Ever After (Dirtshine Book 3)

by Roxie Noir

  Behave, you fucking lout, I tell myself.

  Behave how? You’re talking. You’re not doing a thing.

  I suppose I’m pretending that imagining what Frankie might look like undressed is not doing a thing.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed,” she finally says. “I just thought you were a regular bloke, I guess.”

  “I am a regular bloke. Came back here to tend bar, didn’t I?”

  “Do you own the Hound’s Ears? With your rock star money? Is that why you were such an asshole at first, because no one could fire you?” Frankie teases.

  I just grin.

  “Musicians make rather less than you’re imagining,” I say. “Unless they’re absolutely massive, that is. But most are the starving artist type.”

  I was massive, of course. I had a Ferrari and a Maserati and I totaled them both. I owned the penthouse suite of a building right on the Sunset Strip, and it nearly burned down when I was high as a kite and tried to make a flamethrower from a lighter and a can of hairspray indoors.

  It’s not exactly true that the band didn’t work out. Dirtshine, the band, is fine. Gavin, Trent, and Darcy — the other three — just finished a massive tour and they’re probably about to start recording again.

  It’s me. I’m the problem. I was the junkie who couldn’t get clean, the absolute disaster of a human who tore through everyone else like a wrecking ball.

  And I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand that Gavin, my best friend since grade school, could kick heroin and I couldn’t; I couldn’t stand that he had a girlfriend; I couldn’t stand that he and Trent and Darcy could all go on with their lives while I was stuck back in the murky swamp waters of addiction.

  It took me another year. It took me three tries at rehab. I had to go back home, live with my mum and fail again and again.

  I had to nearly jump in front of a train, from a bridge, before I could get my life right.

  I had to move here, to Shelton, where I didn’t know anyone and where the biggest fights are over church bells. Easier to stay clean if you haven’t got your old crowd texting you daily and asking if you want to come over, getting angry if you say no.

  It’s been a long fucking time, it has. Two years since the overdose, and it’s only now that I think this tunnel might have a light at the end.

  “Do you like it better here?” she asks.

  “It’s apples and oranges, really,” I say, because the two things are fucking incomparable. I’m no longer the Liam who lived in Los Angeles, and good riddance, though I do miss it. I miss the excitement, I miss the verve, and more than anything I miss the band.

  But I don’t miss that Liam. Not even a little.

  Really.

  “For what it’s worth, I can’t imagine you there,” she says. “Or anywhere in the states. New York maybe.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Frankie laughs. Outside, the church bell chimes eleven, and she sighs, then finishes the last few sips of her beer.

  “Americans are friendlier,” she teases. “We have great customer service. Sometimes I’ll just smile at a person on the street for absolutely no reason.”

  She puts her jacket back on with a wiggle, and even though I try not to, I watch it. And I store it for later use.

  “Plus, our bars are open past eleven,” she says, grabbing her purse.

  “See you again in a few?” I ask, hopefully. Too hopefully. Like a fucking puppy dog.

  “I’m sure I’ll need a drink again,” she says, smiling. “Take care, Liam.”

  Like that, she’s gone, drifting out of the pub with everyone else who’s stayed until the last bell, and I’m left holding an empty pint glass, thinking of a smile and a laugh and how her hair would feel in my hands. What she’d sound like if I kissed the spot on her neck just below her ear.

  But I’m also thinking of Alistair, the fucking Viscount of fucking Downhamshire-on-Kyne, the prat, and I know I’m free to think about whatever I want, but it’ll all come to nothing.

  Old Liam wouldn’t give a fuck about a fiancé, even a lordly one.

  But he was an arsehole, and even though it’s a little new and strange, I do give a fuck, no matter how much I don’t want to.

  Chapter Five

  Frankie

  I stir a lump of sugar into my third cup of tea and look out the window of the breakfast room. It’s on the side of the house, not facing the very long driveway, the outbuildings, or the gardens, so it’s just small rolling hills eventually turning to forest. Since it’s late autumn, all the green is slowly darkening, turning orange and red and eventually brown.

  Is this a moor? I wonder, still stirring, absentmindedly. Where was Wuthering Heights set? Was it around here?

  This does seem like the kind of place where a man could stare broodily out his window and think about his lost childhood love for most of his life without ever actually going down and doing anything about it.

  I take a sip of my tea. It’s a little too sweet, because I swear these teacups hold two tablespoons of liquid, and I can’t get the tea-to-sugar-to-milk ratio right to save my life.

  That was Wuthering Heights, right? With Heathcliff, and the moors, and the brooding?

  A bell tinkles directly across the table from me, startling me out of trying to remember eleventh grade English class. I suddenly realize that Lady Catherine is watching me, a slightly disapproving expression on her face. I blink.

  Her face rearranges itself into a smile, and half a second later, I follow suit. One of the kitchen maids enters quietly through a door, then stands attentively behind Lady Catherine.

  “Could you bring more sugar please, Julia?” Lady Catherine asks, gesturing at the plate of sugar cubes.

  Julia nods, then exits just as quietly as she entered.

  Right. That’s probably a subtle hint that I’m eating too much sugar, and that it’s bad for my teeth and waistline.

  I’m trying. I swear to God I’m trying with Alistair’s family, because they’re going to be my family in a couple of months, and it’s the right thing to do. But I constantly feel like I’m a bull in a china shop around them, crashing into every room at top volume, always doing the wrong thing.

  Lady Catherine clears her throat. I sit up straighter, prepare myself, wishing like hell that they served coffee because sorry, England, but tea is a weak-ass substitute.

  “I’m so glad you’ve volunteered to co-host the St. Michael’s Charity Gala with Elizabeth,” she says.

  I’ve what?

  “The charity gala?” I ask, as politely as I can.

  Lady Catherine takes a long, leisurely sip of her tea, in no hurry to answer my question.

  “Yes, the charity gala for the children’s hospital that’s in four days? Alistair said that you were quite excited for the chance to help Elizabeth with it,” she says. “And of course, though Elizabeth is quite experienced with these sorts of things, with it being so close she could certainly use some assistance. Something always comes up last minute.”

  I swallow, spine ramrod straight as I entertain a quick fantasy of taking Alistair by the shoulders and shaking some damn sense into him.

  “Yes! Of course, the gala that’s in four days. I definitely offered to help Elizabeth with that.”

  Say something else, it sounds like you’re lying.

  Well, you are.

  “I think it will be a lovely opportunity for the two of us to work together and... really bond as sisters,” I say. “I can’t wait.”

  Lady Catherine nods approvingly. I think once more about shaking Alistair, because who signs someone else up to throw a gala without even mentioning it to them?

  “I’m terribly sorry that I can’t accompany you two on your girls’ day out today,” she goes on. “I’m afraid that we’ve got a new set of gardeners coming in to winterize the roses, and you know how gardeners can be if there’s no one around to watch them like a hawk, so I’m afraid it falls to me.”

  “We’ll miss you,” I say, the s
mile still plastered on my face. I’m definitely one step behind on everything, but I’m trying my best to at least act like I’m not.

  Lady Catherine stands, glances out one of the windows. Toward the huge green space that might be a moor.

  “I’m sure you and Elizabeth will have a wonderful time together,” she says. “She’s been talking about wanting to take you shopping for ages.”

  Sure she has, I think as Lady Catherine sweeps out of the room, one of the kitchen staff quietly ducking in and clearing her breakfast dishes away.

  I don’t know what the charity gala is. I’ve got no idea how to host one, and all I know about my girls’ day out with Elizabeth is that it’s going to involve shopping.

  That thought alone ties my stomach into a knot, because I’m one thousand percent sure I can’t afford anywhere that Elizabeth might take me. I doubt she’s ever heard of a little boutique TJ Maxx, or my favorite high-end, exclusive store, Marshall’s.

  And it’s not like I can ask her if she’s paying for it. That’s beyond rude, so I just secretly hope that she’ll offer and, in the meantime, try to remember what my credit card spending limits are.

  The moment our driver pulls up in front of the Claire Bolton Boutique, I have a bad feeling about it. In the front window are three gowns on headless mannequins, each one a tasteful waterfall of sequins, tulle, and taffeta. They’re the sort of dress that screams I’m twenty thousand dollars!

  “I’m afraid this place may have gone downhill,” Elizabeth murmurs to me as we approach the front door, tossing her blonde hair as she does. “A few years ago, you’d never have seen those travesties in a shop window, but I’m afraid everyone’s catering to the lowest common denominator these days.”

  A sales woman practically runs over to Elizabeth the moment we’re through the door, and Elizabeth takes me by the arm, smiling as warmly as she can.

  It’s not fake. Not exactly, but I’m a little unnerved by her anyway, because I’ve come to suspect that she’s not doing anything out of the kindness of her heart. Not where I’m concerned, anyway.

  “This is my future sister-in-law Françoise,” she says. “She’s to be helping me with the annual St. Michael’s Charity Gala in a few days, and I’m afraid she needs an appropriate dress for the occasion.”

  I think it goes without saying that all the dresses I brought were summarily dismissed as not appropriate.

  “Do you have a preferred designer?” the woman asks, giving me a hard eyeball. “That might give us a starting place for your body type.”

  “I wear a lot of vintage pieces,” I say, ignoring her comment about my body type, which I assume means short and curvy.

  Elizabeth smiles, instantly hiding it behind her hand.

  “I see,” says the saleswoman, clearly unimpressed. “If you’ll give me a moment, please feel free to be seated in our lounge area and I’ll figure out something that I think might work for you.”

  She directs us to a few couches by the dressing room. As we walk over, I try desperately to spot some price tags, but no dice. They’re all either cleverly hidden, or, worse, nonexistent and of course Elizabeth still hasn’t said anything about maybe giving me an early wedding present.

  I sit, stiffly, on a blue velvet couch. A well-dressed young man comes over with two glasses of champagne, and I take one, finish nearly half of it in one gulp. Hopefully it’s free, but if I’m about to spend more than my monthly rent on one dress, why the hell not add a glass of champagne to the bill?

  The reasonable part of my brain keeps telling me to just ask if we can go somewhere with normal prices, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It feels rude, somehow, or like I’m showing weakness to Elizabeth. She’s not someone who really understands the phrase I can’t afford this, and frankly, I’m too chicken to say it to her.

  Maybe I can return it after the gala, I think.

  “I’m sorry about the champagne,” she says, loftily looking around the shop. “I’m afraid the quality here has gone somewhat downhill, they used to have — oh.”

  She looks at my champagne glass. It’s empty. Oops.

  “I thought it was fine,” I say lamely.

  “I was about to say, it used to be much higher quality, but I see that doesn’t bother you,” she says, smiling. “You’re so charming that way, Françoise, I love how you don’t seem to mind — oh, here are the dresses!”

  The saleswoman pushes in a rack. She eyes me up and down again, then pushes them around for a moment and hands me one, pointing officiously toward a dressing room.

  The moment I’m inside, heavy velvet curtain shut, I look for a price tag. I swear I nearly rip the dress to shreds looking for the thing, but it’s nowhere to be found.

  It’s bad news. It’s the worst news, because as someone who works in fashion, sort of, I’m well aware of how much a dress can cost, and that knowledge is making me sweat.

  Stop being a pussy and tell her you can’t afford it, I think. It’s that easy. It really is.

  I put the dress on, careful not to get my hair stuck in the zipper. I step out of the dressing room to two sets of appraising eyes, careful to hold the too-long skirt up.

  I don’t ask how much it is, and I don’t tell Elizabeth I can’t afford it.

  “Let’s see the green one again,” Elizabeth calls into the dressing room.

  I roll my eyes at my reflection. We’ve been doing this for over an hour, and as much as I do love clothes, I don’t love being stared at and poked and prodded. The saleswoman in particular keeps making this face at me where she furrows her brow and bites her lip, and I could really do without that face.

  “I like the black one,” I call back, wriggling out of a long, ugly, red sheath dress that’s exactly wrong in every way for my body type.

  “Yes, but let’s see the green one again,” Elizabeth says. “I think I might like that one better.”

  I give myself a look in the mirror, because there’s no one else around to look at. Of course it matters which dress she likes best more than it matters which dress I like, because everything is about Lady Elizabeth, all the time, and I may as well be a pile of horse shit.

  I’m overreacting slightly. I know. But I’m tired and hungry and I’ve been so nice and accommodating to Alistair’s bitchy sister all day, and I still don’t know who’s paying for this stupid dress.

  I take a deep breath. I say a quick prayer for patience or whatever. And I put on the green dress.

  “That one does accentuate her shape a bit more than the black dress,” the saleswoman says to Elizabeth. “It’s rather too long, but hemming it within a few days is certainly no problem. We wouldn’t even need to let the bodice out, I don’t think.”

  “And the color is better on her than the black, which simply washes her out,” Elizabeth says. “She’d look dreadful in photographs.”

  I’m tempted to point out to them that I’m also in the room, but I just don’t care. It feels pointless.

  “Do you know what shoes you’ll be wearing, love?” the woman asks.

  “Yes, I’ve got a pair that’s about three inches—”

  “We need to buy shoes as well,” Elizabeth says, cutting me off.

  I force myself not to smile at the look of horror on her face at the thought that I might show up at her event in peep-toe shoes.

  “This is the dress, then?” the woman asks. “I do think it’s the best overall, though I know the black one had that capelet you adored, dear.”

  “Yes, this will do nicely,” Elizabeth says, eyeing me yet again.

  Ask, I tell myself. Just ask, for the love of God. At least know what you’re getting yourself into.

  I clear my throat, palms suddenly sweaty.

  “How much exactly is this dress?” I ask, my voice high and tight.

  “I believe the green is twenty-four hundred pounds, though I may have that confused with the Alexander Wang we sold not long ago that looked rather similar,” the woman says.

  I can feel my face go
white, my mouth open as I do the quick pounds-to-dollars conversion during a long, long pause.

  Say something. There’s no way. Credit cards or not, you can’t spend that on a dress, and Elizabeth sure isn’t speaking up...

  Elizabeth laughs, shaking her blond hair back.

  “It’ll go on our account, obviously. My God, Françoise, you should see the look on your face right now,” she says, and she’s smiling but her eyes are sharp.

  Elizabeth is fucking with me. I don’t know why, really, but I’m starting to think she just doesn’t like me. Or maybe it’s like Alistair said – she’s angry that I’m marrying someone with a title and she’s still single. I don’t quite get it, but I do my very best to feel pity for her instead of irritation.

  And I smile back at her, hands folded in front of me.

  “Thanks, it’s a relief,” I say, and at least I don’t have to lie.

  “You have got to be winding me up!” Elizabeth says, her pretty face scowling as she faces the heavy wooden door. On it there’s a plaque:

  The Brougham Club will be closed until 15th December for renovations.

  Please accept our sincere apologies for any inconvenience.

  “We could just go back to Shelton,” she says, clearly unhappy. “There are least we could pop into Pierre’s. The service is lacking but at least it’s something.”

  We’re forty-five minutes from Shelton. I’m not sure I’m going to make it that long, because I’m starving and more than slightly cranky with Elizabeth. Even though she just bought me a several-thousand-dollar dress, she was somehow still kind of a dick about it.

  “What about the pub we just passed a few blocks ago?” I ask.

  She looks at me, head tilted, like I’m speaking Greek.

  “I’m sure it’s no Brougham Club but why not try something fun and new on our girls’ day out?” I suggest, giving her my winningest smile.

  Elizabeth’s nose wrinkles slightly.

  “Come on, you took me somewhere high-class, now we can slum it a bit,” I say brightly. “Everyone likes fish and chips, even you!”