A parcel came for Charlie. It was a small brown box that had been posted in France. He was still asleep, so I put it on the side, and it would be hours before he noticed it.

“Why didn’t you tell me that I had a package?”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

Charlie ripped the box open and pulled out a pile of magazines. They were called Catholica and there was a photo of him on the cover. He was in his underwear, or rather somebody else’s, and was seductively looking up at a stained glass window.

“Look at these. Matis has published my photos.”

“Who is Matis?” 

“I told you about him. He’s the photographer I met in Paris, who styles himself on Jacques Henri Lartigue.”

The name rolled off his tongue, but I had no idea who he was, and the expression on my face gave me away.

“Lartigue was France’s greatest photographer.”

“Is Matis a good photographer too?”

“The best. He has published in all the major magazines, and this might be the making of me.”

Charlie closed the box and any hope that he might give me a copy quickly vanished.

Later that day, I googled Matis, but found nothing. I persevered and eventually found him after searching for photographers based in Lille. He had an Instagram account and amidst countless images of half-naked boys, I discovered Charlie’s photos.

I knew this body well from the times when he’d sat on the floor in only his underwear and painted. I would steal glances while writing, and then pretend to be concentrating on my work whenever he looked my way.

Charlie wasn’t mine and hadn’t given any indication that he might be interested in me, but the more I looked at the photos, the more I became jealous.

I was envious of Matis, whose images also populated the page, that he was younger, in his late twenties, and more handsome than me. He’d cast a spell on Charlie, and I was increasingly afraid that he might lure him away, back to his homeland, and leave me behind.

That night, Levi was working, and Charlie spent ages in the shower, followed by his normal routine of applying expensive lotions.

I opened a bottle of wine and binge watched a Swedish tragicomedy where a naïve 27-year-old loses his father in an accident and does everything in his power to avoid his grief, and slips into the adult world of sex, drugs, and alcohol.

Charlie finally appeared in silk pyjamas and dressing gown, his hair neatly combed, and smelling of expensive French cologne. He made himself comfortable on the sofa beside me and, like always, placed his bare feet on my lap.

“Will you massage my feet?”

I gently stroked his soft skin while thinking that it was an intimate moment, but Charlie was absorbed in his iPhone.

“Matis has asked me to go back for more photos,” he said.

I wanted to say that I hated Matis and wished that he’d shut up about him. I also wanted to tell Charlie that I’d become very fond of him, that I was falling in love, and wished that he’d stay here with me.

I didn’t say anything like that because I was afraid that if I had, Charlie might become upset and say that it wasn’t what he wanted, and that it might be best if he moved out.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” I told him.