Izzy Moffit's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 1)

by James, Victoria L.

  My eyes close for just a moment as I try to control the memories that rain down on me all at once. Jack’s proposal, his way with words, his need to have me… They all come flying through the air at me like daggers trying to find their target. Each one brings a fresh wave of pain with it, but I can’t allow her to see it. In all the time that she’s been back here with me, the conversation about what happened almost two years ago has never come up. Quite honestly, I’m not sure it ever will. Just as we have both tried to avoid discussing what happened in her life while she was gone, I’ve also done my best to avoid going over what happened in mine.

  She doesn’t need any more pain.

  Running my tongue across my teeth to gain some movement, I sigh softly and shrug a shoulder. “Marriage isn’t an option for me, but you get to decide your own fairytale, Goose. If forever is what you want, I have no doubt in my mind it will happen.

  The silence hangs in the air for just a little while before she speaks. “Not all marriages have to be like your parents, you know.”

  Of course, it makes sense for her to assume it’s because of my parents, and while I don’t exactly like the idea of lying to her, sometimes it’s necessary in life to get us by. Smiling flatly, I lift my head to lock eyes with her and whisper, “I know. It’s just not something I need in my life.”

  “What do you need in your life, Izzy?” she breathes, almost nervously, as though she’s wanted to ask me that question for far too long and just hasn’t got around to it until now.

  “Just… calm.”

  “Calm?”

  “Yeah,”

  “That’s it?”

  My head sways softly from side to side in thought. “Maybe a little love or lust along the way, but yeah. Peace, happiness. Not the all-consuming kind you mentioned, but more the lazy kind - for the basic things in life to matter, above all else… health, friendships, that sort of stuff.”

  “No Chanel handbags or Tiffany diamonds?” She smirks.

  “Absolutely not.” I laugh genuinely as I lift my cup to my mouth and take a small drink.

  “We really are total opposites, aren’t we?”

  “I don’t think so. I just think I’m more of a hippy bitch than you are. I’m like Glastonbury and you’re like London fashion week. They both look different on the outside, but really, they’re not a million miles apart.”

  “You know, sometimes, you really do make fuck all sense.”

  “I know.” I chuckle once again. “But would you change me?”

  Groaning as she stretches out her legs and places her feet across my thighs, Paris slides down until her body is laid out and rests her cup on top of her chest. “Maverick, I wouldn’t change you for all the Ducati bikes, leather jackets, Jimmy Choo shoes or all the jewels in the world. You’re my bad girl for life. Who else would have stuck by me the way you have? I may not write your name in the sky every day, but you should know by now that as long as my future has you in it, the rest just is what it is.”

  And despite wanting to say something equally profound back to her, I bite my tongue and just enjoy this simple moment in our lives. We don’t yet have all the answers. We certainly aren’t heading to The Caribbean anytime soon for a new life, but things are finally looking up. Six months is such a long time for her to have kept herself clean. The road has been long and arduous, been paved with ear piercing cries of pain and body-trembling amounts of hard work, but as I look at the smile on her face in this moment and truly see the contentment that lies there, I know I’d do it all again for her tomorrow.

  *******

  “Who was that you were just talking to?” I ask as I walk back from staring dreamily through the bookstore window to find Paris in the middle of the street. Casting a quick glance to the man who was just stood in front of her, not a minute before, my eyes roam up and down the back of his body in appreciation. Love may not be the first thing on my goal list, but I’m still a woman and I can certainly acknowledge a fine specimen of a man when I see one.

  She waves a lazy hand through the air and rolls her eyes. “Bloody hell, Izzy, did I forget to ask permission before I spoke to someone that wasn’t on your pre-approved list of acquaintances?”

  My eyes widen at her bite. Taking a slow step back, I hold a single finger up in the air and tilt my head to one side. “First of all, where did you learn the word acquaintance?”

  “Oh, bite me.”

  The smirk on my face is itching to break out into a grin, but I’m trying my best to look serious, mainly because my own curiosity is getting the better of me and I feel like the backside that just walked away deserves a name putting to it. “Now, now, there’s no need for a tantrum, little one.” My stomach tightens as I try to hold in the laughter that’s desperate to escape. “Second of all, I wasn’t being all mumsy. I was simply making conversation, that’s all. Did one of Betty’s cats piss in your Cheerio’s this morning? You’re awfully cranky to say we’re out shopping for new clothes and…” I gasp with a grin, “Sparkly shoes!”

  Tugging on the strap of her handbag, she hooks her arm through mine, spins me around in the opposite direction to the man who has just walked away and begins to march forward. “Sorry, I’m just a little edgy. It’s a big day for me tomorrow.”

  “You don’t need to drink to celebrate. We can take it easy.”

  “I just don’t want to mess it up.”

  “One year sober is a big deal. You should be proud, not all antsy.”

  “I am proud.” She sighs too heavily for that to be the whole truth, but I decide against pressing her too hard on it. I can’t even begin to understand how she must really be feeling, and even though I hope she would talk to me if something were praying on her mind too much, I don’t want to become the nag I sometimes think she sees me as.

  “Good. Now tell me the name of the guy in the dark jeans, tanned belt and black shirt.”

  Paris’ attention snaps to me instantly as her mouth drops open and she feigns shock. “Oh my, has someone caught my Moffy Moo’s eye? It seems you took quite a list of details away with you from that quick glance at the back of his head, hmmm?”

  Raising a brow, I smile back and pull her closer against me, whispering. “It wasn’t his head I was looking at. It was his arse.”

  She laughs heartily, throwing her head back and letting her hair fall freely over her shoulders. That single sound alone has the ability to make me feel happiness like nothing else in the world. It’s been such a rare sound over the last four years, I know for a fact that I will never take it for granted again.

  “He’s someone from my past. You probably wouldn't like him very much.”

  My shoulders quickly sag in disappointment. “No, really? Why do all the hot ones have to be arseholes?”

  “I wouldn’t say he was an arsehole,” she mutters quietly as she begins to skip us both forward, dragging me towards the neon lights of one of her favourite boutique shops. “He’s just someone I would probably rather forget about. Certain memories are attached to his face. Memories that lead to he who shall not be named.”

  “Say no more.” Without even realising what I’m doing, I take a quick peek back over my shoulder to see if I can see the man in question one last time, but the streets are too crowded for me to focus and I’m almost absolutely certain that he’s gone. Turning back towards the shop, I whimper in an over the top, dramatic tone. “But damn, he had a biteable tush.”

  Her laughter doesn’t stop from that moment on. As we spend our day wandering around the shops, buying all sorts of fancy clothes, accessories and luxuries we really don’t need - and in truth, really can’t afford - I find myself feeling a sense of calm I’ve not felt in such a long time.

  Tomorrow, we celebrate her first full year of sobriety. While we may spend our days joking about the dreams we both have, the fantasies we hope to one day play out and the fairy tales we are too embarrassed to share with anyone else but each other, this moment right here is more than we could have hoped for a year a
go.

  We’re healthy.

  We’re happy.

  She’s clean.

  And we still haven’t heard a single thing from Jason Dagson in almost three hundred and sixty five days. Maybe, just maybe, the big man upstairs is on our side, after all. For now, life in the slow lane seems pretty damn good for the pair of us. Every night, when I go to bed, I pray to someone – anyone - for it to continue.

  Thirty

  June, 2008

  It seems, upon reflection, that the only certainty in life is that time will keep ticking, whether we are ready for it to or not. There’s that word again. Time… the healer, the destroyer, the constant. Sometimes it brings good, other times it brings bad, but constantly, it brings the unexpected.

  It’s the middle of summer, 2008 and England is on the brink of a sudden financial crisis like never before. In the space of a mere fourteen months, we’ve gone from being at the peak of an economic boom to being on the edge of a recession. The whole country have turned from over-spenders to purse string pullers in the blink of an eye, which, for the majority of people out there, is of little concern to them.

  For me, it’s catastrophic.

  I’m the sole breadwinner in this house and, at the age of just twenty-six, I have a mortgage to keep repayments up on and another person who is dependent on me to survive. It’s never been a problem before now. With my fingers in several different writing pies and contacts all over the place who were crying out for me to work for their magazines, the money was stacking up - so much so that even when Paris says she is fit and ready to go back to work, I make her believe that it isn’t necessary, that I can take care of her if she needs more time.

  But then the funds slowly start to deplete. The work dries up with emails proclaiming that they are sorry for having to make cutbacks, but the first thing to go when people are struggling for money is luxuries such as magazines, books and anything that isn’t absolutely essential to keeping their households running.

  I try so hard to ignore the feelings of panic and frustration that surface every morning when I wake up, but I also know that I can’t keep ignoring them for long. Paris is getting agitated because she knows I’m keeping something from her. It’s at times like these that I’m thankful that she has about as much interest in the news as a dog has in wearing ballet shoes.

  “We’re out of juice. I’m just going to head to the shops to get some, is that alright?” Paris asks as she walks over to the sun lounger in our garden, pulling a loose t-shirt over her head before she shakes out her hair.

  “Sure thing,” I reply, not really listening and chewing on my thumb nail as I study my bank statement on my laptop. The sun is burning my skin as I lounge in the heat in just a bikini and shorts, but I welcome the warmth as a distraction from the constant worry that’s gnawing at my gut.

  “Then I might stop by that jewellers in town and buy that gorgeous antique diamond necklace I was eyeing up the other week. That okay?”

  “Sounds good,” I mumble.

  “And you definitely need a new car, so I might head over to Land Rover and put your name down for their latest model.”

  “Don’t be long,” I whisper.

  “Actually, scrap all that. I think I’ll just head back over to the club and ask my old boss for my job back. You know… the one where I hang upside down off poles, serve a few drinks and make tips for having nice tits. Is that okay with you, Moffy? I wouldn’t want to do anything you weren’t comfortable with.”

  “Uh huh, uh huh, there’s some money in my purs-” The last thing she says hits me and my head snaps up, my brows creasing together as hard as they can. “Wait! What?”

  “There you are,” she says through a smile, folding her arms across her chest and jutting her hip out to one side. “I knew that’d get your attention.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, originally, I was heading out for some juice then coming home to sit and kick back in the garden for another four hours in the hope that my skin would bake beautifully. But now you have me worried.” She kicks her foot up to my leg and taps it playfully. “I just said I was going to get my old job back at the pole dancing joint and you almost agreed to it. What’s going on, Izzy? And don’t you dare fob me off. You’ve been wearing that frown for weeks now and it’s about time you were honest with me. I’m not fragile anymore. I don’t fall apart over spilt milk.”

  My eyes find the clear blue skies as my head rolls back against the lounger. I could keep lying to her, but quite frankly, I’m tired of doing that. The truth needs to come out if we both have a hope in hell of keeping the roof over us and our heads above water.

  “I…” The sigh that escapes me should tell her how much I don’t want to have to say this. “We’re struggling for money, Paris.”

  “Huh?”

  “Money. The thing I had quite a stack of last year. It’s all kinda gone… or going, at least. My work’s dried up and it’s looking like I might need to find a second job - a proper one. Not just all this writing crap that’s somehow got me by in the last however many years.”

  Her mouth falls open and closes quite a few times before she gathers up the words she wants to say. “Don’t ever call your writing crap.”

  Moving the laptop away from my knee, I rise to stand in front of her, running both my hands through my hair and cupping the back of my neck. “I’m being serious. The approaching recession is kicking my arse before it’s even really begun. I don’t want to lose Casa. I can’t.”

  “I won’t let that happen,” she answers quickly.

  “How?” I ask quietly. None of this is her fault, or even mine, but if there’s any hope in hell of us pulling through this, we need to do it together and be honest and open with one another. “We can’t pay the bank back with fresh air.”

  “I’ll get a job,” she shrugs casually. My body tenses in response. While I want her to have her freedom, I’m also scared of what might happen if she gets the wrong job and surrounds herself with the wrong people again. I’m acting like her fucking mother; I know that, I’ve known that since I brought her home. But worry is worry and, unfortunately, I can’t help thinking that the same could happen all over again.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Like hell I don’t. Mav, come on. I’m bored out of my head most days. I can do this. I know you mean well, but it’s about time I gained some independence anyway. I can’t live off you much longer.”

  Here is where I would normally protest and tell her all the benefits of staying at home. Maybe I would try to encourage her to go study some more, or tell her that this won’t last forever so she should take it while she can and see it as a way of me saying thank you to her for everything she did for me as a child. Instead, I let my eyes fall to the ground and mindlessly toe the dirt to avoid her gaze.

  “I have an interview next Wednesday as a temp on reception at some big architecture firm. It’s not full time, but it’s a job share with some other woman, so I’ll be able to keep doing the writing that I’m still clinging onto.”

  “That sounds exciting. Anything that means you can keep typing away has to be good, right? I’ll look for work, too. Let me help.”

  One hand drops limply down by my waist while the other rubs the back of my neck, trying to scrub away all the emotions I find washing over me. My pride is taking a hit because I feel like I’m failing her, where I once told her that she could do anything she wanted while living here and I would always look after her. The guilt at asking her to help pay for a house I took on as my responsibility claws away at my stomach. The shame of what I’m about to say, so matter-of-factly, prickles at my skin.

  “Fine, you can help. We need all the help we can get.” I glance up through cautious eyes and lower my voice. “No pole dancing, Paris. Nothing dealing with customers where there’s even the smallest chance of Daggs finding you. I mean it. The first sign of trouble or the first sign of you struggling, I want you to promise me you will t
ell me and we’ll pull you out. Your safety has to come first.”

  “And what about yours? Who looks after you while you take the weight of the world on your shoulders?”

  “You,” I answer quickly, allowing the weakest hint of a smile to tug at my lips. “You deal with my constant nagging and don’t get to argue about it, not once.”

  Swiping her hand across my hair and ruffling it hard, she mumbles through gritted teeth. “Thank god you see yourself so clearly, for once.” Her laughter seems genuine enough, even with the tightness of her speech as she turns on her heels and begins to make her way back up through the house. “So, it’s settled, yeah? I finally have permission to seek employment away from toilet scrubbing and laundry folding in Casa?”

  “Roger that, Soldier,” I shout weakly as I salute. “Just be vigilant. Daggs is out there somewhere and I don’t want him hurting you.”

  Paris stands on the top step, twirling just the once before she looks back over her shoulder and beams. “He’s long gone, Izzy. I’m certain of it. It’s been over two years. Maybe he didn’t love me enough to chase me down after all. Let’s hope it stays that way.” Then she winks and skips out of the house like I’ve just told her we’ve won the lottery, not that we’re broke.

  As I watch her fade away into the distance, I can’t help but feel a twist in my stomach at the words she’s just used. Maybe she’s right. Maybe he didn’t love her enough to chase her down. I want to believe with all my heart that that is true. So much so, I try desperately to ignore the thought that maybe he loved her so much, he is actually willing to wait as long as it takes to strike and get her back.

  *******

  It takes her all of two weeks to find herself a job at a local, quaint little cafe spot, on the quieter side of town. Waitressing has always been her thing and she takes a lot of pride in what she does. A bright smile here and there can earn the right person more in tips, per week, than someone who slogs their heart out in a call centre, working eighty hours straight. She has her head screwed on about the whole thing and I couldn’t be more proud.