My forehead pulls into a frown. “And your mum didn’t want you to be a teacher?” The disbelief is clear in my voice. My parents would have rejoiced had I chosen that career path.
He shakes his head. “Not enough money on one hand, and not creative enough on the other. Too mundane and too undervalued. Not to mention how little patience she has for teenagers, which I experienced first-hand.”
“I sort of agree with her on that front, but I’m still totally puzzled why she wouldn’t be proud of you being a teacher. You know, doing your Michelle Pfeifer thing and turning needy kids’ lives around.”
He squints at me. “You’re mocking me?”
“A bit, but I’m also making a point. Being a teacher is a good job, an honourable job. And what does it matter what your mum thinks? Was it really only her opinion that stopped you going for it?”
Charlie shrugs and his features slip into a sad expression for a moment, a very brief moment because a second later it’s gone and his trademark grin is plastered back on his face.
“It wasn’t just that. There are lots of good reasons why it wasn’t meant to be. I don’t love the idea of going back to uni for another year, not to mention the pay cut. I also don’t like the idea of not being able to afford to live in London, where I’ve lived all my life. All things like that, plus my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“My brother, Cameron. The hotshot lawyer who was made junior partner of his law firm the very same month I graduated. At age twenty-seven, and before you Google it, yes, that’s not just a company record but a country and likely a European record.”
“So you felt pressure to get to work and start clocking up your own successes.”
“Yep,” Charlie’s shoulders sink again, “and I felt lucky to get the offer I did from HNO. This was at a time when graduate schemes were hard to come by.”
“I know. They were non-existent by the time I graduated,” I say, sounding possibly even grumpier than I actually feel now I’m here and I saw how much it meant to Charlie that I came.
“Exactly. I thought I couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. And when Mum said she didn’t hate the idea, I took that as a good sign.”
“And now?” I ask, feeling like I’m possibly testing Charlie, maybe even prying a little but I do it regardless. I’m strangely fascinated by the storm clouds I’ve discovered in Sunshine Boy’s life. “Do you still want to be a teacher?”
Charlie pulls his head back a little at my question, as if he’s surprised by it. “I… I don’t know.” He falters.
“What if,” I say slowly, carefully, holding his eye contact. “What if your mum’s thoughts didn’t matter? What if your brother was a binman? And I mean, an unsuccessful one at that because in my opinion, binmen are arguably the most important working members of our society. What if all of that wasn’t in play? And imagine there was no pressure in other ways. Like you truly didn’t care what other people think. Like financially, you could afford it, and you could also still stay in London. What if all of those obstacles didn’t exist? Would you then leave HNO and become an English teacher?”
I study Charlie as he stares straight ahead, and I can tell his focus is on something inside himself rather than in this stuffy, noisy room.
“Yes. Yes, definitely. I’d do it in a heartbeat,” he says and his voice has a dreamy air to it. I’m not sure if it’s that airy tone or the faraway look in his eyes that lingers on, but something is piercing my heart, so much so I look away from him and sip my water, concentrating on watching his mother air-kissing two bald men wearing matching waistcoats some distance behind Charlie.
“What about you?” Charlie is asking me and it takes me a few seconds to understand his question.
“Do I really want to be an English teacher?” I ask, absolutely deflecting the question, because now I know exactly why that heart-piercing moment was so very… heart-piercing. “No, thanks. I haven’t read a book that wasn’t manga or Black feminist literature since my GCSEs.”
“No, I mean, did you always want to work at an agency?”
I tut at Charlie then and don’t feel bad about it. Not really. “I don’t think anyone grows up thinking they want to make adverts that sell package holidays and dog food for a living.”
“Fair point, so what did you want to do? I can’t believe a brain like yours didn’t have hopes and ambitions.”
I don’t have time to baulk at the compliment I suspect he’s giving me because I’m debating whether to answer him honestly or not. It’s been so long, years, in fact, since I talked about this with someone. It’s almost been as long since I acknowledged it to myself.
“You’re going to laugh,” I forewarn him.
“I like laughing,” Charlie says simply.
“And you probably won’t be surprised at all. But also, you’ll definitely think it’s stupid. Nearly everyone thinks it’s stupid.”
“Well, I also like stupid, so try me.”
“I grew up wanting to be a tattoo artist. And in many ways, I still want to be one.”
“You wanted to do that when you were a kid?” he asks and I nod. “I’ve not met many people who wanted to be a tattoo artist when they’re young.”
