by Corri Lee
“I do.” Blaze nodded and pulled me down to lay beside me. His arms and legs caged me, keeping me prisoner inside his grasp. “That’s why I know you’ll keep that promise. But please, reconsider it. Don’t do anything until tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
Blaze fell asleep at ten to midnight that night. When he woke up in a cold sweat two hours later, jolted by a nightmare that I’d left, I was already gone.
The Tudor family’s stretch of private beach in who-knows-what part of Europe was paradise. The sprawling sands spread out for miles and were edged by crystal blue waters reflecting a pure azure sky. Without a cloud in sight, it was the perfect place for rest, recuperation and resolution.
Not that I was particularly concerned with hitting those targets. When I crept out of our suite that night, a holiday was the last thing I was considering. I hadn’t packed a thing, just gotten dressed and left. The only objective I had was to get out of the door without Blaze waking up and stopping me.
Which I accomplished. I didn’t realise how much I’d wanted him to try until I’d walked out with no difficulties. Standing there, staring at the door, a war between want and need raged inside me. I wanted to stay. But I needed to leave. If I didn’t, staying would have only driven us further apart.
I needed help, and I wasn’t afraid to admit it anymore. I needed help from someone I could be honest with—someone who wouldn’t be phased by any of my admissions. Someone impartial and trustworthy...
Henry must have been waiting for my call. He answered on the first ring. Twelve months earlier, I never in a million years would have ever imagined confiding in him but there I was, trying to have a private telephone conversation over a front desk with the manager hovering around me. My second plea in the space of just months.
I’d barely said a word before my father told me that there would be a car waiting outside for me. He asked me where the driver should take me and I said I didn’t care. As long as I was alone, I’d be satisfied.
Arrangements were made. Whispers passed behind hands. Four minutes later, the manager escorted me through the lobby and wished me a brisk, “Good luck.” I didn’t even enquire as to what I needed luck for. The possibilities were endless.
The hotel had been hosting a lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender cabaret event that night, and a kindly drag queen loaned me a black wig and sequinned dress to get out unnoticed. Between all the sparkle and hair spray, I thought I might have stood a chance until I saw the row of new photographers pushing through the journalists already camping out on the street to wait for us, stopping the more outrageous looking guests for pictures and quotes. Amazingly, the same man-woman who’d dressed me up pulled me into his or her group of exiting brood and swept me past all the dramatics into one of the Tudor fleet with no interruption.
Whether or not it worked so well because I made a passable man in women’s clothing or an unconvincing woman who looked like a dude in drag is beyond me. No part of me wants to know. He or she had helped me out and I owed him or her a lot for it.
It turned out that he or she knew Daniel and Jonathan rather well and remembered my face from a Gay Pride festival I’d gone to out of curiosity two years earlier. I never realised how useful it would be to have a gay best friend, though I don’t suppose sneaking past paparazzi is something you really consider when you’re striving to live a ‘normal’ life. For the purposes of this particular predicament, though, it was a life saver—maybe literally.
The usual driver, Oscar, wasn’t behind the wheel of my dear old dad’s favourite Mercedes. Instead, I was ushered into the sanctity of the luxury vehicle by an uptight looking Eastern European female. She didn’t speak, not once. That was usually how I liked it, but when she started heading out of London and towards Wales, I really would have preferred a response to the expletives I was shooting at her. Henry wouldn’t seriously have me picked up and flown straight to the cuckoo’s nest. Would he?
Being in my kind of family, I knew all the tricks of the trade for driving out of a tricky scenario, though I’d never seen them executed in person. Not until that night, when every manoeuvre and technique was used in the name of getting me out of the public eye.
I was ushered into three other cars within London, taken into private garages on the outskirts and forced to wait for several minutes with two more mute chauffeurs. By the time I was shoved into the same Merc I’d first gotten into and heading back into the heart of the city, but with Oscar in the driver’s seat, I was disorientated and exhausted.
“Why all the hassle, Oscar?” I leaned closer to him, sure that he didn’t share the same vow of silence as the others. “Why all the walnut shells and decoys?”
“Your father and I have both been in your size five’s, Miss,” he murmured back quickly, making a contrived effort to avoid eye contact in the rear-view mirror. “We’ve both wondered if it’d be better if we vanished forever to save everyone else. But we had anonymity on our side. You don’t.”
“You’re sneaking me out of the country?”
“Being publicly seen leaving so close to your wedding day without Blaze would make people ask questions and you know it. We’re simply providing you a quiet retreat at such a testing time.”
I wasn’t entirely sure from that conversation whether or not Oscar knew I’d murdered Natasha and he was trying to relate having killed himself, or whether he meant he’d had a breakdown and was drawing comparisons from a period of depression. His remarks had been cryptic enough to raise doubt, but simple enough for me to trust him with whatever secrets he knew about me.
It was quiet again until we reached Heathrow, neither of us breathing loud enough to interrupt the silence. A troop of security guards in Tudor Initiative uniforms surrounded the car’s door before Oscar walked around to open it for me, obscuring the view of families and friends catching late night flights to lands afar or greeting cohorts who’d been away too long.
“God speed, Miss Tudor.” Oscar offered a hand to pull me from the leather benched seat and, oddly, gave me a stiff hug. “May you make peace with yourself.”
I didn’t really get chance to work out what the hell that cuddle had been about before the security detail marched me through to the first class departure lounge like legionnaires, passed a plane ticket to a hostess and directed me through to the boarding tunnel ahead of any other passengers. One complimentary glass of champagne later, the exhaustion kicked in and I became victim to my third memory blur of the night.
All that seemed completely irrelevant when I was waking up under a light of a scorching sun with the smell of breakfast wafting through the private villa. I’d arrived to find the place fully staffed and kitted out with new clothes for me, WiFi raring to go and a message from Henry that I’d be seeing the olive-skinned equivalent of Dr. Downes the next morning. Instead of obsessing over the question of just how long he’d had all this set up for me, I went straight to bed and prepared myself to face the new day on a fresh page.
I woke up that way eight times before anything proactive actually happened.
My new medication—a nice dose of anti-psychotics injected directly into me so there could be no more instances involving the toilet and tablets—had no debilitating side-effects to speak of, so I couldn’t use them as an excuse to lack motivation. Regardless, I was in a slump and found myself sleeping most of the day, sunbathing in the cooler heat until the sun went down, drinking all night, rinse and repeat.
I didn’t consider over-eating to be a problem as I could stand to gain a few pounds, and was perfectly content with spending my afternoons dipping my toes in the sea, demolishing burger after cake after ice cream. I tanned easily, so a few days of that routine had me goddess bronzed and feeling brave enough to take my alcoholism into the closest town, full of local tradesmen who recognised me from family holiday’s past.
That eighth time I woke up though, that was different. It was dawn and I couldn’t get back to sleep, the fresh sea air hitting me before the villa staf
f had even started work. No amount of internet memes and music video parodies seemed to occupy me for more than a few minutes at a time. My mind just kept straying to nowhere in particular to think about nothing at all.
I’d purposely left the lines of communication between Blaze and I open, so I gave him a call. This trip wasn’t like New York; I hadn’t left to escape him. At my own request, Henry would tell him exactly where I was if he asked. I just had to trust that he’d give me the space I needed and know that I’d be back in time to walk down the aisle. Fetching me would only be necessary in an extreme circumstance; the few radical situations I could imagine were too fairytale to be valid.
Still, I knew that the distance was painful for Blaze and a part of him really hated me for leaving. Phone calls were daily but monosyllabic, lasting no longer than ten minutes at a time. We had nothing to say to each other, yet we had everything to say. What had once felt so solid had become strained and fractious. I felt myself lose a little faith after every chat.
When I called him that morning, his phone was turned off. Deeply unfulfilled, I dressed and restlessly padded off to the town to find something to do.
Walking through almost totally abandoned streets when I’d only ever traversed them shoulder to shoulder with strangers was a revelation. There were no landmarks or monuments nearby so tourism relied on charm alone, something which came in bucketfuls when the bars were heaving and the neon lights filling the darkness. Being a habitual creature of the night, I’d missed out on the small things that made that lazy little corner of Heaven so beautiful.
I’d missed the little old lady who fed left over food scraps to the neighbourhood stray cats; the early-rising bakers and butchers already hard at work. Mine had been the vantage point of a simpleton, all the character of my surroundings drowned out by the spirits and sparkle. The attraction had been the glamour, but the modesty had so much more to offer. I’d been a fool.
There was an endearing change of atmosphere while shop-fronts lay dormant and the bars were closed. The streets felt wider and more open, looked more antiquated and bespoke. All of the retro slate signage had been hand-painted and the walls were littered with commemorative plaques honouring the families that had been born, lived their entire lives and then died in that town.
It made me feel really lonely. All these people had done nothing but exist and had been deemed worthy of a tribute. I’d done nothing in my life worth praise, and a hell of a lot to be ashamed of. My greatest achievement had been that damned graphic novel, Syncretic Sciences, and my fiancé owned the only two copies. I’d spent twenty-two years simply existing, yet there would never be a plaque to remember me when I was gone. Just an urn full of ashes and a bad taste in the mouths of anyone who spoke my name.
Maybe it’s time to change that.
I stalled at the sound of a voice in my head, not because auditory hallucinations should have been a thing of the past, but because it wasn’t Fat Emmy. For the first time in years, I could hear my conscience speaking, and my own sense of rationality crawling out of it’s long-term hiding place.
Yes, I could change it if I really wanted to. I could become as notorious as the rest of my family. Long after my death, I could be remembered for the wonderful things I’d done for the world if I only made them so instead of focusing on my more questionable choices.
But where to start?
Somewhere in the midst of all my contemplation, I’d noticed that my favourite brasserie had already opened it’s doors, and had sat myself down in my usual spot at the bar. A small crowd of Brits—what looked like a hungover hen party—had wandered in for breakfast, and the smell of profit and bacon had begun to pour outwards from the kitchen.
I should have had a hen party. Not for one second had I stopped to appreciate and celebrate the fact that I was about to get married. Those girls—they should have been me, Esme and as many gay men as I’d networked with over my time in London. I’d been so... ungrateful.
“Food for thought or thoughts of food?” The owner caught me staring at the women and passed me a breakfast menu. “When was the last time you saw two seven o’clocks in one day?”
“Jeez...” I couldn’t even name a date. Office hours had become an afterthought since the whole embezzlement ordeal had been resolved, my mind so stuck on guilt and regret. “What can I say that won’t make me sound like a spoiled rich girl?”
“Say you’ll take the full fry up with a coffee and pay with your own Euros?”
The owner walked away grinning, yelled my order through the service window and made off to dazzle the party of hens. He was handsome for an older man, and hadn’t changed a bit since the first time I’d met him when I was nine. He was the sort who’d greet new faces with a booming welcome, and banter with regulars in a way that wasn’t remotely insulting. His daily routine must have been the same for decades, yet he always had a smile for his customers. I really envied his die-hard positivity and optimism.
I also envied him for bagging such an awesome cook for a wife. The mousy five foot Hungarian was incredibly timid, yet extraordinarily beautiful and full of culinary talent. She was the type who wouldn’t say boo to a goose and went out of her way to avoid lengthy conversations, but she had so much pride in her cooking that she’d go out to every table when the plates were cleared to make sure they’d enjoyed their meals.
I took great pride in the fact that I was one of the very few people she’d really talk to. Like most others, she knew of Blaze for his fame and had already heard the news of our engagement. I had to eat one-handed while she cooed over the ring and asked me a bunch of questions about the decorative details of my wedding day I couldn’t answer because I’d paid little to no interested.
Women usually get crazy over weddings, Emmeline. You’re the exception to the rule. That was a phrase that rolled around and around in my brain like a penny in a pipe as more and more questions left me stuttering in ignorance. Was being different always necessarily a good thing? What was to say my apathy wasn’t making Blaze doubt whether he really wanted to marry a woman so reticent towards the biggest day of her life? Maybe the concern shouldn’t have been that I wouldn’t arrive at the altar, but that he wouldn’t.
“You think too much,” the owner told me cheerfully as he reached around his wife for my empty plate. “You should live in the moment once in a while, because today is the day that could change your life. Your generation is so miserably obsessed with the past and the future. Just look at that guy.” His head jerked in the direction of a man sat, head lowered, at the other end of the bar. “He lost everything and now all he does is sit in the same seat every day, drinking the same drinks, eating the same food, and asking himself the same questions. He needs to take a stand against his own life, preferably before I run out of spirits.”
From the description alone, it seemed like I had an awful lot in common with that man. Out of curiosity, I stole a glance in his direction to see if he looked as downtrodden as I felt.
One look was all I needed to know absolutely everything. His hands were woven into his over-long sun-bleached hair, eyes cast down at an idle phone as if he was just waiting for it to ring and had been for days.
He had the distinct look of a heartbroken man and as uncomfortable as it was, I couldn’t avoid talking to him. It had been too long, in more ways than one.
“Hunter Rosen, as I live and breathe.”
His head shot up at the sound of his name and he looked past me several times before he realised I was the one who’d spoken. He looked like hell, despite being sun-kissed like myself, and several pounds heavier than he had been on his wedding day.
“Emmeline?” He stood, trying to straighten himself out. “Is that... Have you come to kick me out of the beach house?”
“What? No. Why would I—” I paused, stringing together a theory. I knew he’d been left up shit creek and forced to return to Cardiff, where he wouldn’t have gotten a moments peace. He’d made a lot of enemies by making an admission of
love for me when he should have been saying ‘I do’. It was realistic to expect him to want a fresh start. “Do you live here?”
“Sort of,” he grunted, shuffling across to take the seat next to mine. “Naturally, my mother made it about her and said I’d humiliated her immensely, and that allowing me back into the family home would make it look as though she was endorsing my behaviour.”
“She’s just a bitch, let’s be honest. I’m surprised she didn’t leave teeth-marks on you when you were born.”
Hunter cracked one of his contagious smiles, though it lacked the same punch it had before. “I got the first phone call in three years from my father, disowning me and informing me that Siobhan would be keeping the house, leaving me homeless. At which point, your dear old dad stepped forward and offered me the beach house outside the villa, totally gratis, on the condition that I didn’t look for you, contact you, or so much as breathe in your general direction.” Yet he’d set me up with a refuge in the same place. Was it just a clumsy oversight? “It was kind of a kick to the balls, as the worst part of it all was that you just wouldn’t talk to me. But who in their right mind would pick a park bench and a round of fucks over rolling beaches and sunshine?”
“Indeed.” I was, after all, trying to escape my own tattered life. “So I’ve been in that villa for more than a week and you’ve been living in bloody eye-shot? How have our paths not crossed?”
“You have opposite sleeping patterns,” the bar’s owner interjected. “You’re nocturnal. He’s old before his time.”
“Yeah, thanks for that, Baal.” Hunter shook his head piteously, provoking a wicked little smile to turn up the corners of the owner’s lips.
He really did look awful. However badly I thought I was feeling, he seemed to have it in triplicate. There were bags around his eyes that had never been there before despite all the night shifts he’d worked just to make phone calls to me.