Suddenly, Charlie jumps.
“Oh, shit,” he says, stepping back and pressing a hand to his chest. He’s looking down at his feet and I follow his gaze.
“Deborah Harry! There you are,” I say.
“This is Deborah Harry?” Charlie has regained his composure and bends downs to greet my cat.
“Yep,” I say and I’m about to tell him that she doesn’t like strangers, but she’s arching her back and pushing her head into his hand as he scratches between her ears. She closes her eyes and I can practically hear her purring from up here.
A contented smile grows on Charlie’s lips as he brings his other hand to Deborah Harry’s body and gives her long, lingering strokes down her spine. I feel my shoulders droop as I exhale deeply. I like watching him with my cat. I like watching him, full stop.
Come on, Mina.Feed him. Then politely ask him to leave. It’s a simple plan. Stick to it.
But it’s not so simple to execute because Charlie insists we put out my folding table and chairs and arrange them so we can sit down together. He fills up our glasses of water and finds my cutlery, setting the table properly. And then once we’re sitting and eating, he asks me one hundred different questions about the most random things.Will you paint your walls? What colour? Have you always lived in North London? Where does your family live? What do your parents do for a living? How often do you see them? Where did you go to uni? What did you study? Did you like it? Do you still see your uni friends? What about your school friends? What’s your favourite kind of art? Will you show me some of the sketches you do for fun?
And the whole time Deborah Harry circles his feet, brushing up occasionally against my own legs, but when I bend down to pick her up after eating, I see she’s lying down beside Charlie, purring loudly as he rubs her stomach with his foot.
“She likes you,” I say nodding to my cat.
“She’s keeping my feet warm,” he says but I don’t think that’s the full story.
Noticing his bowl is now empty, I see an opportunity. “Won’t Goldie be missing you?” I ask.
He doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t even notice the hint, let alone take it. “She’ll be fine. I’ll be home in time to feed her, that’s all she really cares about. Well, that and walkies but plenty of time for that tomorrow.”
“Right,” I say and I can see I’m going to have to be a bit more obvious. “Well, if you want a shower… Before you go…”
I trail off, watching him and I see when he gets it. His eyes drop, his mouth falls from his perma-smile and his shoulders sink. And my stomach swirls with disappointment, in myself, for visibly hurting him.
But I’ve said it now. And he’s standing up, collecting the bowls and putting them in the kitchen sink.
“Should I just help myself to a towel,” he asks without turning around as he turns on a tap and squeezes washing-up liquid over the bowls.
“Yeah, there’s a pile of clean ones just in the… Shit!” I exclaim, remembering.
“What?”
“I don’t have any hot water.”
“I can see,” he says with his hand under the tap.
“Yeah, it’s never worked and I need to call my landlord again. I’m really sorry,” I say, feeling even worse than I did a moment ago.
“You haven’t had a warm shower since you moved in?” He turns off the tap and turns around to face me.
“No, but it’s only been a few weeks,” I say.
“But it’s getting colder outside now. You need to get that fixed.”
“Thanks for the obvious advice, genius.” I tut.
He folds his arms. “You don’t need to get all snappy and sarcastic,” he levels at me.
For a moment I simply stare at him, blinking. Did he really just call me out?
“Well, you don’t need to overstay your welcome either,” I bite back.
He laughs at this. “Jesus, you don’t know when to stop, do you?”
