Charlie and Me. The Saga Continues

Charlie and Me. Chapter 12

Charlie takes a bit of a back seat, but not before unwittingly offending Constance.

I'm dedicating this to Henry, who was one of the many inspirations for Charlie. She was the angriest, most foul mouthed woman I ever worked with, and I liked her a great deal. She really was called Henry.

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Charlie and Me. Chapter 12

As I waited for Haydn and Constance to arrive, the phone rang. Thinking it might be Charlie, I idly put it onto speaker to leave both hands free to deal with my toast and tea.

‘Hawaii Five Oh. Steve McGarrett here.’

This is a fun ploy Charlie and I share when answering the phone. Charlie is sometimes half of CagneyandLacey, or Clarisse Starling, or Scarlett O’Hara. Sometimes I’m Harry Callaghan or Hannibal Lecter or Travis Bickle. All our friends know what we’re doing and tell us to stop mucking around. Any dolt from the Inland Revenue, or some dunderhead being paid per contact in a Slough call centre trying to sell us double glazing, ends up a bit confused. The whole ‘Tomorrow is another day!’ or ‘You talking to me? You talking to me?’ thing can really wrongfoot them. You may find this approach childish. Charlie and I find it hilarious. We didn’t ask these nitwits to call us halfway through a meal or at a critical point in a film we’re watching.

‘Hello Shithouse.’

‘Hello Charlie. Are you having a good time?’

‘Brilliant. Abby and I met the entire Dundee United under-18s squad last night, and they came back to Abby’s and pulled an overnight train on us.’

‘I expect they enjoyed that. Abby’s really good in bed.’

‘Yes I know.’

‘She tells me you’re crap.’

‘That’s what she told me about you.’

‘What did the footie players say about your performance?’

‘They were so shagged out they couldn’t speak. Of course, being so young, they were all driving express trains. Resilient though. Managed to keep the deadman’s handle under pressure.’

I became aware of a presence. I turned slightly. Aaah. Two presences. One was tiny and starchy, the other was my tame hacker.

‘Charlie I have to go now.’

I muttered apologies. Constance, surprisingly, explained the term ‘overnight train’ in a rather clinical way to a puzzled Haydn. She must have picked up the phrase editing some work of erotic fiction. Or, in proper grownup English, a wank pamphlet.

We sat in Mission Control with two big pots of tea and a whole tin of chocolate biscuits. Haydn, who as you know doesn’t get much exposure to solids, pitched in and stuffed his face. Constance deceptively nibbled her dainty way through the rest of the tin. I stuck to more toast and Marmite. I don’t like chocolate. I may be the only person in the world to be able to say that sincerely. It’s not that I dislike it, not in the way I dislike oysters. I just don’t like it; I simply can’t be bothered with it, except perhaps for a KitKat every couple of years. Sadly for the other two, Marmite gives you halitosis that will strip paint, but hell, my house, my space.

‘Constance, explain to me how you get a complete manuscript on your hands. Does the author give you an electronic file?’

‘Some of our more eccentric clients still use longhand, often written in green ink. If so, we have to transcribe it into an electronic format. However, most of our authors have been draggged kicking and screaming into the 1990s - the 21st century is a bit too much for them - and supply their drivelling as some form of word processed file.