Page 2 of This Thing With Charlie

The last text she sent me was a selfie of her with her blinding smile on display, sitting on a beach in Barbados, where her new boyfriend was enjoying her brand-new boobs smothered in the beach-ready fake tan she liked to use. That was after we sold the house, that we’d lived in less than a year, at a massive loss. That was after she left me and moved in with the new Junior Doctor in Paediatrics. That was after my life was smashed to splinters for the second time.

The first time was when Rita, my first wife, told me she wanted to leave because she’d met someone else. Someone who actually wanted a future, a marriage and a baby. Because, apparently, I wanted none of those things. She was right about that. I didn’t. Rita and I married on a whim because the hotel down the road was doing a “Wedding for a grand’’ promotion, and the thought of it, and the fact that we could afford the thousand pounds, had, at the time, made me giddy with excitement. She moved out of our shared apartment a week after our first wedding anniversary, which I celebrated on my own with a crate of beer and entertaining myself royally by downloading all the dating apps I could find on the App Store.

After Rita took half of our life and moved out of our flat, I nursed myself with alcohol and shagged my way around the local area, through students and nurses and care workers and random girls who would appear on my screen. I even shagged my friend Justine, who had let me cry on her shoulder... then I shagged Justine again.

Then… Then things had been wonderful, and Justine and I were happy. We had a good life, with friends and holidays in the sun and money to spend, before, suddenly, none of that mattered anymore.

I didn’t want to remember all those things that happened next—the arguing and the hopeless feeling of desperate sadness. I cried and drank most nights, apart from when I frantically applied for any job I could find. Something far away from London that I could get myself stuck into. I wanted something hectic with long shifts, where I could get lost in just being a doctor and forget about being me.

I’d never even heard of Chistleworth, but there was a job for a GP there at a small clinic that sold itself on its great location and experienced colleagues, and I was invited to visit. Three weeks later, me and my pathetic-looking suitcase walked into the lobby of The Chistleworth Nordic Star Hotel, the cool budget hotel for the “savvy business traveller”.

I was neither cool, savvy nor a business traveller, but here I was homeless and in need of a bed for the next couple of weeks while waiting for the small house I’d bought, without even viewing, to become available for me to move into. Chistleworth was far enough north that I could splash out on more than just a bedsit, but the truth was, the dilapidated two-bed wreck that I now owned, was the only house in town I could afford.

I was back to square one. Broke, single, and with nothing to show for my entire adult life, apart from the name badge that I would pin to my chest.

Daniel Gilbert, GP

That’s me. I’d been a doctor for years, working in busy practices all over London. I’d done stints in Emergency rooms, worked in hospital clinics, and even considered taking up a locum Consultant post at St Thomas’s… before Justine left me and put an end to that idea.

I didn’t want to think about Justine. I didn’t want to think at all. Instead, I spent my days living in a sterile hotel room that didn’t offer me any of the comfort and warmth the website had guaranteed. I was cold, depressed, antsy, and taking my bike on long excursions around the town, riding up and down the road of the building I’d bought to live in. A dull-looking terrace, with windows that needed a truckload of paint, and a front door that looked flimsy enough to kick right in.

I would need a builder, which was obvious. I would also need a bankruptcy deal and a straitjacket, after buying something I’d never seen. It had been a moment of madness, agreeing to all of this. Another well-aimed arrow in the sparring with Justine, trying to outmanoeuvre each other in our fake newfound happiness. She boasted about the superior qualities and traits of her new man. I retaliated with fake words of financial freedom and a future in the countryside. She laughed at me. I pitied her.

The fairytale I had made up in my head, was nothing like the existence I now suffered. Instead I wheeled my now-muddy bike through the glass doors at the Nordic Star Hotel, hoping the receptionist would once again let me store it in the baggage room. I was tired and fed up, the bike an obvious mistake, and I was trailing dirt behind me over the rustic wooden flooring. I couldn’t see the bubbly lady who I usually dealt with. Instead, there was a man sat behind the desk, his head bent over a book, scribbling something on a thick notepad. The Chistleworth Nordic Star Hotel didn’t believe in the traditional reception desk. Instead, pushing their concept of a Barception, where you were offered a drink with your key and could enjoy a nightly meal by the fireside rustic bar… ception.

I had brought all my meals to my room so far, enjoying the solitude of not having to be social with anyone, nor worry if I spilt ketchup on my shirt. I hadn’t worn a proper shirt for weeks, since resigning from my job in London. Hadn’t combed my hair either, by the looks of it, or bothered with deodorant. I had slobbed my way through the days, ignoring the festive decorations and invitations for Christmas drinks from friends back in London—friends that I would swiftly delete from my phone. That wasn’t my life anymore. They were Justine’s friends. Part of Justine’s life.

I had no family to think of, and no friends who really cared. I had myself and a bike, and a house with a crap front door that I couldn’t live in because… Yeah. The sale hadn’t come through, and instead, I was handing out the last of my savings to a hotel I was starting to detest.

“Yo, mate,” I called across the room, trying to get the guy’s attention.

“Ahh, Mr Gilbert,” he said, standing up with a smile.

He walked over, his whole demeanour warm and genuine. Younger than me, I observed, with a mop of silky ginger locks and freckled skin, wearing a red plaid shirt and too many pieces of jewellery. There were rings in his ears, another through his nostril, lines and lines of leather straps around his wrists, and a string of wooden pearls around his slim neck. He also had a battered old nametag pinned on his shirt, simply reading: Charlie.

He looked nothing like a hotel receptionist. Just a dude with a smile, who took my bike from my hands and put it away in the baggage room, locking the door behind him as he wiped his now-soiled hands on his jeans.

“Did you have a nice day out? The weather was nice today. Did you go up the Havershill pass? It’s a really fun ride once you are up there. Gentle hills and little bridges where you cross the streams. Used to be my favourite. Now, what are you having? We have a new guest ale on, a nice local amber brew, not too heavy. Or we have Guinness on tap and today’s lager is Stella Artois. Cheap and cheerful but will do the trick if that’s your poison. I would go for the guest ale. At least it won’t give you heartburn.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, being roped into a drink by a punk with a nose ring.

I had planned on a long, hot shower and perhaps a shave, then an early night with a bit of Netflix. Instead, I was reeking of sweat and my hands were cold and dirty as this guy poured me a beer and sat it down in front of me. Then he moved his books over and took a seat opposite my dishevelled self as I took a gulp of the beer.

“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.

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