Health Care

It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve seen either Christopher or Sam. Sam is busy at work and his next two consecutive days off are well into next week. Christopher is still caught between work and study and from what I can gather, seeing Melissa. Apparently she’s getting despondent about her job in TGI Friday’s. Christopher’s been curious about getting her a placement within one of the Thompson’s branches.

Unsurprisingly on Saturday, Christopher makes his usual venture to get milk. Last week he’d taken the day off, presumably to spend with Melissa. He looks no different, and still his air of arrogance drifts in after him like a bad smell.

This time Katherine suppresses her usual audible scoff. I had told her in explicit detail about the events at the Thompson’s garden party, including the part about finally resolving mine and Christopher’s, let’s say, ‘differences’.

“Afternoon Alex,” he greets me with a nod. Katherine receives an awkward twitch of acknowledgement. She smiles forcefully back at him.

“How are you doing?” I ask him. Truthfully I want to ask how his parents are doing. Are you still storming to your room and slamming doors? My conscience grills him. Are you still causing everyone grief?

“I’ll tell you what, Alex,” he says quietly. He shoots a furtive glance at Katherine. It’s obvious he doesn’t want her to hear this. “Melissa’s invited me as her ‘plus one’ to a birthday party.”
Christopher at a birthday party? I imagine him sipping wine, sat awkwardly one somebody’s sofa next to a couple kissing passionately while the rest of the room dances provocatively around him.

“Right,” I say, half-interested. “That’s good.”

“No, it’s not,” Christopher presses on. “You see, I’m twenty-two. House parties aren’t my thing anymore.” When were they ever your thing, you uptight oddball? “But I really want to go, because I want to keep Melissa happy.”

“And you’re asking for my help?” I query. What did he expect me to do? Show him how to dance like a whore?

“Alexa, what do I even wear?” Oh shit. He really is asking for my help. I resist the urge to burst into fits of furious giggles. Katherine is trying even harder, ducking behind the counter to fish for more scratch-cards. I open my mouth to reply. Wait, what am I even going to say? I haven’t rooted through Christopher’s wardrobe for months.

“What I’m saying,” he says, cutting me short. “Is that I have the day off Monday. I presume you’re free?” As if I’d be busy, I scoff to myself. It is the summer after all.

“I think I’m free,” I say. Uncertainty, that’ll get him worried.

“Well maybe you and I could go shopping. Just into town. I can pick you up. We can choose me something to wear?” his eyes look at me imploringly. “I’m sorry, Alex, I’m just so hopeless.”

“Hopeless doesn’t even begin to describe it,” I mutter. “But okay.”

*

At exactly 10.56am, Christopher’s lavish car crunches onto my driveway. I snatch up my purse and keys and fly out of the front door before he has chance to call at it. As of yet, I’m in no position to invite him back into my house.

Christopher has made his best effort at casual in jeans and plimsolls. However, his loose white linen shirt is aching to be returned to his father’s wardrobe. He sees me surveying him.

“I told you I needed help,” he mutters, embarrassed. Christopher had been showing a whole variety of emotions recently; none I had seen ever seen before.

The drive into town is blissfully quiet. Christopher drums his hands on the steering wheel and asks polite questions about work, and sometimes about Sam.

“He’s busy with work,” I tell him. “He gets a couple days off next week though.”

“What is it that he does?” Christopher sounds interested. Will he judge Sam based on his estimated salary? Probably.

“He’s an estate agent,” I reply. Christopher nods, his brain cogs whirring. No, he doesn’t earn as much as the managing director of a pharmacy franchise if you're wondering, I feel like informing him.

Once we’re parked up, Christopher and I head to the elevators. Instinctively, his arm twitches and he retracts his arm towards his chest, looking sheepish. I stare him.

“What are you doing?” I ask. Christopher blushes. It’s uncomfortable to see.

“I, er,” he stammers. He’s trying to think of a story, but then he sighs. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m can’t get used to not holding your hand.” I blush as well. Gee, this really is awkward. We step into the elevator in silence. I watch as the buttons light up.

“We’ll start on Level One,” I say matter-of-factly, dismissing his earlier remark. After all, we can’t forget the reason we’re here. “They’ve got a good range of men’s clothes shop there. All high street brands, so you’ll fit in.” Nothing screams ‘douchebag’ like designer clothes.

Almost instantly, I pick up a pair of navy chinos. Skinny fit. Christopher eyes them suspiciously.

“You’re trying on everything together,” I say briskly, batting his hand away as he reaches for them. “You have to trust me.” Those words sound painfully familiar. I wince. So does Christopher. I busy myself by skimming through the rails.

Eventually, I’ve chosen a simple white t-shirt, a soft burgundy zip-up hoodie and a pair of navy lace-up plimsolls. Very London boy, all read and white. I even snatch up a pair of all-black retro-framed sunglasses. I pass them through the curtain in the dressing room, but Christopher doesn’t take them.

“Alex I already have sunglasses,” he says.

“Yes and they’re probably fucking Gucci or something like that,” I snap. “Remember, you’re trying not to look like a dick.” I wave the sunglasses around impatiently until Christopher huffs and takes them from me.

He whisks open the curtain and looks expectantly at me. I have to stop my jaw from hitting the ground. My God, he looks so hot. The white t-shirt lightly skims over his taught stomach and his shorts reveal a length of toned calves, dashed with dark hair.

“That’s it,” I say, in barely more than a whisper. The desire seeps from my lips thick and fast. I blush.

“Can you choose me more?” Christopher asks.

“Stay there,” I say, hurriedly. I quickly announce to the shop assistant that I’ll be returning with more. She hands me another ticket and grins. I don’t like her grin. I will make sure Christopher doesn’t ask her for a second opinion.

Rifling through the clothes, I pull out a pair of mustard chino shorts. Shorts, it has to be shorts. People eye me suspiciously as I tear around the store like a bull in a China shop. I tug down a red check shirt to match, along with a comfy pair of navy espadrilles. Flying back into the changing rooms, I hand Christopher the clothes, item by item. He stares incredulously at the espadrilles.

“Alex, they’re practically slippers.”

“You said you trusted me,” I snap back. “Now try it on.” I tug the curtain back over, reluctantly. He emerges once he's done looking well, divine ... again. I can’t stop ogling at his legs.

“Do you think Melissa will approve?” he asks. Melissa who? Oh right. “She liked me in my suit,” he says quietly.

“Yes but you can’t wear a suit to a house party!” I remind him.

After just over three hours, Christopher has returned with a two more pairs of plimsolls, his espadrilles and a pair of flip-flops, three pairs of chino shorts, a new pair of ragged jeans, two check shirts, one polo shirt, four t-shirts, two zip-up hoodies, sunglasses and pair of jean shorts. He paid for it all with his credit card, and even bought us both lunch in a small café.

“I can’t thank you enough for this,” he says.

“What, it’s not like I paid for them,” I say casually, sipping my coffee. He grumbles as though to remind me that isn’t what he meant. Of course it isn’t, but I’m not in the mood to get into anything deep right now. In fact, I’m feeling half-weird for the fact that I’ve spent the whole day doing Melissa’s job. I wonder how I would feel if Sam had gone shopping with his ex-girlfriend.

“I’m getting excited for this party now,” Christopher confesses.

“You’re not done yet,” I remind him. “What’s your favourite alcoholic drink?” My conscience rubs her hands together with glee.

“Er, I don’t know,” Christopher stammers, taken aback. “Maybe wine?”

“Wrong,” I deadpan. “Your favourite alcoholic drink is lager. Take a crate of lager and you’ll be everyone’s pal.”

Christopher wrinkles his nose but admits defeat. He agrees to stop by at a supermarket on the journey home.