‘Are you scared of me seeing you without your clothes on?’
‘Charlie!’
‘Listen, have one if it helps,’ he says tentatively. ‘You must get uncomfortable.’
Next thing I know, Charlie is opening his chest of drawers and chucking me an old T-shirt, saying he doesn’t mind if I get it wet. He heads to the bathroom; I hear water running. When he comes back and sees that I haven’t started to undress he scrunches his eyes in a promise that he won’t peep.
Ticket follows me into the bathroom. It’s an old-fashioned deep bath with silver taps. I see myself stepping into it, lifting my legs to shave, just like I used to. Stepping out and wrapping a warm towel around my body; making a turban for my hair.
Instead I am lifting my bottom from one side to the other to hitch my trousers down. ‘Tug, Ticket,’ I whisper, ‘thank you so much.’ Gently he bites on the end of one of my socks, edging backwards as he gives it a little yank. One sock comes off and Ticket quickly moves to the next one, as if it’s a race to get me into the bath.
Next I test the temperature of the water. One of the patients in hospital had burnt the soles of her feet because she’d forgotten this rule. There are so many rules; it’s like learning to live again.
After transferring myself from my chair to the edge of the bath I hold both sides and lower myself into the scented water. I’d asked for some bubble bath and Charlie had found some in one of the spare rooms. Ticket lies down across the bathmat. I take off my U2 T-shirt; it feels soggy against my skin. Finally I rest my head against the bath, breathe in deeply and allow the tiredness to melt away.
*
Charlie puts his head round the door. Ticket sits up, alert. ‘Everything OK?’
I attempt to cover my body in bubbles. ‘Chat to me,’ I say.
He pulls the loo seat down and takes some tobacco out of his pocket. He rolls a joint. ‘Want one?’
I nod.
He kneels down by the side of the bath. ‘How about you, Ticket? Or are you more of a cigar man? Here.’ Charlie lights the joint and places it between my lips. I inhale. This time we enjoy the silence.
‘So, any more plans to move to London?’ Charlie asks, finally breaking it.
‘I need to find a job first.’
‘Do you know what you want to do?’
‘That’s half the problem. Give me some ideas, Charlie. I have to do something with my life.’ I tell him about my friends, Dom and Guy, both in west London. ‘I’d like to live near them.’ I also tell him what Frankie had said to me about living at home; how I might lose the confidence to ever make the break if I wait too long. She offered to be my Back Up mentor if I return to London. ‘But I can’t afford to move until I’ve found work.’
‘Yeah, but you need to be in London to look for work,’ Charlie says. ‘You need to join some recruitment agencies.’ He pauses. ‘You wouldn’t think about going back to medicine?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It seems a waste, somehow, a shame to let it go. ‘Don’t you miss it, Cass? The adrenalin, the buzz, the people?’
‘Sometimes.’
There’s another long pause. ‘Will you think about it?’
I gather some bubbles into my hand and give him a bubbly beard.
‘Is that a yes?’
‘It’s a maybe, Santa.’
*
I am lying in Charlie Bell’s bed. I’m lying in a man’s bed. I haven’t been in a man’s bed for a long time. Not since Sean. The last bed I shared was with my mother.
Charlie’s dressed in his boxers and a T-shirt. He lays his duvet across the floor and lies down. ‘Oh fuck, the light.’
‘Ticket, up switch,’ I say, pointing my head towards it.
‘Wow. He’s unbelievable,’ Charlie says when the room plunges into darkness.
‘He is clever. Down, settle, good boy.’
‘Are you talking to me now?’ Charlie asks. ‘This is confusing.’
I laugh. ‘How old are you, Charlie?’
‘Why? You shouldn’t ask such personal questions, especially not in the dark,’ he adds. ‘Twenty-eight.’
‘I had you down at about twenty-six.’
‘Thanks. We can stick to your estimate.’
‘Charlie?’ I say, five minutes later.
‘Yes?’
‘You can sleep with me if you want? I mean, in the bed.’
‘I know what you mean.’ I can tell he’s smiling. ‘It’s all right. I’m fine down here.’
I build myself up to say, ‘I’d like you to.’
There’s another long silence. ‘I don’t know how Ticket will feel about it,’ he says quietly.
Ticket shifts in his basket.
‘He trusts you.’
I open my eyes and see Charlie, next to me. He must have taken his top off in the night. His shoulders are broad and his chest smooth. One arm is raised above his head. He looks as content as I am. Just as I’m thinking how much I want to kiss him, Ticket jumps up against the side of the bed, before hopping from paw to paw. He attempts to pull my wheelchair towards me but there’s not enough space down the side of the bed.
‘Charlie.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Charlie!’ I shout now and Ticket jumps up again with an anxious whine.
He sits up immediately, sleepy eyes and hair all messy, as if he’s fallen into a bramble bush. ‘What? What’s wrong?’
‘Ticket needs to go out.’
He leaps out of bed, grabs an old dressing gown and puts on some trainers without bothering to tie up the laces.
‘Go,’ I tell him when Ticket looks anxiously from me to Charlie. ‘Good boy, Ticket. Go to Charlie.’
*
Charlie, Ticket and I spend the afternoon in Chipping Campden, a town close to Charlie’s parents’ home. We take Ticket for a walk, followed by browsing in bookshops, pottery and jewellery shops. When I sense Charlie can take no more shopping or cream tea I suggest I treat him to a pint of beer and an early pub supper.
We find a table close to the bar and Charlie shows me the photographs he took on our skiing holiday. I’ve learned that he started taking photographs when he was six. His grandmother gave him an old-fashioned camera for his birthday. When he was at Reading University, he took all the photographs for student union events and magazines. ‘I like this one,’ he says. I’m in my white fur hat, sitting with Frankie, clutching a mug of hot chocolate. I hadn’t even realised he’d taken it. ‘That’s the whole point,’ he claims. ‘To keep quiet and out of the way – but always be there.’
‘Give me some more hot tips.’
‘Hottest tip is this: it’s the rule of thirds.’ He grabs a papery thin white napkin and asks the barman for a pen. Charlie draws a rectangle that he divides into three and sketches a small figure. ‘The focal point of the picture has to be where a line intersects, never in the middle. So if I did a headshot of you, your face should be here.’ He places the pen nib a third of the way down the rectangle.
‘Why?’
‘It frames the picture. Your eye is drawn to the image. It just looks better, trust me.’
‘What else?’
‘When looking at a photo you have to get the background right. If I took a picture of you here –’ he frames my face in his hands – ‘I can see a table right behind you with empty beer bottles and crisp packets. Nice. So if I go to the side of you, suddenly the view’s a whole lot better. More interesting.’ He looks at my profile. It’s unnerving. ‘The light catches your face here too.’
‘Who’s the best person you’ve photographed?’
‘The Queen.’
‘The Queen!’ I repeat, sounding like my father. I really need to leave home.
‘My best friend, Rich, his parents run a sheepskin shop in Somerset and she visited. Some people have a way with the camera, they know exactly what to do when they’re in front of it.’
‘She’s had lots of practice.’
‘Yeah, but even so, I don’t know, she just radiates. She has a wonderful smile. I think she’s beautiful.’
*
It’s Sunday. Charlie and I slept in the same bed last night too. Nothing happened. I felt close to him, but he didn’t try to kiss me. Confused and wishing he’d stop behaving like such a gentleman, I didn’t sleep well. Maybe this attraction is all in my head?
After a lazy breakfast, Charlie and I go for a walk around the grounds of his parents’ house. He tells me a little more about his work. He works for a web design and marketing company. He’s part of a team of eight ‘computer geeks’ as he calls them, and they work in a studio in London, Farringdon. He’s officially the creative manager. ‘Sounds much grander than it is,’ he says modestly. ‘All I do is design websites and blogs. We do a lot of online marketing too. Everything’s changing so fast with social media stuff and businesses have to keep up.’ Charlie leads me down a path, past a derelict tennis court that looks as if it hasn’t been played on since men had wooden rackets and women wore long dresses. He opens a gate into a grassy field. ‘Don’t touch, Ticket!’ I shout when I see Charlie running on ahead to stop Ticket chasing the sheep. I grab my tin of treats and rattle it urgently, and Ticket bounds towards his liver bites instead.
On our way back to the house we look for Ticket’s ball in the garden shed. Ticket sniffs under a tractor.
‘Is that your dad’s motorbike?’ I ask.
Charlie nods.
‘Let’s have a go.’
‘What? Now?’
‘No, next Christmas. How fast can this baby go?’
‘Cass, it’s a dodgy old bike. Dad hasn’t driven it for years, and I don’t much fancy spending the rest of my Sunday in A&E.’
‘Oh God,’ I groan. ‘I’m so bored.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Not of you, silly, this.’ I gesture to my wheelchair. ‘Going skiing was great, so good it’s like I need another adrenalin shot, you know. Ticket runs towards me with the ball in his mouth. Charlie grabs it from him, throwing it across the lawn, before saying, ‘Shut your eyes, Cass.’
‘Why?’
‘Shut them.’
I feel one hand under my knees; the other around my back. ‘Put your arm around me.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Hold on tight. OK, Cass, here’s for some explosive fun! Keep your hair on.’ He makes the sound of a motorbike and then runs as fast as he can, jolting me in his arms, jogging up and down the lawn.
I burst out laughing. ‘Go, Charlie! Faster!’
‘And they’re coming to the penultimate jump.’
‘Thought we were on a motorbike?’
‘It’s magic. You’re on a horse now. Are they going to make it? It’s head to head with Aldiniti!’
Ticket barks.
‘And they’re coming to the last fence. It’s nose to nose. Cassandra Brooks looks like she is going to take the gold for her country … they’re over the final hedge …’
‘Go!’ I squeal, opening my eyes.
But he then decides to put his foot into a rabbit hole and falls forward, both of us crashing down on to the grass. Ticket jumps on to us, covering me with licks. ‘Cass! Are you all right?’
I lie flat on my back, spreading my arms. ‘No, it hurts.’
Charlie sits up. ‘Oh God, I’m an idiot, I’m so sorry.’
‘I think it’s really serious.’ I close my eyes and shudder with pain.
‘Where does it hurt?’
‘Everywhere.’
‘Where? Here?’ He presses my ribs.
‘Ouch, definitely there.’ Ticket’s nose rubs against my stomach.
I yelp. ‘Especially there,’ I say when Charlie touches my back. ‘Excruciating.’
‘Brooks?’
I sit up and laugh, wiping the grass off my hands.
Charlie pulls out a couple of blades from my tousled hair. ‘You nearly had me there.’
‘I’ve had such a great time,’ I tell him quietly, returning his gaze. ‘I don’t want to go home.’
‘We don’t need to get the Sunday blues yet.’ He looks at his watch. It’s close to midday. ‘We have a couple more hours to play at least.’
‘I don’t mean that. I don’t want to go home.’
Charlie looks at me as if he’s had a brainwave. ‘Why don’t you move in with me?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Move in with me.’
‘With you?’
‘Yes! I have a spare room. Why not? I’m on the ground floor, it’s a garden flat in Barons Court. There’s one pretty shallow step up to the front door, a few steps inside,’ he says as if trying to visualize the layout, ‘but nothing we couldn’t sort out. There’s a good pub round the corner, an off-licence, a highly suspicious kebab shop—’
‘Slow down!’ But I’m enjoying the pace. ‘You really want a flatmate?’
‘I wouldn’t want a stranger, but … Come up and take a look at the room. If you hate it or think you can’t manage or share a bathroom with me, I won’t be offended.’
‘We’d have to do it on a business basis. I’d pay for the room.’
‘Fine.’
‘And I come with Ticket.’
He glances at him. ‘If he could work on the breath front.’
I punch his arm, playfully. ‘In that case, we’d love to give it a go, wouldn’t we, Ticket?’
‘That’s a yes?’
‘It’s a yes. Yes!’
Both of us laugh, nervously, knowing this is a big step. We hold each other’s gaze, he edges towards me, but pulls away abruptly when Ticket barks and we hear a car driving into the courtyard.
Next I hear two car doors slam, footsteps on gravel and a woman’s voice, though it’s hard to make out what she’s saying.
‘Why are they back so early?’ Charlie mutters, jumping up and dusting the grass off his jeans. ‘Stay here a sec.’ As if I can move. He walks towards the side gate that leads to the back of the house. ‘Hi, Mum!’
Mum! Mrs Bell? Fuck.
‘We tried to call,’ she says to Charlie, looking over his shoulder. She must be wondering who I am, sitting here on their lawn. Do I wave? Smile? I feel so stupid. There’s no sign of Charlie’s dad. He must have taken the luggage inside.
‘The beef was too tough last night,’ she says to Charlie as they walk towards me. ‘You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend down?’
I smile, trying to remain calm and natural. Where’s Ticket? I see him sniffing around in the shed.
‘Sorry, it was a last-minute thing,’ Charlie says.
They now stand over me.
‘Mum, this is Cass.’
‘Hello!’ I say too brightly, overcompensating for the fact that I can’t get up. She waits for me to stand but when she sees that I’m clearly not going to she holds out a hand instead. ‘How do you do, Cass.’
She has a pretty but gaunt face. Her hair is silvery grey and her eyes as blue as the sky. ‘Cass came down for the weekend, she’s been keeping me company,’ he tells her. ‘Shall I give you a hand?’
I register the confusion on Mrs Bell’s face. ‘You have a beautiful home,’ I tell her.
‘Thank you. Oh! Who’s this now?’ she says, as Ticket bounds towards us. She dodges out of his way.
‘I hope you don’t mind, I brought my dog.’
‘Er, no.’ She doesn’t stroke him. ‘He’s lovely.’ Ticket wags his tail, but I can see she’s anxious not to get muddy paw prints on to her smart skirt. She continues to look at me expectantly, unable to decide whether I’m rude or just odd with my legs outstretched in front of me, making no attempt to move.
‘Ticket, chair.’ I point to the shed and he trots off. I hardly dare look at Charlie’s mother now. When I do, she’s staring down at me, puzzled.
‘Ticket is Cass’s assistant dog,’ Charlie says.
‘Oh really?’
‘Cass was on the Back Up course,’ he continues, hoping that might put her more in the picture. ‘Remember?’
‘Ah, right.’ She twists her sapphire and diamond ring around her finger, slowly.
Ticket pulls the wheelchair across the lawn. I’m praying Mrs Bell will go on ahead, but she stands rooted to the spot, watching.
‘Thank you, Ticket,’ I say, when the chair’s in front of me.
‘Here, let me help.’ Carefully Charlie places one hand under my knees, the other round my waist.
‘Your son is great!’ I say, putting my arms around his neck self-consciously. ‘Did he tell you how many times I fell over skiing? He saved my life a few times.’
‘Well now, how about some lunch?’ Mrs Bell suggests when I’m finally in my wheelchair. ‘I hope you’ve left some food in the fridge.’
All I can think about, as we head inside, is the mess Charlie and I had left in the kitchen after our fry-up.
*
We eat lunch in the dining room. The wallpaper is dark red and the curtains have decorative tiebacks. Charlie’s father clamps a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘I faked a headache. All I wanted to do was be at home in my old cords and plant a tree this afternoon.’
‘Henry, you’re an old curmudgeon,’ Mrs Bell protests.
Henry is fair, with thinning grey hair and an attractive crookedness to his face, as if one half has been slightly altered so nothing quite lines up. So far, he hasn’t commented on my wheelchair, which is a relief.
‘Please help yourself,’ Mrs Bell says to me.
Charlie catches me looking over to the tall sideboard. ‘Why don’t I serve everyone?’ he suggests.
Mrs Bell stands up. ‘Sorry, of course.’
‘Mum, don’t worry. You sit down. This looks delicious.’
Charlie hands me a plate of ham with coleslaw and knobbly potatoes. There’s a silver jug of homemade mayonnaise in the middle of the table, along with various mustards and chutneys.
‘Please don’t wait,’ Mrs Bell says. I gaze at my food, unsure if it’s rude to tuck in when no one else has been served yet, even if someone has told you to start. I pick up my knife and fork, but then rest them gently against my plate.
‘Where do your parents live, Cass?’ Mrs Bell asks.
I tell her about Mum and Dad and what they do, my voice gaining strength when I realise how proud I am of them. ‘I considered architecture,’ Henry tells me, before going on to say that he used to publish wildlife and nature books but retired three years ago. He now loves painting, but it’s just a hobby. ‘I’m not very good.’
‘Yes you are!’ I say. ‘There’s one of your paintings in Charlie’s bedroom, isn’t there?’
I’m aware of Mrs Bell staring at me like a hawk. What have I said? ‘Of the trees,’ I say, trailing off when I realise exactly why she’s looking at me.
‘Dad has planted almost three thousand trees on the estate in the last thirty years,’ Charlie says.
‘Did Charlie show you the Wallemi Pine?’
I shake my head.
‘Charlie, how could you not show Cass the Wallemi Pine? How about the
Wollemia nobilis
?’
Charlie rolls his eyes. ‘No, Dad.’
He shrugs. ‘My children aren’t the slightest bit interested, Cass. The Wallemi Pine is the botanical equivalent of finding a living dinosaur. It was discovered in Australia, in a chasm that no one had been down. It’s so romantic, Cass, dark with these rich purple-tinged leaves. It was given to me for my sixtieth.’
‘That must beat cufflinks,’ I say, beginning to relax.
He smiles a wonderful lopsided smile. ‘You bet! Did you see the tulip trees?’
‘Henry, leave the poor girl alone,’ Mrs Bell says, wiping the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin. I think she’s still picturing me in her son’s bedroom.