Page 11 of This Thing With Charlie

I needed to talk to him, and my head was once again spinning out of gear.

I slept all through Sunday, waking only to venture down to the supermarket to buy some junk food and drinks. I wondered what Justine would think of me, walking in a haze of thoughts and grabbing random items as I lined up at the tills to pay for my meagre shopping.

I wondered what my parents would have thought of Charlie, if my mother would have been proud. She’d never met Justine and only met Rita when she was too ill to remember who or what she was. My father would have probably loved him as fiercely as he had loved me. I took some comfort from those thoughts as I noticed the couple in front of me.

There was this burly redhead of a man with piercings in his ears and tattoos showing under his shirt and a black man in a sharp business suit who stared at him with admiration. Reaching out to stroke a stray hair out of his partner’s eyes, they spoke about a recipe for Brussels sprouts with some kind of nutty dressing. They were clearly in love, laughing over shared jokes, and for a minute, I thought to speak to them just to find some common ground. I didn’t because what was I supposed to say? But I watched them, listening to their easy conversation, and wondered how long they had been together. I looked at their fingers for rings, smiling at their matching gold bands. They made me happy as I stumbled home and ignored Penny’s pleas for me to come and have my dinner.

Instead, I sat on the bed eating crisps and chocolate biscuits and drowning my loneliness in cheap vodka.

Looking back, it was probably the worst week of my entire life because Charlie had disappeared without a trace.

On Monday, the bakery displayed a “Closed for the holidays, see you next year”sign, and the flat above was dark and deserted. There was a new person manning the Bar-for-the-sad-and-depressed-ception, a student full of acne who barely said a word. Not that I spoke much either and conversations with strangers was the last thing I was looking for. I tried to look casual walking through the lobby, every seat taken with guests holding drinks, families in silly jumpers and couples looking sickeningly sweet, again gut-punching me with the realization of how lonely I had become. I snuck back up to my room, feeling sick to my stomach.

I lived, breathed, worked, ate crap and slept badly. The rest of the time? I couldn’t really function because my head was a mess.

It was December 22 by the time I’d had enough. I mustered up some bravery, not even bothering about my captive audience, and walked up to Mrs Hallet, who followed my every move like I had a starring role in a Christmas Pantomime.

“What’s the name of the guy who works in the bakery?” I asked casually, waving a pen around in my hand.

“Graham Shaw?” Mrs Pasankar offered up. “Plays golf with my husband. Terrible arthritis in his hands.”

“No, the younger man,” I answered with irritation in my voice. “Charles… Charles something.”

I wasn’t fooling anyone as Mrs Hallet chuckled and lowered her glasses off her nose.

“Doctor Gilbert, you know better than this.”

“What?” I said innocently.

“We know you and Charlie have been having a thing.”

“Thing?” I stuttered out, lowering my voice. “Mrs Hallet, I need him to come in and see me. Can you just make an appointment?”

It was a total lie, but I was desperate. Desperate and depressed. There was clearly no hope for me in this town.

“Would you like me to transfer Charles to your care? It’s not really how we do things around here.”

I was busted. I probably looked sheepish as well.

“I need to see…” I walked away. Mrs Hallet shook her head.

I sat in my office and trawled Facebook hoping to come across him as a mutual friend. Thing was, I didn’t have any Facebook friends in Chistleworth, and my pathetic self was just that.

Pathetic.

A knock on the door broke the terrible silence as Mrs Hallet let herself inside, closing the door behind her,

“Dr Gilbert, I have left a message for young Charlie, but I think you might be better off trying to find time for him after the holidays. Graham usually goes to Manchester over the Christmas Week to see his family, and I bet you anything that’s where your Charlie has gone too. I knew his mother… may she rest in peace. Tragic family. Charles was so young when she passed away, but he’s turned out a fine man. Very studious. Graham is enormously proud.”

“And Graham is… Charlie’s?”

“Oh, it’s a bit complicated. T’was a big scandal at the time. Graham and Moira were having an affair, and then Moira got sick, and Douglas, Charles’s father, had cancer already. It was a terrible time and drove Graham sick with worry and Douglas… It was a long time ago, so the details are a bit muddy. Charles and his brother went to live with Graham in the end. He took them in and treated them like his own. He’s a lovely man, Mr Shaw.”

“So, Charlie is Charles Shaw?” I asked with a twinkle in my eye.

“God, no, his surname is Porter. Charles Porter. Fine name. Now, Mrs Kasinska has been waiting almost ten minutes past her appointment time, so could you perhaps gather your thoughts long enough to get her called in for her clinic visit? Her feet are really bothering her this time of year, and we need to get her signed up for the diabetic clinic again. She hasn’t attended for over a month, and Mrs Pasankar is getting annoyed. And you know what Mrs. Pasankar is like when she is annoyed.”

I did. So, I nodded, half gobsmacked at Mrs Hallet being so kind. I shook my head in disbelief and jumped out of my chair and called Mrs Kasinska, resuming my search for a Charles Porter on Facebook as I waited for her to take her seat... and there he was... my Charlie.

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