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Chapter Eight

CHARLIE

I wake up with a start on the couch, after snoozing for an hour. The wine we drank after our meal was enough, coupled with the early starts and late nights that go alongside working on a case as huge as the Otex acquisition, to send me over into oblivion for a little while. Sal is smiling down at me when I wake; dark curls falling over one eye.

‘God, sorry, Sal, did I snore? Jesus, I’m shattered.’ I yawn, a huge jaw-stretching yawn.

‘Ha, no. You’re OK. I know you’re tired – the case must be taking its toll on you. No, I was just thinking about when we met. Remember that summer?’

‘How could I forget?’ I pull Sal in for a hug and squeeze tight, last night’s row completely erased from my mind. ‘Picnics in the park, your crappy old car that could barely get us from A to B without something dropping off it, drinking cider in the sun – those were the days!’ I laugh. Those were the days, once I persuaded Sal that moving into my place was the right idea. Those flatmates Sal shared with were a nightmare – all they wanted to do was take Sal away from me, with their promises of gigs to see obscure bands that no one except them (and Sal) had ever heard of, and wild house parties, full of dodgy punch and people being sick on the stairs. An actual nightmare. One of them actually had the nerve to tell me that he thought I was ‘too controlling’ of Sal – he soon shut up once I told him I knew he had slept with his lecturer and did he want me to let the head of department at the uni know? It’s amazing what information you can pick up when everyone else around you has had too much to drink, while you stay sober – that and the fact that the lock on his bedroom door was incredibly easy to pick. Once I had Sal moved into my place, I could decide who Sal saw, where Sal went, everything. I could keep Sal with me, all night, every night. There’s nothing controlling about it – it’s just keeping an eye on your other half.

‘It seems like a long time ago now.’ I smile at Sal, ‘And here we are still, together, despite it all. Together through thick and thin, that’s us, Sal. We don’t need anyone else, you know that. I love you more than anyone. More than anyone ever has or ever will. Remember that, Sal. I’d die if you left me.’ A tiny frown drifts across Sal’s brow before Sal stands and, disentangling our arms and legs from each other, holds a hand out to me.

‘Enough of that. Come on, sleepy head. Let’s go up to bed.’