The Missing O

“Go on, Katie,” Matt had cooed, grinning at the little girl. “Go on. Say Matty. Ma-tty.”

Kaitlyn, sat atop the settee with her favourite stuffed bunny rabbit, seemed so very intrigued by the man in front of her. He had auburn brown hair, cut short but grown long and choppy over his brow. Intently, curiously, she stared at the black circles that bordered a gaping hole in his earlobes, and if she could have she would have reached forward and pulled at one. But her mother had already scorned her for doing so.

Matt sat, cross-legged on our living room floor, gazing at the little girl. He seemed bewitched by her, he had done ever since he’d met his girlfriends daughter. Ever since he and Charlie had made it official, he’d spent more and more time with both of them.

Kaitlyn, smiling now, gargled out, “Mappy!”

Snorting, I bit down on my bottom lip, suppressing my laughter. Matt seemed unfazed, and saw Katie’s mispronunciation as some sort of Godsend.

“Charlie!” He called, and my friend looked up from the magazine she had been reading. “Charlie, did you hear that? She nearly said my name!” Matt turned and grinned at Katie, “You’re so clever, little Katie.”

“Mmm,” Charlie buried her nose back in the pages of her glossy. I watched her from the corner of the room where I was doodling on an old Bill envelope, studied her bored facial expression and her slouching body language.

Matt ignored his girlfriends mood, forcing all of his intention on Katie. The two seemed happy, babbling and giggling at one another. I felt so out of the picture, sat all the way over on the other side of the room. But Charlie seemed even more separated from the two, and it made me feel uneasy.

With Charlie, no matter what, Katie always came first. Like any mother, she would find herself pulling at the roots of her hair, at a breaking point, where she thought she couldn’t take anymore. The crying, the constant demand for attention, the need to be responsible. It was a lot to ask of a twenty-one year old. But still, at the end of the day she was a damned good mother.

But right at this very moment, hair being twisted through her fingers, Charlie looked as though she couldn’t give a rats ass about her daughters progression. Maybe she was just tired. Yes. That’s what I put it down to, not wanting to dwell on it.

Matt stayed for tea - he ordered Chinese for us, which I must have thanked him for a million times - and left just shy of nine o’ clock, claiming an early start in the morning. Charlie went out into the hall with him, sparing me the image of a sloppy goodbye, and when she returned to the apartment she went straight to bed.

I heard her humming to Katie, the mutter as she spoke to her sleeping child. Turning the television off and climbing from under the warmth of the blanket I had covered myself with, I rapped lightly on the bedroom door.

Charlie was pulling a pyjama top over her head when I opened the door.

“Is it okay to talk, Charles?” I asked, waiting for the nod so I would be able to invite myself in.

Having Katie, it meant that Charlie got the larger of the two bedrooms. It wasn’t a huge difference in space, and what difference there was got taken up by Kaitlyn’s things; her bed, toys, clothes, etc. It was decorated simply; cream walls, a red bed-spread, wooden furniture and the same floorboards that ran throughout the whole flat. Not exactly a tranquil escape.

“What’s up?” Charlie asked, bored. She busied herself with folding back the bed sheets.

I sniffed, leaning against the doorframe. “I was going to ask you the same thing,” I said. “You seem really spaced out. You okay?”

“Fine.”

Watching her, I noticed the subtle changes Charlie had made over the past few weeks. Her hair had been trimmed and re-bleached, the tone just a little lighter than before. Matt paid for it, of course. She had started to wear different make-up, not as heavy or dark, and she’d taken a few of the rings from her ears. Small changes, but I noticed them.

“Come on, Charlie,” I sighed, keeping to a whisper so not to wake Kaitlyn. “What is it? Is it Matt?”

“What?” she fluffed a pillow, throwing it down to the bed. “No.”

“Then what?” My friend shook her head, turning her back to me. I could tell she wanted to be alone in her room, but the worry for her was overpowering the will to give up and walk away. I asked, cautiously, “Is it something I’ve done?”

“Of course not,” she breathed, getting in to bed. “Goodnight Morgan.”

Turning the bed-side lamp off, Charlie left me in darkness by the doorway. Leaving me with scarcely any other option, I left her room, closing the door behind me, wondering what the hell was going on.

The next morning I awoke to a note, attached to the fridge door by one of the magnets I’d stolen from work. After reading it twice, I crumpled it, leaving it to be thrown away with the recycling. Charlie had taken Kaitlyn out for the day, instead of day-care.

I knew she wouldn’t be back until late tonight, if she came home at all. She’d started sleeping over at Matt and Oliver’s place, and recently Kaitlyn had started to tag along. Which means I’d be alone in the flat again, cooking for one. Maybe I could borrow a laptop from the office, so I could work at home instead of staying.

The over-time, although it was keeping the roof over our heads, was still something very unpleasant. I had seen Mr Wydell once since the incident just over a week ago now. He’d walked out of his room after a day hidden behind the door, as usual, and he hadn’t even noticed me, hunched over my Mac screen, until he’d been right at the front door.

“Oh,” he’d said, face alarmed. “Margaret. Still - uh - working, I see? Well. Lock up when you leave, I’m going home. Goodnight.”

I’d lifted a hand in an attempt at a wave, but he’d shot through out onto the street so fast, he couldn’t have seen it. He’d been jittery, nervous. I knew for sure now that I wouldn’t be losing my job over this. If Mr Wydell was going to give me the sack, he would have done it already. However, it didn’t make working for him any less agonising.

“Margaret?” Oliver had snorted when he’d picked me up that night and I’d told him of my boss’ awkwardness. “What a twat! It’s obvious that he’s shitting himself. He probably thinks your going to call the police on him or something. Which you probably should. Get him done for sexual harassment or something.”

“But he didn’t actually do anything,” I had pointed out. It was cold that night, so we’d had the heating turned up all the way. Oliver had taken his coat off, flung it in the backseat over two Drop Dead boxes.

“And?” he’d scoffed. “Pigs don’t know that. You could ham it up a little, say he put his hands on you.”

“That in itself is illegal. Lying to the police,” I laughed. Oliver smirked, shrugging as he drove me home.

It was a regular occurrence now, for him to pick me up and drive me home - if he wasn’t busy and I was working late; which was most nights. Even on the occasions that I wouldn’t fine myself in the warmth of the VW he would still demand me to text him to make sure I’d gotten home okay.

Ever since the incident in the bookshop, Oliver had kept his distance from me. We still saw each other every night after work, and we still met up in the café, but he’d withdrawn from putting his arm around me or even bumping my shoulder whenever we walked together. I thought it didn’t bother me, but after I while I noticed it like a sore thumb, just like I had started to notice the changes in Charlie.

Which brings me to the relationship between my best friend and Oliver. Apparently, they weren’t too fond of one another.

“She’s just so,” Oliver always paused, trying to find the word. “In your face,” he’d finish with.

Charlie was harsher, “He’s such an arrogant bastard,” she growled when having returned from Matt’s one night. It seemed her and Oliver hadn’t quite seen eye-to-eye about something. “I don’t know how you can spend so much time with him.”

The truth was, I didn’t know why either. Nowadays, with Charlie being so busy with Matt, it seemed like Oliver was my second life-line. My back up for when I had no-one to do the grocery shopping with, or someone to get a coffee with on a Saturday afternoon. He was there to fill in the gaps when Charlie flitted off.

Somewhere along the line, without me even stopping to notice or do anything about it, Oliver and I had become friends. We spoke on the phone, met on weekends and argued about stupid things like what movies were good and bad. I hadn’t meant for it to happen, but it appeared to have occurred without my knowing, and now it was too late for me to do anything about it.

“You want to come over some time?” Oliver had asked one Sunday.

I remember that that was the first time I realised that he and I had a solid relationship. It had stumped me for words for a while, shocked me to the core. But, surprising myself, I regained my composure faster than I would have expected.

“You mean come over to your place?” I pulled at a fuzzy string of wool on my purple scarf.

Moving closer, like he always did, Oliver rested his elbows on the table, in turn resting his chin on the palm of his right hand. “Sure,” he shrugged. “Watch a movie or something. Might even cook for you if you’re nice to me.”

I ignored the uncomfortable squeeze in my gut. “Oliver Sykes cooks?”

Rolling his eyes, Oliver coolly flicked a layer of hair from his eyes and folded his arms. “I’ll have you know,” he began matter-of-factly, “That I am an amazing cook. Fantastic, even.”

“Really? I figured you as a microwave or take-out sort of guy.”

“Don’t insult me, Morgan. That meal is slipping farther from your grasp the more you dig that little hole of yours.” He smirked, sipping from his coffee whilst I chuckled to myself. He did his lean-on-the-table thing again and spoke, more off hand, “I get it from my mum. Sort of drummed it into me. Tom wasn’t joking when he said we have cookbooks in the bathroom.”
“What’s your mums name?” I smiled.

“Carol.”

Carol Sykes. I wondered what she must be like, being the mother of two boys; both gobby shites, one a seven foot, tattooed know-it-all, the other a smart-mouthed aspiring photographer. Anyone would imagine her as the type of mother who didn’t know jack about her kids, who didn’t care where they were, what they were doing or who they were with. But, in my mind, I saw a warm person, always slaving over a hot stove, with mice-pies coming out of her ears at this time of year.

To raise Oliver and Tom, she must be tough-skinned but soft hearted. A mother that would tell you it was stupid to try and jump that rail on your skateboard, but would bandage up the cuts and bruises with a kiss on the head and a pat on the shoulder. A mother that was always there, no matter what.

“She sounds lovely,” I smiled, staring into my glass, empty of full fat coke. “From what you’ve told me, anyway.”

“Mmm. She is,” I knew he was watching me, but I didn’t look up. “So. What do say?”

My stomach twisted again, almost painful this time. I could have looked up at him, ignored the twist, ignored his pretty eyes and pretended I was calm and collected. But that was impossible, I knew it. So when I did face him, I was prepared to be overcome with a sickness that hit right to the back of my throat, sweated to the palms of my hands.

“Friday night okay?” I spewed.

With a flutter of his pretty eyelashes, Oliver was, as always, smiling. “Great. You’re not allergic to nuts are you?”