Page 7 of Charlie Sunshine (Close Proximity #2)

THREE

CHARLIE

On Monday night, I watch Misha as he parks the car in a small space outside his mum’s house.

He’s so competent at everything that he puts his mind to.

I would have gone back and forth a few hundred times, cranked the wheel until I had muscles like Popeye, and then moved on to a different spot.

Misha just pulls up, reverses, and with one smooth turn of the wheel he’s in.

Everything he does is charged with the certainty that he’s going to succeed.

It’s an air that he’s always carried with him and totally explains why he’s a hedge fund manager at a relatively young age.

When we’ve parked to his satisfaction, we get out of the car, and I lift my face to the breeze, feeling the sting of rain. I look around the street on which I grew up.

Muswell Hill is a wealthy neighbourhood in North London. I love the place because it still feels a bit like a village with tree-lined streets and good local schools, but it’s a village where you practically need a mortgage to use the local shops and cafes.

We moved here when my mum was pregnant with me, and my dad inherited a house from an aunt.

He and Aidan still live in the house which is just a few steps away.

It’s an Edwardian semi with the original bay windows, and I know if I step into the hall, I’ll find a Minton tiled floor still scuffed with the marks made by my bicycle when I was a kid.

The windows are dark tonight. I presume my dad is at still at the university where he’s a professor, and Aidan must be working a shift at the hospital where he manages a casualty ward.

Misha comes to stand next to me and looks at his own family home, which is a mirror image of mine.

He sighs, and there’s something weary in the sound.

He’s always like this when a family meeting is called.

Probably because he feels a lot of responsibility for his mum and the girls since his dad died.

I rub his arm, feeling how tight the muscles are.

“You okay?” I ask, concerned.

He scrubs his hand down his face. “Just mentally preparing myself for what’s coming.”

“They’re teenage girls,” I say consolingly. “How bad could it be?”

He looks at me incredulously. “I’m sorry, have you met them? The trouble could be anything on a scale between staging a sit-in outside the council buildings or robbing a mail train.”

“When did they become cowboys? Surely I should have been told about these developments?”

He snorts and shakes his head. Then he bounces on his toes for a few seconds, shaking out his arms like a boxer readying himself for a fight.

It looks rather odd in a man wearing a three-piece suit.

He finishes and nods. “Okay, I’m ready.” I go to walk towards his front door and he grabs my arm.

“Wait,” he says. I look at him enquiringly. “Have you got any alcohol on you?”

I start to laugh. “No, of course I haven’t. Because I’m a librarian and not Colin Farrell.”

“More’s the pity.”

I step up to the door and ring the bell. “It’s your family, Misha. What could possibly be that bad?”

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” he says darkly as we hear the sound of light footsteps and the click of the lock before the door pulls open .

MISHA

The door opens, and my sister Theodosia appears.

Even though she and Anya are identical twins, I know instantly that it’s Teddy, as she likes to be known.

She has a little mole over her left eyebrow and did the world a great favour last year by chopping her black hair off into a sharp bob so she and Anya can be distinguished.

Also, her expression is usually much nicer than Anya’s, who has a rather jaundiced opinion on everything that it’s possible to have an opinion about.

“Charlie,” Teddy exclaims delightedly, grabbing his hand and hauling him over the doorstep. “I need you now.”

“Oh no, is it a book emergency?” I ask dryly. She and Charlie are complete bookworms and can talk books for hours. I know this because they have actually done that many times. “Has Amazon stock gone into freefall because neither of you have bought anything for at least thirty minutes?”

She shoots me a look. “Don’t be silly. No, there’s a mole in my shoe.”

I blink. “What?”

“There is a mole in my shoe,” she says again, speaking very slowly as if I’m thick.

“Why on earth has a living creature taken up residence in your footwear? Does it have a death wish?”

She shakes her head crossly. “Misha, I know you’re taking the mickey out of me.”

“How?”

“Because of your tone of voice. It’s very flippant.”

Charlie laughs and then does an about turn as she drags him down the hall towards the kitchen.

I follow at a slower pace, noticing idly how fantastic his arse is in his grey trousers.

I reassured myself years ago that it’s acceptable to notice these details about Charlie as long as I didn’t compound the error by fucking my best friend who means the world to me and who has a more hopeful view of marriage than Liam Hemsworth.

I walk into the kitchen, and, as ever, it’s light and warm. The cupboards are a bit scruffy and the tiles need replacing, but it’s cosy and the big scuffed table brings back so many memories of family meals and doing homework on its worn surface.

My mum turns from the cooker where she’s stirring a big pot. I inhale greedily. The thick and spicy soup is my favourite, and my dad taught her how to make it.

“That smells good,” I say, and she grins and angles her face so I can kiss her. I press my lips to the softness of her cheek, inhaling the scent of Miss Dior perfume and feeling her dark hair brush against my face.

“It should taste good,” she murmurs. “I’ve had a great deal of practice cooking it.”

“Where’s the rogue mole?” I ask.

She nods her head towards the conservatory. “In there. Ted left her gardening shoes by the door and left the door open. Poor little thing must have crawled in.”

“Charlie can sort that one out.”

“Yes, bless him. He’s so patient.”

I laugh. “Is that a subtle dig?”

She grins, her thin face alight with warmth. “Nothing subtle about it, darling. You’re about as patient as Gordon Ramsay. Unfortunately, you don’t have his cooking abilities.”

I head over to the kettle and switch it on. “Want one?” I ask.

She nods. “Are you thirsty, sweetie?”

“Not for tea,” I say grimly. “However, if it was whisky inside the kettle I’d get to it quicker than Usain Bolt. It’s just that Charlie will need a cup after dealing with the mole.”

“That boy and his tea.”

She’s not joking. When we moved his stuff the other night, he had a whole bloody box of different teas. One for every mood that a human being could possibly have. I’d put them in my boot next to his box of herbal remedies that he swears by.

Charlie is his mother’s son, with his insistence on everything being natural and organic.

I hope he doesn’t start practicing with that herbal shit on me.

I’m a plain old paracetamol bloke. Unless my leg falls off, in which case I’ll go to the hospital rather than take oil-of-fucking-depressed-sea-anemone or whatever he’s got in that box.

I busy myself making tea and, when it’s done, set it on the table, gesturing to my mum to join me.

There’s the sound of footsteps and my mum’s boyfriend Jim appears.

She’s been seeing him for a couple of years and he moved in last month.

It still feels strange to see him here in a spot that used to belong to my father, but I’m getting accustomed to it.

It helps that the girls adore him, and he’s wonderful to my mum.

My dad died when I was fourteen and the girls were two. It was a huge shock. One day he was here full of life and loudness, with his penchant for proclaiming Russian poetry at the top of his voice, and the next day he was gone. Dead from a brain haemorrhage at the age of forty-two.

There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by since that I haven’t missed him as a parent and a friend, but also as the head of our family.

I had to grow up very quickly once he was gone and step up to help my mum.

For the first couple of months, she was a wreck, and I honestly think if it hadn’t been for Charlie’s family, we’d have gone under.

The teachers at my school were making noises about my clothes being dirty and the lack of parental supervision.

But Charlie’s family kept us together. His dad and Aidan did all the cooking, and his mum did our washing and babysat the girls.

It was probably a blessing that they divided the labour up that way, because Charlie’s mum could burn water.

It took a while, but steadily and bit by bit, my mum came out of her cocoon of grief and emerged back into the world.

Battered and grim for a while but still here for us.

However, I learnt a painful lesson in that I had to be responsible for my mum and the girls.

It’s what my dad would have wanted. And although I love them and would cheerfully die for them, there have been times that I’ve wanted to murder all of them if only to get a second’s peace in the bathroom.

Jim smiles at me. He’s a thin, quiet man, but he has a surprisingly droll sense of humour and a warmth about him that even I can sense.

He’s also calmer than a puddle which has got to come in handy living here.

I wish I’d managed it, but we’re all a little temperamental, so tranquillity was impossible.

“Alright, Misha?” he asks.

I nod, smiling. “Fine, thanks. Just mentally preparing myself for the family meeting. ”

He shakes his head. “I’d have a scotch, lad. It’ll help.”

“Oh God,” I say faintly.

My mum stirs as Jim puts on his coat. “Are you going out? I thought you were staying for the meeting?”

He makes an apologetic gesture. “Work called. Someone rang in sick, so I’ve got to go in.” Jim works at Heathrow Airport as a customs officer.

“Hope you’re not filling in for a pilot,” I say.