to leaf through the book.

“Can’t you remember that bit?” Joan asks.

“I must have missed that part,” she says through gritted teeth, her cheeks flushing. “You know, because?—”

“Of all the skimming, yes,” Joan says sympathetically. “It must be a problem having your fingers in so many pies without people asking you to stick your digits in there in the first place.”

“I beg your pardon,” Rita says loudly.

Joan takes another swig of her wine and waves her hand regally. “Granted.”

Rita stares at her. “No, I meant–”

“Okay,” I break in loudly. “Getting back to the book. Did anyone else find the mystery easy to solve? I thought that the methods of murder were fascinating and possibly an allegory of the way that society?—”

“I liked the bit where the librarian was a complete wanker,” Misha says with a great deal of relish in his voice.

“Where is that? ” Rita cries, turning the pages so forcefully that a couple of them rip. “I can’t remember a librarian.”

“I think Misha might be getting his books mixed up,” I say quickly, shooting him a glare. “There’s none of that behaviour in this book.”

“I might have done,” he says casually. “But it’s common behaviour amongst characters with very shallow personalities.”

“I beg your pardon ,” I say, glaring at him.

“It isn’t a common occurrence at all.” The group stares at me with their mouths open.

“I mean to say that sometimes people make mistakes that they shouldn’t have,” I say quickly.

“But then other characters don’t pick up their phones so they can apologise for their behaviour. ”

“This was in the Middle Ages,” Rita says. Her hair is wild-looking from running her hands through it. “There were no phones.”

“It’s a metaphor,” I say .