The Missing O

The shift key on my typewriter had broken.

I swore loudly, rattling the large, clunky thing between my hands. The typewriter had served me well, I would not deny that. It must have been thirty years old, at least, decades of beautiful literature having taken it’s toll on the old and worn body. It’s limbs were stiff, one letter missing all together.

I’d thought about replacing the O. Even looked around for one-off typewriter keys, but for whatever reason I could never will myself into actually fixing it on. There was a certain charm about the way the empty key felt against the tip of my finger; sharp, slightly uncomfortable. The familiar awkwardness warmed me in a way, even if at times I would glide over it, not even notice that a part was missing.

But now, with the remaining half of a page waiting to be written up, my patients for the old-timer was wearing thin. I knew, sooner or later, I would have to take it in to be repaired. And when I did, they’d replace the small, round, black missing key. I knew once that happened, I would become disenchanted by it.

So I attempted to fix the faulty shift key myself. An hour or so spent sighing and swearing, and finally it was useable. But it wouldn’t last.

Under the shadow of the second night spent at the Tavern, Marlow and Kid fled.

Awoken in the middle of the night, Kid dragged the young girl from the warmth of a foreign bed, and to her dismay he would not utter a word about their sudden upheaval. Marlow sensed a pattern in the workings of Kid’s mind; she would not be told anything of great significance for a long while. She would have to wait, shut up and run.

Through fields of hissing corn and streams that mudded the hem of her summer dress - no longer suitable for the weather of a decaying world - they ran until they could run no more.

Hand in hand, side by side, they slowed in a meadow that was overcome by moonlight and wild flowers. Trees enclosed them in a circle of frosted green, the smell of fresh pine sweeping over the boy and girl as they took in their surroundings.

“Are you tired?” Kid asked, sweeping his cloak away from his shoulders and over hers. Marlow shuddered under the sudden comfort before relaxing into the olive material. His scent of warm spices flooded her senses, and soon she found that she was indeed tired.

Falling down into the beds of purple and blue flowers, she lay her head down and her eyes fluttered shut. In the morning she would wake to another day of running and unanswered questions.

***

The day I received the brown envelope from France was the same day that Kaitlyn got sick. With all of the Christmas shopping done, wrapped and piled under the pathetic excuse for a tree (there was less than twenty baubles hanging crookedly, and the lights didn’t work), I’d forgotten almost entirely about the card my mother sent every year.

I scooped it up from the matt and looked it over whilst Charlie made “Mhmm” noises on the phone to the doctor.

Miss M. Roché it read above the scripted address. Trust my mother to be so coldly formal on something like a Christmas card. Though I suppose mine had been a notch more callous; I hadn’t even written her name, just the house and area code and that it should be sent to Bordeaux, France.

At first I flung the envelope on the counter, beside a stack of junk mail and warning letters about the electric bill we’d somehow managed to pay the day before. No point opening them now. Charlie eyed it, saw the formal handwriting and turned her back on it.

Lately the two of us had drifted slightly, I suppose it would be expected what with her new relationship with Matt and all. She could only serve out so much of herself. But by treating my mothers resentment towards me as a battle of her own, turning her nose up at just the sight of her handwriting, made me remember that Charlie still was my best friend.

“He thinks it’s just a fever or something,” Charlie flipped her hair when she put the phone down, sitting at the table beside Kaitlyn who was gurgling in her high chair, her cheeks flushed pink. “We need to keep a record of her temperature, three times a day for the next few days, to see if it gets any worse.”

My friend sighed, looking at her daughter tiredly. The baby had kept us both up all night, but with Katie being in Charlie’s room, I’m sure I’d managed an ounce more sleep. Katie had been wailing, waking up every hour. When Charlie noticed she had a temperature she started panicking, right up until the eight-thirty am, when the doctors opened and she was able to phone up.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” I smiled at the little girl, her wisps of dark hair curling all around her head like a tigers mane. I stroked her hot cheek, her rosebud lips turning up in response. Such a happy baby.

“Moggam!” she clapped her stubby hands together. She giggled and snorted as I pinched at her nose, the second the tip of my index pressed against her skin she let a squeal of delight and amusement. Charlie let out a groan of frustration.

“Please, Morgan. I’m dying here.” She dipped her head and rested it on her folded arms, hidden behind a mass of platinum blond hair. Her locks, although always maintained to her best standard, hadn’t looked so dry in the past weeks. Maybe because of the new hairdresser she’d been visiting, courtesy of Matt Nicholls.

I’d learned that Matt was, despite his laddish behaviour, a bit of a softy when it came to his women. He’d do anything for someone he really gave a shit about, and apparently he was pretty whipped by Charlie. So roll on the hair cuts, nail manicures and the two new dresses I’d spotted in her wardrobe when rooting for something to wear to work one day. Both were unworn and both still had the price tag on. Together they cost more than the just barely paid electric bill.

Seemingly content, I didn’t ask Matt nor Charlie about any of this. Though with every new purse, every stuffed toy for Katie, a new question wrote itself on the end of the ever growing list. Like, how in the hell could he afford all of this and why did neither of them mention what Matt did for a living? And if he was so well-off, how come Charlie’s Cosmopolitan and Vogue subscriptions were being paid for instead of the rent, or the heating bill?

“So,” Charlie asked, head still pressed to the table, “What time does I’m-An-A-Hole Sykes want us over tomorrow night?”

Charlie obviously still hated Oliver, despite the effort he made to pretend to like her. At least he tried, which is more than I can say for her. She’d been overjoyed when Matt had asked her over for dinner Friday night - that was until he’d added that they’d be joining me in a meal Oliver was cooking for us all.

I guess I’d been a little disappointed that the two of us wouldn’t be alone, but as soon as the notion crossed me I realised that maybe just he and I together wouldn’t be such a good idea.

“Half seven. The baby-sitter will be here on the hour.”

Charlie grumbled for what was far too many times this early in the morning. “I’m not sure if I should go, especially if Kaitlyn’s sick. Though I suppose it would be a bit awkward just the three of you. Maybe I could get Matt to come over here.”

“No!” I exclaimed. Katie giggled.

“Why not?” Charlie cocked an eyebrow.

“Because…then it would just be me and Oliver.”

Charlie laughed and with it’s twinkling sound she seemed to spring into life, pushing herself up from the table by her hands and scraping her short hair up by the elastic hair band she had around her wrist.

“In my opinion, yes, that sounds absolutely vile,” she shuddered at the thought of Oliver and herself alone. As did I. “But I thought you were all ready and set to jump his bones?”

I felt the colour flood from my face and to my ears, hot. “What? No! We’re just friends!”

“Oh, come on!” She rolled her eyes as she scooped Katie out of her seat. “You turn practically crimson whenever I mention his name.”

“Do not.” Great comeback there, Morgan. Really.

Charlie shook her head, smirking, “And you text constantly. Never mind the three hour phone calls. Give it up, Morgan, you like him. You’re just so damn stubborn and insecure that you won’t admit it.”

Sometimes you know what somebody is telling you is the complete truth, you just don’t want to believe it. So, of course, I thought every word coming out of Charlie’s mouth was utter bullshit. However, no amount of arguing would change Charlie’s mind and I had to leave for work that morning facing the fact that tomorrow night I would be left in Oliver’s apartment with him, alone.

***

Did you know that no matter how long you spend staring at your wardrobe, it doesn’t make it any easier to decide on what to wear? I stood, hair wrapped up in a towel from the shower I’d just walked out of, in nothing but my underwear. Even though I knew there was no way Matt would just saunter into my bedroom willy-nilly, I was glad my door had a lock on it.

I could hear the three of them in the living room, Charlie, Katie and Matt. All talking - well, more babbling on Katie’s part - and through the thin walls I heard the mention of a takeaway. It sounded like a good idea, a night in without having to worry about cooking, maybe watch a film and park my arse on the comfy couch. But no. No, I had to stress over something so petty and shallow such as what to wear.

“Charlie!” I whined, giving up. The door opened and when my friend poked her head round the door to see me standing in nothing but my bra and pants she hurried in, closing the door sharply behind her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Why’re you naked?”

“Everything’s wrong! I can’t decide what to wear, I’ve got to be there in less than an hour and I don’t want to go!” I said. Maybe waving my arms around and throwing myself on my bed was a bit dramatic.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” I was pulled up off the bed by my wrists. Charlie held my shoulders tightly, looking me straight in the eye. “You do want to go, Morgan, you’re just scared. Suck it up, for god’s sake.”

“I’m not scared, I just-”

“Yes, you are. This is the closest you’ve gotten to someone other than me and Katie in what? Two years? You’re out of practise Love, and you’re freaking out.”

“Wow,” I muttered as she loosened her grip on the top of my arms, “Way to boost my confidence there, Charles.”

Ignoring me, Charlie called through to the living room, “Matt! I’ve got to help Morgan with something, I’ll be a while.”

I heard a muffled response from the other side of the wall and then Charlie spun round, all business with her eyes set on my wardrobe. As soon as she began flinging things on the floor I knew there was no getting out of this. Charlie couldn’t dress herself on the spot, but she practically had a heart attack at the chance to dress me up. If I tried to back out, she’d drive me to Oliver’s herself, just so not to waste her effort.

“Now,” she said and I sat down, preparing myself for this. “You don’t want to dress up. He’s invited you over to his apartment, which means no heels, no dresses. The more casual you are, the better-”

“But-”

“Don’t interrupt me, Morgan, I’ll loose my train of thought,” she held up an old blouse that both her and I hated, dismissing it to the floor. “Even though it’s only his place, this is way more important a fancy restaurant. He’s inviting you into his home, he’s showing you a part of him that’s personal.”

“You don’t know how wrong that sounds,” I smirked.

Charlie rolled her eyes, “If you sleep with him, that’s your deal. I’m just here to dress you.” I scowled; she knew I hated when she talked like that, it wasn’t even like I could deny her accusations, she’d simply ignore me. She held up another blouse, “What about this, with some jeans and those black flats with the zips?”

I looked at the old grey sweater; no design, no embroidery. All it had going for it was the quality of the knitting and the off the shoulder neckline.

“It’s a bit…Sunday afternoon at home, isn’t it?” I cocked an eyebrow, trying to figure out what the hell she saw in my lumpy jumper.

“Exactly.” The look I gave her must have portrayed just what I was thinking, because she then felt the need to explain herself. “Look, Morgan, trust me. It’ll be fine. Just wear a necklace or something if you feel too dressed down. You don’t want to make him think you’re trying too hard, do you?”

“Guess not.”

“So just take my word for it.”