Page 4 of This Thing With Charlie

“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 evernotgoing 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 custardandcream.”

“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 inmylunch 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.

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.

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