This Thing With Charlie Read online

  “You’re our only guest tonight. Business is slow this time of year when you haven’t got a proper bar or restaurant. Nobody wants to have their Christmas party here. The rooms are fully booked over Christmas, but that’s just because we put on this dirt-cheap deal. That’s about it. A few people arriving for weekend breaks, and then the shit hits the fan on the 23rd. Easy.”

  I was quite sure he wasn’t supposed to share the hotel’s future bookings or financial gripes with me, but I smiled and sipped my beer, complimenting him on his choice of ale and hoping he would just go away. He didn’t. Just kept chatting about nothing and everything, making me smile as he got up and poured himself a glass of coke from the tap.

  “Might as well dose myself up on caffeine,” he laughed. “Need to stay here until eleven, and then I am going to collapse in my bed for a few hours before my next shift.”

  “You working tomorrow morning? Here?” I questioned stupidly as he smiled.

  “Nah, I work mornings somewhere else. Then I go home, sleep for a few hours and come back to do the evening shift here. Then it all starts again. I study part-time, too, so it works well. I can get most of my work done here because it’s so damn quiet.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said, waving my hand around. “You need to study.”

  “I’d rather talk to you.” He smiled.

  He smiled a lot, this Charlie. I learned that over the evening that followed, where he told me about philosophy and the degree he was working on.

  I told him he should be a teacher.

  He told me to go fuck myself.

  I laughed out loud at his descriptions of life in Ancient Greece, and he asked me questions about the weirdest illnesses I had ever encountered.

  I told him as well, spilling embarrassing stories of people with household items in crevices where no household items should ever go. I told him stories of life and death, of sickness and pain. I told him of the time a woman gave birth in the hallway outside my office, and the time someone died on my desk. I also boasted that someone named their child after me because I was, apparently, the nicest doctor they had ever met.

  “You are nice,” Charlie said, pouring me a cup of hot water from the posh-looking machine behind us. He cut up a lemon and sucked the juice from his finger before putting a slice in the cup, alongside a ginger teabag. “Even if you are a doctor.”

  It’s what I had asked for when he offered, and I jokingly scolded him for serving me his germs on the lemon—since I was a doctor and all that.

  He laughed and said he could have served me much worse.

  I blushed and didn’t know why. Instead, I grabbed my cup of germs and bade him goodnight.

  I lay in my bed an hour later, my head still unable to settle down. For the first time in weeks, after only a few hours of talking about nothing with a man who had made me smile, I felt a little human again. I drained the last of my ginger tea and curled up under the sheets with a sigh.

  I went to sleep and woke up the next morning. I threw a tie around my crisp, ironed shirt and combed the hair on my head. I walked through the town that I would have to somehow make my peace with and nodded at the line of people outside as I entered the rundown Health Centre that was now my place of work.

  If I doubted myself before, I definitely doubted myself now as I got stuck with patients whose accents I barely understood and children with snotty noses who would no doubt make me ill before the end of the week.

  I realised that nothing had changed, and nothing ever would. Little did I know that life as I knew it was truly over.

  This thing with Charlie strangely became the highlight of the following week. I would stumble into the hotel lobby, exhausted from humans I barely remembered, from colleagues with questioning faces and curious smiles. Then there were the terrifying ladies who manned the clinic reception desk. The two of them made me feel about five years old every time they stared at me, dressing me down with passive-aggressive comments and fake-looking smiles. That wasn’t anything new; every health centre I had ever worked at had their own scary reception staff, burly stern people who ruled the local community with an iron fist.

  In Chistleworth, the health centre was held hostage by Mrs Hallet and Mrs Pasankar. Both of them frightened me with their good cop, bad cop management of the appointment system. And Mrs Pasankar, especially, had me running for Clinic Room 3 with my tail between my legs every time she opened her mouth. This morning, I’d made the horrific mistake of asking her for a cup of tea after a particularly strenuous few hours, which saw me covering both the diabetic clinic and the sexual health clinic, alongside the weight-loss support group. They were apparently all my responsibility. She reminded me, after pointing towards the kettle in the corner, that I should provide my own teabags and milk. I hadn’t, and I needed to somehow muster up enough bravery to ask her to reschedule those clinics onto different days before I developed an ulcer and put myself into an early grave. I grumbled and said something about scheduling conflicts, to which Mrs Pasankar swiftly put me right, pushing a laminated sheet of rules in my face, explaining the dos and don’ts for GPs and nursing staff.

  I backed away, stumbling back into the waiting room, tripping over both the threadbare carpet and my own feet in fear. One day, I would fall over and break my neck. Something that no doubt would please both Mrs Hallet and Mrs Pasankar, judging by the stern looks they were sending my way every time I nipped out to the waiting room to call my next patient. I had been told to use the public announcement system, but I couldn’t make it work. I was sure they were laughing behind my back as I slunk back into my hideaway at the end of the day, hoping they would both have left by the time I got my coat on and my computer shut down.

  It was Thursday, and I’d had enough. I was willing to forgive everyone and anyone, just to have my London clinic back with the patients that felt familiar and the view out my window looking onto a grey brick wall. Here, my clinic window painted a Christmas scene of frost and trees. The sun lingered behind hills and rooftops as I walked briskly through town, keeping my head down until I felt the warmth from the open fire in the hotel lobby, letting my coat drop and taking my usual seat at the bar.

  Barception. Charlie corrected me as I said something about the reception having become my new favourite place in the world. “It’s called a Bar-bloody-ception, Daniel. See? You get your key and a drink. And by the way? This one’s on me. I passed my exam last week, so now I can celebrate. I’m going out this weekend, and I am going to get sloshed. Totally rat-arsed.”

  “Where’s the place to go out in this town then?” I asked casually, smiling as he made a face.

  “If you’re eighteen, you go to Starlight, down on Market Street. It’s full of girls wearing polyester and blokes in cheap shirts, but I guess, as a grown-ass doctor that won’t be your scene.”

  “Probably not.” I laughed and took another sip of the beer he’d poured me. Another guest ale this time, smooth as silk as I greedily let it calm me down. It hadn’t been a good day. The newness and unfamiliarity of a different place of work, causing me to make rookie mistakes and filing mishaps, hadn’t made my attempts to get my colleagues on my side any easier. Mrs Hallet now thought I was even more of an imbecilic tosser than before, followed by Mrs Pasankar giving me an appointment timing lecture in front of a waiting room full of patients. I was rather sure that the word was out all over town that Dr Gilbert, the new GP, was a hopeless fruitcake and should be avoided at all costs. I’d already had requests to see me that I was sure were just the bored inhabitants of Chistleworth coming to have a look at the new doctor, to bring gossip down to the pubs in the town square. Pubs I would never dare to frequent, especially after today.

  “There are some good pubs around. You should try the Gastro on the high street. They are all about vegan wholefoods and stuff like that,” Charlie said, curling himself up on the barstool opposite me, just like we always sat. It was a comforting routine, him cross-legged, sipping Coke from a tall glass. Me nursing a pint, lett
ing the day wash off me with every smile he would shoot my way. “Personally, I prefer normal junk food, like burgers and stuff. There’s an American place down near the college. I’ll take you one day. They do ribs and meatloaf, you know, proper comfort food. Their macaroni and cheese is fantastic.”

  “You’d take me out for dinner?” I teased, leaning forwards as laughter spilled out of my mouth.

  “Yeah? Why not? I like you.”

  You see, dear reader, that was what had become the problem. I liked Charlie too. I liked his company. I liked spending time with him and listening to him talk. He was my only friend in this brave new world I found myself in, my sounding board and listening ear, and… the man who made sure I ate.

  It was a strange thing, but I supposed this hotel was nothing like those big chains down south. Here it was, just him and me, and he would tell me tonight’s dinner special in passing and, two minutes later, serve up a steaming plate of whatever he thought I would fancy.

  He was usually right. Today, placing a plate of sizzling sausages resting on a generous dollop of mash, covered in an ocean of gravy. There was nothing sophisticated or posh about the dinners he served me, but it was homely. Comforting. Very much him.

  “I’ll eat with you if you don’t mind,” he said, placing an identical plate on his side of the bar.

  Then we ate together, making the evening even more comforting than he would ever know it was.

  “I brought you something,” he said suddenly, his mouth full of food, wiping the side of his mouth with a paper napkin.

  “Oh?” I replied, loading another spoonful of orgasmic mash into my mouth. “You cooked this?”

  “Yeah,” he laughed, returning from the small kitchen behind him with a white paper box in his hand. “I like cooking. That’s what I trained as in college. I’m a proper chef and a patisserie chef, too, but I prefer baking, to be honest. It’s the only thing I haven’t got a proper degree in, but you know me. One day. I just need to get this Philosophy Masters thing sorted, and then I might go back to do something with catering again.”

  “Are you ever not going to study?” I laughed as I used my finger to mop up the last of the gravy on my plate.

  “I like studying,” he said, almost shyly. “I told you, I like being busy. Like learning new stuff.”

  He had told me. And somehow, I’d memorised every word. He said studying gave him goals, something to work towards when life seemed to be spinning out of control. He compartmentalised his life like a chest of drawers: his shifts, his study hours, his online lectures, and the times when he ate and slept. All meticulously organised in handy squares on the spreadsheet he had shown me.

  “So, what’s in the box?” I wondered, picking at the tape on the side of the cardboard.

  “I made something new this morning,” he replied, pushing his fringe out of his eyes. “It’s a macaroon base, topped with a sharp raspberry buttercream and a lightly torched meringue on top of that. And a cherry as a garnish on this one as I ran out of raspberries. We don’t have much soft fruit to work with this time of year, it all being out of season. The bakery only orders local stuff, so if it’s not grown around here, we ain’t got it.”

  His local accent made me smile, the way he sometimes sounded completely sophisticated and halfway through his next sentence he sounded like a boy who grew up on some faraway farm. It was part of his charm, I guessed, one minute being excitable like a child, then suddenly being grown up far beyond his years.

  “Wow!” was all I could say, looking at the delicate-looking pastry sat in the box. It was beautifully crafted, dusted with something that looked like gold.

  “I’m making them drizzled with dark chocolate for New Year’s Eve, with a hazelnut filling and kirsch jam, but I thought these looked festive. You know. Christmas and all that.”

  “It’s… too pretty to eat.” It was. It was a tiny piece of art, but he handed me a fork and nodded for me to dig in.

  “Good, eh?” He laughed as I let a forkful melt in my mouth, the sharp and sweet blending perfectly on my tongue. It was delicious. Sophisticated. Like something I would have expected at a fine dinner party and not as dessert… right here.

  “You’re talented.” I licked the fork, wishing there was more. I hadn’t even offered him a bite.

  “I’m all right. I don’t like to follow the rules or the recipes I’m supposed to make. People just want mince pies and shit in December, and all I want to bake is cinnamon buns and flaky weird desserts, but party stuff is always popular, festive cakes, you know. People go mad over stuff like that. Little mini canapes and tiny Yorkshire puddings with roasted things inside. And for some reason, people like tiny little desserts so they can pretend to just eat one. Everyone knows you have to kind of eat the whole bloody plate to even get a taste of the stuff.”

  “I hate tiny little puddings. I want a big plate too.”

  “Sticky toffee pudding with custard and cream.”

  “Exactly,” I laughed.

  I almost felt bad, letting him take the plates away, half feeling like this was our home, and I should be expected to wash up and wipe down the table.

  Instead, I said goodnight and thanked him for the dessert, folding the paper box up and placing it carefully on the side.

  I showered my worn-out body and let myself sink between the sheets.

  My head couldn’t stop churning, and my hand found my cock, letting my fingers dance the familiar dance to spin my body into release.

  I needed it these days, being starved of touch and intimacy. I needed anything to just make me feel.

  I laughed as the spasms tore through me, my hand wet and sticky as I wiped my fingers on the sheets.

  I laughed because all I could think of was Charlie, and it was the funniest thought I’d had in months. I fell asleep chuckling, and for some reason, I thought I’d be fine. I thought my life here might get better.

  This thing with Charlie kept me going through the weekend, even when he wasn’t around to nurse my need for company. It wasn’t quite the same sitting down at the bar without him there. Instead, his colleague Penny quietly whizzed around the room with a polishing rag in her hand, making me dizzy with her chatter and constant predictions about the weather. I took my dinner to my room and tried to choose affordable furniture on the IKEA website, as well as reading up on local builders whom I hoped would take pity on me and secure my future front door. I obsessively looked through the uninspiring photos on the estate agent’s brief, cringing at the amount of work I would have to get done to at least get the place liveable. The kitchen was a mess, the carpets torn and dirty, and those were only the cosmetic parts I could see. Someone had installed a fairly modern bathroom, so I was hoping that showers would be the least of my worries in my new abode.

  Charlie wasn’t working on Monday. I had asked Penny. He wasn’t there Tuesday either, which made my moods sink even lower than they already were after the phone call from my London solicitor, asking for more signatures, more paperwork and more time to transfer my meagre house-purchase funds.

  On Thursday, Mrs Hallet berated me for my sloppy timekeeping and for not putting the biohazard waste out in the correct bin. I’d assumed that would be handled by the practice cleaners, but apparently, that job had also been allocated to... me. She then went into another frightening rant in front of her attentive waiting-room audience because Mr Patel at the pharmacy had called twice already to complain about my sloppy handwriting and unsigned prescription forms.

  I promised Mrs Hallet to reissue them all and have them back to her within the hour. She laughed and said I would have to deliver them myself in my lunch hour because correcting my mistakes was not part of her job description. I wondered if the other two GPs on duty were as henpecked as I felt, hiding in their rooms and just nodding politely when we crossed paths in the hallway. I felt horribly out of place, like an unwanted cousin with inferior breeding, as I called my next patient and patiently listened to their questions and gripes.

&nb
sp; At least I felt confident in my work, treating people with kind words and supportive advice, writing out prescriptions in my tidiest handwriting and placing copies in the correct folders on Mrs Pasankar’s desk.

  Justine had called me her very own Joe Wicks. But I sure didn’t look anything like him as I jogged down the high street in my open coat and fancy shoes, trying to get to the pharmacy on time, with my perfectly filled-in reissued prescriptions, signed and double-checked by Mrs Hallet. I was red-cheeked and panting as I walked back up towards the health centre after my stern telling off from the distinguished pharmacist, and now, I was stress-eating the soggy chemical-tasting sandwich I’d picked up from the newsagent next door. I was nodding politely at shoppers with bags full of gift wrap and presents, kids wearing Santa hats, and the storefronts wishing me happiness and cheer. I felt none of it, acutely aware that I was falling back down in a slump with nothing to drag me back up, apart from the thought of spending another evening sitting around listening to Charlie tell me things that would make me smile.

  I stopped outside the bakers, immediately recognising the delicate patisseries in the window. There were the raspberry meringue swirls, sat next to delicate chocolate-glazed Danish pastries alongside snow-dusted mince pies. All beautifully presented with Charlie’s touch written all over the window. Neatly folded napkins, rustic baskets and with little festive branches of holly scattered in between beautifully crafted sweet things that looked like they would make my teeth ache. I wondered in my stupidity why I hadn’t gone to see him before, why I hadn’t bothered to think outside my sheltered self-imposed box of selfishness. He’d told me where he spent his mornings, covered in flour, doing what he clearly loved to do the most. Yet, I hadn’t even thought of bringing him some well-deserved business in return. I hadn’t learned a thing about being an adult despite having been one for the last ten years. Instead, I was as lazy as the fourteen-year-old me had been and as stupid too.

  I chuckled as I opened the door, being greeted by an elderly man in a crisp white apron.