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“I said, I miss you.”
My phone beeped, signalling an incoming call. It sliced through my train of thought with an angry flare of orange. The papers balanced in my lap went crashing to the floor. My coffee dregs followed as I leapt to rescue them.
“Damn!”
“Putain, Charles, should I have not told you?” His feeble attempt to make a joke out of it landed flat.
“No, it’s not that Florian, it’s just that… sorry, it’s not a good time. Can I… can I call you back?”
Another week went by, give or take. I lost track as hours and minutes took on their own dimensions; day and night merged into black and white. Florian and I texted back and forth a couple of times; he sent me a stunning photo of his rows of Egyptian pyramids at sunset, and I set it as my screensaver. Then returned the favour by sending one of me. And although pleased I’d remembered to call him, I overlooked checking the time first.
“Mon chéri, what’s wrong?”
His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat a couple of times, like a forty-a-day smoker.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said, surprised. I thought I’d sounded quite sane. “I’m phoning you, like I promised. The real question is what’s wrong with you? You sound ill.”
He gave a gravelly chuckle. “Charles, it’s four-thirty in the morning. I’m not ill, I was just sleeping!”
Oh shit, so it was. I scrabbled around for an excuse, but Florian cut in.
“Have you been to bed yet, or is this you finishing work for the day?” All of a sudden he sounded very awake.
“An early start,” I lied. “Did you get the pics I sent you?”
“Oui. They were nice. But you looked weary. And pale.”
“Still your type?”
“Always. But… Charles…”
Silence, filled with Florian’s unasked question. “I’m fine, Flor, honestly. Work’s going well. I’m looking after myself, I’m eating plenty, and…”
“What did you have for dinner?”
“Um…” I scrolled back. Marcus had sent out for pizza at some point during the night. Or had that been the night before? Christ, I needed some sort of calendar pinned to the wall. Or phone alerts.
“And have you seen the therapist? You said you would, remember?”
“We rescheduled. I had a meeting that overran.”
“You promised, Charles. It’s important.”
Someone set up a snare drum behind my eyes. “I didn’t phone you to be nagged!”
Shit, I’d shouted at him. I put a hand on my knee to stop the fucking incessant jiggling. Navy held its hands up in surrender as orange barrelled in, like a flash flood. Forest green hid in the corner, bunched tight, darker, autumnal, making itself as small and insignificant as possible. My mouth dried.
There was a long sigh down the crackly phone line. For a second, I tried to imagine that cool breath ghosting over my chest, like it did when he used to rest his head on the pillow next to mine in the minutes after we’d made love.
“I’m not nagging, Charles. I just care about you. I’m not going to ask you if you’re flying back for a break because I have a feeling I won’t like the answer. Although you are always welcome here, you know that. Or, in four weeks, after the Selco vote, I could come and visit you, if you’d like.”
“Sure.”
He huffed. “Try not to sound too thrilled.”
I rubbed at my scratchy chin with a shaky hand. When had it started shaking? Why had it started shaking? Too much caffeine? I needed a shave. A shower, too. I glanced around the room. Did I still employ a cleaning service? Or had I forgotten to pay them again, like last time, and they’d refused to come? The latter, judging by the state of the place. Orange shoved navy and green out of view. Searching for a suitable response, I stared at a coffee stain spreading under the cream sofa opposite. And then sat bolt upright. Was it coffee, or something else? Did… did it move? No. I pinched the tender bridge of my nose. It was a brown coffee stain. Definitely. I remembered spilling it. I was imagining things. Maybe I needed to get my eyes checked. And mop the floor.
“Listen, Florian. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I’m sorry I woke you, too. Go back to sleep.”
