SAM
This was meant to be a good idea, I said to myself, as I cycled furiously, one eye on the dark sky ahead. I’d set off from Petersfield twenty minutes before with renewed energy for my mission. But the uncomfortable reality of Operation Chasing Charlie soon put paid to my enthusiasm. There was more traffic than I remembered, forcing me to brush along the hedgerows, my exposed ankles at perfect nettle height. And the bloody rain – I hadn’t factored that in at all – was nearly upon me. Oh no, here it comes, the first spots. I hesitated slightly and then took the next left. There was no way I could sit in my proposed hiding spot to scope out his family home – I’d have shelter in the pub. The spots turned into fat, rapid drops and then, out of nowhere, a wall of water.
What the hell am I doing? I leant my bike against the crumbling wall of the pub and ran inside, stopping in the foyer to let the worst of the water stream off my body onto the coir mat. I wore a fleece on my top half, which I could shake the drops off, but my jeans – why did I wear jeans? – were absolutely soaked. I gazed at them in despair. All I had in my little backpack was a bottle of water and an apple. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.
Eventually I summoned some courage and went inside. It was a busy Saturday afternoon, packed with people with nothing better to do than stare at my bedraggled state. I avoided all ninety eyes and went straight to the fire to stand as close as I could, and started turning slowly, a damp pig on a spit. Think. I had just enough money (gleaned from my Dad’s small change) for a half of cider, which I’d have to make last for as long as it rained. Just. Bloody. Brilliant.
I was so busy ignoring the stares and chuckles of the locals it took me a couple of seconds to register that someone was saying my name. But then, as I turned to acknowledge him, nerves bloomed in my belly.
‘I thought it was you!’ the man exclaimed, his arms reaching out to embrace me, his face as handsome as ever and shockingly like his son’s.
‘Mr Hugh-Barrington,’ I heard myself say, somehow forming words with my suddenly rubbery mouth. Just when I thought this afternoon couldn’t get any better!
‘Call me Charles, please,’ he said and we hugged awkwardly, him going in for the two-cheek kiss, but I was cold and jittery and consumed with nerves and I completely forgot what to do and attempted a hug. The result was an awkward embrace during which the side of my head was pecked.
‘You’re soaked!’ He looked me up and down, still holding onto my shoulders, and I realised I was shaking. ‘You need a brandy. Carla! A brandy, make it a double!’ he called over his shoulder, and then motioned to me to stay where I was while he moved – quite urgently, I noted – to his seat in the far corner of the room, coming back with his jacket, which he draped round my shoulders before I could think about protesting.
‘Now, as soon as you’re dry’ – he eyed my legs again with a well-practised gaze – ‘you’ll come back to ours.’
I felt the colour drain from my face. ‘Oh no, Mr . . . Charles, I can’t, sorry,’ I stammered, scrabbling frantically for a good reason.
‘No, you must. Charlie’s here – he’d love to see you. And Jimmy. You can have some soup.’
‘Thank you for the offer but I’ve got to get back . . . ah . . . someone is coming to my parents’ house and I haven’t seen them for ages.’ I swallowed. I knew I didn’t sound convincing. I tried to smile. ‘Anyway, I saw Charlie not that long ago, at his birthday party.’
‘You did?’ Charles Snr raised his eyebrows and then frowned. ‘He didn’t mention it.’
My heart sank. He didn’t?
Charles remained frowning. ‘So you would have seen the old boy getting dumped then. Rather unceremoniously, all told.’ He sniffed and then met my eye. ‘He’s rather down in the dumps and before that he had a lurgy of some sort or another. Horrid couple of days spent on the loo.’ Charles brightened. ‘Anyway, here I am wittering on, what is it you young folk call it – too much information? I’m sure an old friend visiting him would do him the world of good.’
Oh God! He’s had the bug too? Will he know it was from me?
‘I . . . er . . . I didn’t know her. Lucy, I mean.’
‘No? I suppose you’ve been out of the picture for a long time—’
I smiled thinly.
‘It’s rather strange really. It appears he was smitten with her and has found this out rather too late, the silly old chap. Should have made more of a go of it when he was with her.’ He shrugged. ‘But there you go, it’s always the way. The grass is always greener, until you get there and realise it’s not, eh, Sam?’
I tittered feebly and had an overwhelming desire to sit down. I took a wobbly step towards a tired leather armchair near the fire and sank into it, apologising as I descended.
‘I say, are you sure you’re all right, old girl?’ Charles stepped forward and felt my forehead. ‘You’re awfully hot.’
‘I’ve just been next to the fire for too long, I think. I’ll be all right in a minute.’
‘Look, you stay right there, I’m going to get the car and bring it to the door, and I’m going to take you home, no arguments!’ He was gone before I could even string a sentence together. I leant my head back. Nothing for it then. I’d have to see Charlie, saying what? I was just in the neighbourhood? Yeah right, like he’d believe that. There was no such thing in the countryside – he knew that, I knew that and, worst of all, he’d know I knew that.