“Migraine disease,” he repeats the word as if testing it on his tongue. “Do you mean migraines like my mum would say I was giving her a migraine with my incessant chatter, or do you mean proper awful migraines where you’re vomiting, losing vision and the will to live.”
“Very much the latter.” I nod, resisting the urge to shudder as my body recalls just how terrible those days are when it’s like that and much, much more. “But I don't really like the use of the word 'migraines' because that is language that doesn't correctly describe the condition for many people, because it's not something that comes and goes for me. I have symptoms pretty much every day, not just when I have attacks.”
“Like what?” His forehead creases as his head tilts to the side again.
I suck in a breath before I speak, deciding to just let Charlie have it all. If I get only one thing out of this evening, it may as well be having somebody understand a bit more about migraine disease. “Like an ever-present pressurised headache that intensifies with stress or when I’m tired or hungry. Like tension in my shoulders and neck. Like having pain and blurred vision whenever lighting changes quickly. Like feeling low-level nausea most days, especially in the morning. Like feeling exhausted constantly no matter how much sleep I get.”
“Shit, that sucks,” Charlie says on a deep exhale and it’s like his whole body deflates. “I’m sorry you have to experience that.”
I’m still nodding as I feel the full weight of his empathy land inside me. He seems genuinely saddened for me, and somewhat aware that it adds an element of struggle to my life. And that, that feels… nice.
“Thanks,” I say and I hold his eye contact long enough to ensure he knows I really am grateful.
“Fine, okay, you win,” he says, suddenly and dramatically. “I’ll switch to tonic water, just to keep you company.”
“Don’t do it on my account,” I say as we start walking to the bar. “Just know that I have even less patience for drunk men than I do overbearing mothers.”
“Duly noted.” He grins and then he orders me another sparkling water alongside his tonic water. “Listen, we could go back into the crowd and be forcedly social with my mother’s friends and colleagues, but to be honest, I think we’ve done enough mixing with guests for it to give them all something to talk about with Mum, so do you fancy finding somewhere to sit down and chat?”
A wave of panic rushes over me. What on earth are Charlie and I going to talk about, just the two of us, for the next few hours? I suppose I didn’t think through this part of the equation. But then I remember what’s scheduled in our diaries for nine o’clock on Monday morning: our first meeting about the Status pitch. I suppose if Charlie sobers up enough, we can talk about that.
“Sure,” I say and I mean it to come out agreeably but even I can’t deny how short and begrudging it sounds. But Charlie doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he smiles at me and tips his head at an unoccupied table along one of the walls.
I move to head in that direction but I’m stopped when I feel his hand curl around my arm, just above my bracelets.
“Mina,” he says when I look up at him.
“Yeah?”
“Can I hold your hand?”
I give him a one-shoulder shrug. “I guess so. I mean, we are supposed to be together, like that, tonight.”
“Well, yeah, but also,” he pauses, blushing into his tonic water, “I would also really like to hold your hand.”
And while I don’t have anything to say in response, I do lift my hand and slide it into the warm cradle of his palm and joined together like that, we walk over to the table.
Chapter Six
Where Are We Running?
Charlie
“There is no way Faith and Hassan are shagging!” I practically bellow at Mina who is watching me with a hand at her mouth, catching her giggles.
“I swear on my sister’s life,” she says. “I heard them.”
“Wait, what?”
“In the Ladies loos. In the cubicle next to me.”
“No, no way. Hassan would never. He’s a germophobe who washes his hands more times than I can count, poor lad.”
“I’m not lying,” Mina protests and she’s smiling now, really smiling, the silver flash of her tongue piercing catching my eye. Did I even know her tongue was pierced? I don’t think I did and that makes me realise, somewhat sadly, that Mina doesn’t smile very much at work. The brandy must still have a hold on me because I feel the inexplicable urge to keep that giddy little grin on her mouth.
“But are you sure? They barely speak in the office or in our meetings. It’s hard work getting them to collaborate on anything and I could have sworn Faith was queer.”
Mina takes a sip of her water. “She is. She’s pan. Your inner biphobia is showing.”
