She blinked, waiting for him to speak. A straightforward ‘sorry’ was unlikely. How would Charlie apologise without apologising this time?
He signalled the pink-and-white striped cake box she had left on the coffee table. ‘Tell Ronnie I said thanks for the leftovers.’ Waving in her direction as if he were telling a naughty dog to shoo, he added, ‘And don’t let me keep you, I’m sure you have some urgent cleaning to do.’
Charlie counted to ten after the door slammed and then lashed out, sending the nearest easel to the floor with a kick.
God, she was infuriating! Months pushing him towards Rachel without thinking there was any future in the relationship! And all the while claiming to have his best interests at heart, making him think they were friends, when he was just another part in her grand plan.
He ran his hands through his hair, pulling until it hurt, and gave the sofa a swift kick. In retaliation it jumped back, nudging the side table.
As the table wobbled, his eyes fell on the cake box. Cursing breathlessly, he rubbed his hand across his mouth and bent to pick it up.
Inside was a note: For Charlie. Handmade with love by Dylan and Becky. Xx. A shaky smiley face, drawn in crayon, sat underneath. A joint effort by mother and son. Under the note were two triangles of dense, plain sponge cake, covered in white icing and multicoloured sprinkles. He didn’t need to taste it to know it would be better than his childhood favourite.
With great care, he put the box back on the table. Holding the note in his shaking fingertips, he ground his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he lifted the note to his lips and sank to his knees.
Not for the first time, Charlie wished his life had a rewind button. Groaning, he slumped forward and let his head drop onto the arm of the sofa.
And if he thought his bed would provide refuge from his guilt, he was wrong.
That night the dream studio was still filled with the muse’s early Christmas gifts. But, unlike his previous visits, this time he shivered and watched as his breath created dense clouds of clammy vapour.
The door swung open and the lady came in. As she strode towards Charlie, he understood her previous expression, which he had always seen as inscrutably neutral, had been accepting and friendly. Tonight her eyes were glacial and disapproval radiated from her clenched jaw and stiff posture. She stood in front of him just long enough to fix him with her frigid stare and slap him hard across the face.
When he stopped seeing snow, he found himself sitting on the floor. As he stood up, still shaking, the movement of his feet sent a series of echoes around the building.
She had gone, taking all the paintings with her. Charlie was left alone in the middle of the studio, now empty and sterile, lonelier than a morgue at midnight.
DECEMBER
Chapter 38
When dawn came on Monday, Charlie found it less rosy-fingered and more like another slap in the face. Knowing that trying to paint was pointless, he went for a run.
A couple of weeks had passed since he last completed his normal circuit and the short break in training had taken its toll. Wheezing and fighting a stitch, he decided to cut his route short.
On the way home it began to drizzle. Each damp step ground more guilt into his bones, not helped by the latest playlist he discovered on his phone: a collection of ideal wedding songs, starting with ‘Happy Together’.
At home he searched for a distraction and noticed his exercise routine wasn’t the only thing he had neglected recently: the house needed a serious clean. Glad to find something to keep him busy, he seized the vacuum cleaner and attacked the carpets, then moved on to the bathrooms and kitchen.
Unfortunately, this burst of industrious activity didn’t help either. The smell of bleach and soap made him think of Becky’s house and her long-suffering hands.
By lunchtime the house sparkled and the washing machine was singing as it spun. He should tackle the studio next. The dust bunnies out there were starting to resemble tumbleweeds. But he couldn’t face it and turned his attention to the garden instead.
The grass was hidden under a carpet of dead leaves which were drying into a broad segment of the colour wheel. He called the gardener who usually came to help in the winter but, as he was busy until later in the week, Charlie went outside and made a start on the operation himself. This kept him occupied for another couple of hours until he was exhausted. He needed to get back to the gym.
He called Mike who was pleased to hear Charlie was alive and delighted to agree to meet him at the gym the next day after his class. Charlie then spent the rest of the day trying to read or watch TV, but his guilt lingered like an itch in a tricky spot on his back, always just out of reach, and he was relieved when it was time to leave for the college.
On Tuesday he went to the Coulson and found Rachel putting a potential lighting supplier through his paces by asking a series of unintelligible questions and demanding lucid answers. While she was polite, she made it plain Charlie’s input was not required. If she needed his help, she would call.
He then tried his luck at Sweet’s. He discovered immediately that Becky hadn’t told Ronnie about the events of Sunday night; Ronnie spoke to him using her normal level of bossy when she told him to come back in the afternoon to help with the Christmas displays. Not wanting to go home, he had lunch at a café before returning to the cake shop and spending the next few hours up to his elbows in red and green fondant. His work was rated as satisfactory but uninspired and he was dismissed until the following day.
At home he checked in with Phoebe who was revising for her last set of exams before university applications and interviews. He found she was cast away on her own island of stress and so, having made sure she was eating, Charlie grabbed his sports bag and headed for the further education college.
His class were their usual jabbering selves, but even Mrs Howard’s terrifying attempts at flirtation were unable to spring him out of the dark cell of his memories.
Mike had more success in lifting Charlie’s spirits. He always related his and Ronnie’s little disagreements with humour and an affectionate appreciation of his girlfriend’s crabbiness. But only one part of their conversation held any true interest for Charlie.
They were on the static bikes, pedalling in time with the beat of the ambient music. As usual, Charlie was going faster than Mike, having settled into a steady rhythm quickly.
After ten minutes, Mike slowed and pushed back from the handlebars. He ran the back of his hand over his flushed forehead and asked, ‘Do you know if Becky’s OK?’
Charlie’s foot slipped off the pedal. ‘I think so. Why?’
‘Ah, it’s most likely nothing,’ said Mike, flicking away the idea with his hand.
‘No, go on.’
‘All right. But don’t tell her I said anything.’ Mike stopped pedalling and dropped his voice. ‘I do Becky’s accounts. I don’t charge her; she gets me photography gigs. Anyway, I know things were pretty tight at the start of November and since then she’s only had that one big wedding. I guess she’s hanging in until your paintings sell. I’m sure she has it under control.’
Charlie frowned and his pedalling slowed. ‘What’s “pretty tight”?’
‘You know, just enough to cover the mortgage and bills. But please don’t say anything. Becky would kill me and I’d have to hope she does a good job because Ronnie would start on me once she’d finished.’