Ella’s fixated on the programme again but patting the cushions on the chair around as if looking for something. The blanket rag lies on the floor and I pick it up, handing the item to her. Ella’s face lights up and she sniffs loudly.
“Thank you,” she says.
I can’t help but grin at the little girl, guilt over making her cry wiped away. “You’re welcome, little lady.”
She giggles at my phrase and I wink at her. I catch sight of Cerys standing in the kitchen doorway with a cup of juice in her hand, staring at me. Embarrassed at being seen giving in to Ella, I straighten and drop the grin. Cerys’s brown eyes tear up too, confusing the hell out of me. Is crying over nothing a family thing?
I walk toward the doorway, ensuring I look at her face and not her tits this time.
Cerys steps to one side to allow me to pass. “Thank you,” she says softly.
“‘S’okay, don’t want her having a meltdown.” I pause, wishing for some crazy reason she’d look at me the way she’s looking at her daughter.
“She’s not that kind of child,” says Cerys. “She’s having a hard time, so I appreciate you being nice to her.”
Goldie trots past me, and climbs onto the sofa next to Ella, resting his head on her leg. Cerys goes over and hands her daughter the bright blue cup before perching on the seat next to her. The little girl snuggles up to her mum, and Cerys strokes Ella’s hair as they watch the god-awful TV show together.
I hover in the doorway, looking around the room that’s adorned with the same gold and red garlands we had as a kid. The scent of pine from the Christmas tree, which is already dropping needles onto the gifts beneath, pulls me to my own childhood, a stable, happy one.
Poor kid, not in her own house and without her dad at Christmas. I hope some of the brightly wrapped presents beneath the tree are Ella’s.
CHAPTER 3
LIAM
The house fills with the smell of perfume and the sounds of girlish laughter. A pyjamaed Ella drinks milk in the kitchen, watching my every move as I walk across to the huge, white fridge and pull out a beer.
“Are you going out with Mummy?” she asks.
I wrinkle my nose at her. “No, I don’t think your mummy and Lou would want me there. I don’t wear enough perfume.”
She chuckles. “You’re funny. Men don’t wear perfume.”
“I do. I like to wear really, smelly perfume,” I whisper.
“Like Mummy’s? My mummy smells nice.”
“I’m sure your mummy smells nice, too,” I say and I have no idea why.
“Whose mummy smells nice?” asks Louise as she walks in carrying her shoes.
“Liam says Mummy smells nice.”
“What? No! We were talking about how people smell!”
Louise arches an eyebrow. “When did you start sniffing my friends, Liam?”
“I didn’t. For fu...” Louise throws me a look and I glance at Ella. “The house stinks of perfume! It’s like being in a house with teenage girls again.”
“Better than your teenage boy feet!” retorts Louise. “I see Mum put your boots outside. Nothing changes, huh?”
I glower at her and Ella watches our sibling argument attempting to hide her amusement. Yeah, nothing changes; I’m no rock star in this house.
Louise is dressed for a Christmas night out, short, tight, black dress, tinsel in her hair and flashing Christmas tree earrings. I suspect she’s going further afield than the local pub.
“Is Connor going with you?” I ask her.
“No, girls’ night, leaving the men at home.” She smirks. “It’s been a long time since me and Cerys had a girls’ night together.”
“Cardiff, two years ago,” says Cerys as she joins us in the kitchen.
“Yeah, you would move to bloody Cardiff so I never see you anymore.”
Cerys shifts her look to the floor. Her and Ella live in Cardiff now? Why the hell is she here? As Cerys isn’t looking at me, I check her out. Same as when I came home a few years ago, there’s something inappropriate about imagining my little sister’s friend naked. So I try not to. And fail. Her dress isn’t as tight or revealing as Louise’s, a dark blue and a bit floatier or however a chick would describe it. I will not look at her tits. I fail at the exact moment Cerys lifts her head and looks at me. I pull my mouth down into a ‘sorry’ face.
Cerys puts a hand to her necklace, the pendant sitting just above the top of her dress and she twists the gold chain around a finger, glaring at me. The diamonds set into the gold heart catch the light.
“I like your necklace,” I tell her.
“Sure, you were looking at my necklace, Liam…” Cerys sits on the chair next to Ella and pushes on her black heels.
“You look pretty, Mummy,” says Ella.
“Thank you, Baby.” She kisses Ella’s head and musses her hair.
“You smell good, too.”
Louise sniggers and I shoot her a warning look in case she decides to share our earlier conversation. Raising both eyebrows, she opens her mouth, still looking at me. “Liam says you...”
For fuck’s sake, her body grew but she’s still an annoying kid sister. “Shut up, Lou!”
I grab her around the waist and try to put my hand over her mouth.
Lou turns her face away, the giggling turning into gasping laughter. “Liam says you...” I clamp my hand over her mouth and hold her tight. She wriggles, trying to pull my hand from her mouth.
Cerys shakes her head, aware of the familiarity of the situation, too; she’s known us since we were in primary school.
When Louise breaks free, she shoves me. “You ruined my hair!”
I hold up my hand, fingers covered in deep red lipstick. “Yuk!”
“Liam! Now I have to put my make-up back on! You’re such an asshole!”
“You started it!” I retort.
“Screw you, big brother!” she calls as she heads toward the stairs.
I flick the mixer tap on over the sink and grab the hand wash. “Sometimes, I forget you’re Liam Oliver, the rock star,” says Cerys quietly. “You’re no different than the guy I knew growing up.”
I look through the open kitchen curtains toward the opposite houses decked out with Christmas lights. “Yeah. Seems a million miles from everywhere being here.” Lipstick removed from my hands, I grab the tea towel and turn around.
“What’s a rock star?” asks Ella.
Interesting. How do I define that to a four year old?
“Liam plays guitars, Ella. Like the ones in his bedroom. He’s a musician.”
“So he doesn’t collect rocks?”
I laugh. “Not recently. I don’t think you’d like my music though, not as good as... whatever you watched earlier.”
Me and Cerys exchange a smile.
“Mummy says I can go and see them,” announces Ella
“Oh?” I say.
“Peppa Pig and company are playing in Cardiff next year. Lucky me, huh?” says Cerys.
“Damn, we have competition! Not sure Blue Phoenix could match... what are they called again?”
“Peppa Pig,” says Ella. “I have one. I’ll show you.” She jumps down from her chair and disappears.
I reach over for my forgotten beer and Cerys folds her arms across her chest. Without Ella to cover the gaps, I don’t know what to say. It’s not like Cerys is some groupie who’s going to rave on about the band and fill in my need to speak. Plus, I rarely get a word in when I’m with Honey, so I’m lost what to say here. I know if I do open my mouth I’ll say something inappropriate. I won’t know why or what, but I usually do around chicks.
Honey.
Is it shit of me to have blanked her to the point she doesn’t exist? And if I have, does this mean she’s not in my heart? I stare at my bare feet. Shouldn’t the woman you’re going to marry be in your heart and soul? She cheated on me. Shouldn’t I be cut up about that rather than relieved at a way out?
“What are you thinking about?” asks Cerys.
“Honey.”
Curiously, Cerys’s cheeks turn pink and she busies herself tidying up after her daughter. See, told you I’d say something inappropriate. Why do I feel it’s inappropriate? Cerys knocks over the half-full glass of milk and the contents spill across the table and drip onto the floor.
“Shit!” she says and stares at the dripping milk, tears in her eyes.
Seriously, there’s something weird about how ready her tears are. I almost, and thankfully, stop myself, make a comment about crying over spilt milk. On the verge of stepping in and showing Cerys my awesome domestic skills with a roll of kitchen towels, Mum walks in.
“Is Ella ready for bed?” She spots the milk. “Did the little monkey make a mess?”
“She did,” I say, watching for Cerys’s reaction. “Little monkey.”
Cerys snaps her head around to me and I smirk. The lost look that hovers at the edge of her eyes retreats slightly as she shakes her head at me. In the kitchen, with Mum, a childhood friend, and the annoying sister I love who reappears in the doorway, I’m happy. An inside, heart-bursting happy. I don’t have to worry about what any of them think of me, because with them, I’m the old me.
But I’m not; I left this for something different. Different but not necessarily better.
CHAPTER 4
LIAM
We grow up and leave home, become adults in the outside world, forging our path in life. Then we come home to mums and dads, grandparents, family and all that new life is swept away by time rewinding. As I sit on the squeaky, black leather sofa and finish my sixth beer whilst sitting with Mum and Dad, I feel eighteen again.
Dad has a beer too, but he isn’t drinking at my pace. He sits in the chair he’s had for years, and refuses to upgrade. Would I have become my dad? I look like him, although his red hair is shorter and receding these days. Now he’s the manager of the car garage he works at, he doesn’t come home covered in oil, but I’m annoyed he still chooses to work when he now has the means to retire early. They could travel; have fun after years of bringing up me and Louise.
Mum spends the evening fussing at Goldie, the smelly animal sprawled across the sofa next to her. She settled Ella into bed after Cerys left, like a surrogate grandmother. It’s clear Mum likes having Ella around although the last day or two I’ve seen Dad rub his temples and mutter during one of Ella’s tantrums. Cerys implied Ella isn’t a melt-down girl, which worries me. This four year old is enough for me; I can’t imagine having kids who are worse than she is.
Imagine having kids. I snort at myself. Sure, Honey will pop one out and drag it on tour with us. Unlikely. Besides, she’s still pursuing her big acting career. Small parts in sitcoms, with guys who like playing tonsil tennis with her, are all she’s managed so far.
Honey. Hadn’t I decided to forget about her over Christmas?
A combination of defensive hurt and retreating to the past pushes her to the edge of my mind. Can me and Honey sort this out? Do I want to?
Conversation with my parents has dried after two days at home. What is there to share? The Honey subject is skirted around, the other Blue Phoenix guys discussed. Local gossip is imparted by Mum and the rundown of every extended family member’s health is done. Yep, definitely feel like a teen again, nothing in common with Mum and Dad.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go out with your sister,” says Mum, looking from the TV to me.
“I will one night; I got the feeling this wasn’t something I was invited to.” And would’ve been dragged screaming too, if they’d asked.
“Still got the papers following you?” asks Dad, gruffly.
“Not so much recently.”
He nods slowly and sips his beer, the unspoken hovering. Yeah, Dad, no drugs or family embarrassment.
“Are the other boys coming home for Christmas?” asks Mum.
Boys. This makes us all sound eighteen again. Skinny Dylan and Jem, shy Bryn, and awkward me.
“Nah.” I have no idea where, what, or even who they’re doing so that’s the limit of my response.
I flick a look at the ticking cuckoo clock in the corner. 11 p.m. Jesus, time goes slow watching crap TV with these two. Mum gets excited as a reality show comes on, featuring a bright blue Mediterranean Sea and sky, and whitewashed Spanish houses. Some jumped-up TV presenter is taking middle class, middle-aged British couples to visit a variety of Spanish houses, to choose which one to buy and retire to. Mum gives a running commentary on the pros and cons of each house.
“I can buy a house in Spain,” I say.
Mum laughs at me. “But you have one in America by the sea.”
This sounds so quaint coming from her. “Yeah, Mum. Malibu. By the ocean. You’ve been there. I meant a place for you and Dad in Spain, or wherever. Get away from the shitty English winters.”
Mum glances quickly at Dad then looks away again. Dad stares ahead at the TV and I bite back the suggestions I have. Why don’t they let me spend my money on making their life easier? Shit, I don’t want to be big-headed, but I have fuckloads of money and who else would I want to give some to but my family?
I’ve been here before, had the circular arguments with them so I drop the subject before I ruin the peaceful evening. Dad wants to pretend nothing’s changed, that I’m his son who needs support. Coping with the shift in fortune is tough for him, as if I make him less of a man. I’m glad Mum persuaded him to let me buy this place for them because I know if it had been up to him, they’d still be paying a mortgage on the small terrace in town.
“Beer, Dad?” I stand. He doesn’t look at me and nods.
Mum returns to her criticism of the Spanish townhouses and the people perusing them. Dad watches silently, lost in his own thoughts.
I grab another couple of beers and sit back with them. What choice do I have? There’s a four year old sleeping in my bedroom and the single bed in the spare room is only comfortable if I’m full of alcohol and fall asleep quickly.
Plus, how often do I get to sit watching shit TV with my parents?
****
Mum and Dad go to bed and I continue drinking, flicking the TV channels for something to distract me from thoughts of my surreal, real world. The relaxed buzz of one too many beers accompanies my one-eye-open amusement at repeats of Big Bang Theory.
The front door clicks open and quietly closes, hushed voices and suppressed giggling moves from the hallway into the kitchen. I smile to myself. Drunk chicks, always funny. Louise can get a bit antsy though. I ignore them and continue with my comedy shows and beer. The clink of bottles, shushing, and continued giggling intrigues me. I’ve spent an evening sitting with the olds; I want to see what they’re up to.
Goldie sleeps in his bed in the corner of the kitchen and lifts his head as I walk in. If a dog could look pissed off, that’s what he’d be. The kitchen light is on and the two girls snicker quietly, knocking back tumbler glasses full of clear liquid. A bottle of vodka and another of tonic water are side by side on the table, lids off.
“Aww! It’s my big brother, the rock star!” Louise says too loudly and half-staggers toward me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.
Definitely drunk if she’s being affectionate. I peel her fingers off me. “Good night, Looby Lou?”
She attempts to focus on me and pouts. “Don’t call me that. And yeah, apart from...” She glances at Cerys and suppresses a laugh, plonking herself in a kitchen chair. “Cerys had some fans.”
Cerys half-smiles and rolls her eyes in an exaggerated way. “Yeah, I’m just a magnet to sad bastards.”
I rest against the kitchen counter and watch them. Pissed girls; in the Blue Phoenix world, they’d be targets. I picture Jem stepping in, turning on his strange persona that has girls falling at his feet or into his bed. If Dylan were here? He doesn’t even need to try. He could ignore them all evening and still a girl would be on his lap by the end of the night. Me? Not now, but before Honey I’d watch and wait. Not like a Blue Phoenix guy has to wait long or do mu
ch to get a girl. In fact, I don’t think I’d know what to say to pick up a girl if I needed to, because I never do.
“Nobody caused problems, I hope?” I ask.
“I’ve been dealing with sad bastards for years. Cerys is a bit out of practice, but I helped her fend them off,” says my sister.
“I can imagine.”
“What time is it?” asks Cerys, squinting at her phone.
“Oh! 3 a.m.! Shit!” Louise rubs her face. “Will Ella be up soon?”
“Six if I’m lucky,” groans Cerys.
“Bad luck!” Louise veers out of the room toward the downstairs cloakroom.
Cerys regards me over the glass she’s holding, cheeks flushed and eyes swimming with the alcohol in her system. If she’s out of practice, she’s going to feel like shit tomorrow.
Slumping back in her chair, Cerys continues to stare and it’s unnerving.
“You okay? Can I get you something?” I ask.
“Just wondering why you’re not staring at my tits anymore.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Because that’s not appropriate.”
“ ‘Not appropriate’,” she mimics my words, “That’s not very rock star.”
“When I’m here, I’m not very rock star. Hadn’t you noticed?”
“Rock stars are hot,” she says with another drunken giggle. “Even you.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“No, no, no,” she waves a hand frowning. “I mean even you, Louise’s big brother who wasn’t so hot when he was a teen.”
“You hung around us enough back then.”
“I was a kid and it was cool to hang around a rock band. Shame you forgot all about us when you left.”
“I never forgot; I come home when I can.”
She stands and steadies herself on the table. “When you got famous, I put pictures of you guys all over my bedroom wall. I was such a sad fangirl.”
“You were fifteen.”
“I fantasised about one of you coming back and whisking me away for the rock star lifestyle.” She includes a sweeping gesture with her arm, almost tripping over.
Unplugged: A Blue Phoenix Book Page 2