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Chapter 2 – In the Hunter's Den
The ball had been returned, however Mr Campbell had required Charlie to stay in the store until her father arrived with his cheque book.
Rarely did Charlie's father look poorly on her behaviour, and this incident was no exception. He reassured Charlie to stay put while he juggled his diary and caught a cab to Thompson and Cambells, meanwhile he spoke briefly with Mr Campbell to alleviate any concerns he had.
In the meantime Mr Campbell had provided Charlie with a stout wooden chair to sit on. While he worked on some alterations he started a staccato conversation with the bedraggled Charlie interspersed with the hum of a sewing machine and a mouthful of pins.
"So you're father said you are from out of town? Is that so?"
"Yes, I came with him on this business trip, which sucks. I've been cooped up in our shitty hotel room for weeks and at the first chance I get to get out and about I end up stuck here instead of shooting some hoops."
"That's quite a tongue you've got there girl – didn't your mother teach you better?"
"What is this, twenty questions? And no – she didn't, she died."
Charlie's curt rejoinder silenced Mr Campbell temporarily. "Would you like a soda? I have some in the kitchenette."
Parched after several galloping games of basketball, and a bit cold after spending the morning running through pools of melted slush Charlie pushed her luck. "Actually I'll have some coffee if you've got it."
"What?" Mr Campbell fixed her with that steely gaze he had used on her earlier.
"Some coffee – I'll have it if you've got it."
"No its: I'll have some coffee please . Please is the key word here young lady"
"Please then, can I have some coffee."
"Of course, how would you like it."
"White with two… please"
"That's better." Mr Campbell put down his alterations and moved into the back.
Again Charlie was hit by the staidness of the store. Everything had its place, everything was perfectly arranged, from the plain yet elegant business cards on the front counter to the immaculately white business shirts arranged in their wooden pigeon holes along the wall. It screamed perfection, with a touch of obsessive-compulsive…
Mr Campbell returned with two cups of coffee. "I'm sorry, for mentioning your mother – I wasn't aware" Mr Campbell apologised as he offered the steaming cup of coffee to the young girl.
"That's alright." Charlie accepted the cup gratefully.
"So is your name really Charlie?" Mr Campbell renewed his questioning.
"No its not, but everyone just calls me Charlie"
"Well, what is your actual name, the name your parent's gave you?"
"If you must know Mr busy body its Charlotte, but I've always preferred Charlie."
"Clearly." Mr Campbell accentuated his response by taking a sip on his coffee.
"What's that supposed to mean then?"
"Nothing. Except here you are, an obviously pretty little girl, and you choose to dress like that? Sneakers and jeans indeed, and what is that abomination? You could house three Italian matrons in that sweatshirt."
Charlie looked down at her feet, she wore this because it was comfortable, because she could play ball in it, because it was WHO SHE WAS. She promptly told Mr Campbell so, in not so many words.
"And a mouth like a sewer as well I see." He responded to her comments.
Luckily before Charlie could lose her temper further at this pompous git, this opinioned twat – her father arrived.
The bell tinkled and Charlie's father strode in, looking harried as he often did during a work day, but determined. He glanced at Charlie and was in the process of reaching for his bill fold when he stopped dead in the middle of the store.
"My God – Frank – is that you? Frank Campbell? Jesus, it's been years, I haven't seen you since you left the firm after college."
Mr Campbell, apparently Frank to Charlie's father, embraced Charlie's dad passionately. Two old friends reunited, and now completely oblivious to both Charlie and the broken window whose fate had so ironically forever entwined Charlie's fate to Mr Campbell…
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