by Amy Daws
“Perfect! I have a proposition for you.”
Leslie goes on to explain that Theo’s family hosts a formal charity gala every year in London and two of her former roommates, who were going to attend, had to back out last minute.
“Theo’s family is throwing the event you say?” I ask cautiously. “So they’ll all be there I would assume.”
“Yes, yes. Of course,” she replies dismissively. “You’ll be at a table with some of my old roommates. Frank, Finley, and Brody. Then Reyna and Liam will be at your table as well. You met them all at The White Swan Pub soft opening a couple of weeks ago.”
I exhale when I realise she hasn’t mentioned the one I’m most curious about. Recalling my less than stellar first impression I had with Theo’s brother, Hayden, I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed to hear he won’t be sitting at my table.
Hayden Clarke is…memorable…to say the least. He had that sexy soulful look about him that lured me right in. “That sounds quite fun,” I reply, clearing the frog in my throat.
“Do you think you can secure a plus one?” Leslie asks. “The plates are three hundred quid a piece and are already paid in full. Oooh, maybe one of your brothers?” Her voice rises with excitement.
I exhale sharply while rolling my eyes. My gaze happens to land on my coworker, Benji. I catch him picking dirt out from beneath his fingernails with an opened paperclip and my nose crinkles. “What would you say if I wanted to bring Benji instead?” I whisper quietly into the phone. “I really think the bloke needs a nice night out.”
Leslie groans, “Your brothers would be much more thrilling, but dammit, you’re probably right about Benji. Do you think you can keep him occupied, though? I can’t trust that Theo won’t get twitchy if he starts following me around all night.”
I purse my lips to conceal my giggle. Benji is our personal assistant and is hopelessly in love with Leslie. It’s quite cute, really. He’s twenty-three, small bodied with mousy brown hair, and has an awkward, nerdy way about him. He’s not unattractive, but he is the polar opposite of Theo. Theo is large and heavily muscled with trimmed dark blond hair. He’s brooding and intense with a confidence that you can’t fake. And the passion that radiates from him when he’s around Leslie…It gives me butterflies and I’m not even on the receiving end of those looks. Not to mention he pulls off smart glasses like no bloke I’ve ever seen.
“He’ll be fine,” I appease. “Maybe he’ll meet a nice girl?”
“Aw, I’d love that for Benji,” Leslie sings hopefully into the phone. “So you’ll do it then. Yay! Thank you, my love. It means a lot. I gotta run, though. Marisa is stirring and I still have to get in the shower. It takes hours to do anything when you have a colicky baby. I’ll email you the details.”
“Great,” I reply.
“Okay, bye-bye, Vi. Oh look, I made a rhyme! I’m a poet and I didn’t know it!” She snickers like a loon and I can’t help but laugh pathetically back. Her voice grows serious again, “I’m sorry…Mommyhood has murdered my brain cells. Talk later!”
I shake my head as I hang up thinking about just how much Leslie’s life has changed since she’s come to London. At twenty-seven, she’s only a couple of years older than me and I can’t even imagine being where she is currently in her life. I’m still getting dumped by douchey DJ’s for goodness sake.
“Hey, Benji,” I sing merrily as I saunter over to his desk, which is situated behind the designer cubbies.
He looks up, dropping his paperclip on the desk and clumsily tries to cover it up. “Hiya, Vi. What can I get for you?”
Shooting him a cheeky grin, I ask, “Have ya got plans tonight?”
He blinks in confusion and furrows his brows. “Not particularly.”
“Leslie just called and wondered if you and I would be keen to go to a fundraiser she’s a part of tonight. It’s a formal do, I’m afraid.”
Benji shoots up out of his chair. “Leslie called? Are you serious? Did she ask for me specifically?” His voice rises to a high-pitched squeal.
“Benji,” I chastise like a proper mum. “If you’re going to act this excited around her tonight then it’s probably not a good idea for you to go. She’s got a lot going right now with a new baby and all her wedding planning. She really needs a nice evening out.”
His face drops. “No, I just…Oh, bugger. I didn’t mean to…It wasn’t that—”
“I know you’re fond of her. Leslie’s a great mate. Just promise to be cool and we’ll go together and have a fab time, all right?” Benji adamantly promises to be calm and I know I can trust him. He’s harmless, really. Just overeager.
Since Roger is not in the office today, we both decide to scoot out early to prepare for our big night. Benji has to go rent a tux and I need extra time to do my hair. A formal affair requires a bit more effort than my daily long and straight.
“I’ll pick you up in a cab outside your building at seven then,” I say as we clamber out the large swing-open window of our building.
“Sounds lovely,” he replies, his voice rising at the end as we descend down the wrought iron fire escape stairs along the outside of our building. There’s a call centre located on the lower level of our two-floor warehouse, and we look at those employees like zombies who could infect us with a case of “dull and painfully boring.” It was Leslie’s idea we start using the fire escape steps to enter and exit so the drab lower level office doesn’t mess with our creative mojo.
Just as we reach the bottom of the large metal steps, my dad’s name pops up on my phone screen. I wave Benji off and answer as I make my way down the sidewalk. “Hiya, Dad!”
“Hiya, my new twenty-five-year-old daughter. You sound rather chipper.” His warm voice is always a welcome sound.
“Well, I just got invited to a formal do tonight. I was going to call you, actually. I’m afraid Bruce and I won’t be around for tea.”
“What’s the event for?”
“Oh…erm, crap.” I was so excited at the prospect of who might be in attendance that I completely forgot to ask Leslie what the charity was even for. “I suppose I don’t even know. It’s sort of a favour for a friend.”
“Well, have fun. I’ll try and ward off your brothers for ya.”
I let out a huff of laughter. “As if that were even possible.” Being footballers and over-protective alpha types as brothers makes them think they can call the plays in my life.
“They mean well, darling. It’s off-season, so they have too much time on their hands to worry about you.”
Rolling my eyes, I reply, “I know, I know.”
“But you will be by Sunday, right?” he asks.
“‘Course, Dad. You needn’t even ask.”
“All right, just making sure. Be safe and text me when you’re home tonight.”
“Will do! Bye, Dad.”
“Bye.”
I stride down the street with an extra bounce to my step at the prospect of a big night out. This is what I envisioned when I moved. Doing fun, spur of the moment things with friends that don’t involve going over match footage. And now that Leslie lives with Theo full-time, she’s only a ten minute walk from my flat. Maybe now that she lives closer we’ll see each other more often? I know she’s got a baby, but surely mummies need a break here and there.
I walk through the narrow alley between the two shops that my flat sits above, shaking my head at the image of my idiot brothers trying to make a three-man-tower of themselves. They demanded a key from me, but I refused. I love my flat too much to give those animals access to it.
I have the penthouse above a large period building that hosts a Hookah Lounge and a gift shop on the ground level. I didn’t especially need the penthouse, but my dad insisted and, damn, it is bloody perfect. As soon as you walk in, you’re greeted with an entire wall of exposed natural brick, which compliments the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a huge balcony. The balcony opens from the living room and the master suite is concealed by French doo
rs on the left. On the right is a modern kitchen with glossy black cabinets and pale wooden countertops.
As if that all isn’t gorgeous enough, there’s a ladder up to a private rooftop terrace with a huge flowery oasis. My own personal secret garden. I wish I could say I tend to the flowers myself, but I do not have a green thumb. I pay someone to maintain it and it’s the best money I spend every single week. I spend hours up there reading and people watching down over my quaint neighbourhood. It’s dreamy.
I let myself into the side entrance where the private lift to my flat is located. I pop my key into the panel and push the only button labeled eleven. Just as the doors open into my flat, I’m socked right in the belly by none other than Bruce.
“Bruce! You vile monster. Get back,” I shout, grabbing him by the mouth and pushing him away from me. “Now just look at the state of me.” I glance down at my soaked jeans. The cheeky bastard has the nerve to drop down on his butt and cock his head at me in that cute puppy-dog way he still has about him.
“You think you’re cute, don’t ya?” I glare at him angrily. Bruce is an enormous Saint Bernard that I ended up with when one of my neighbours passed away six months ago. It was quite sad, really. Mrs. Renack lived one floor below me. Her children bought her Bruce as a puppy when she was diagnosed with cancer. She used to drop him off at my flat whenever she had to go for treatments and we always had the loveliest chats. But unfortunately, Bruce isn’t a miracle worker. When I showed up for the funeral, her kids spoke of sending him to a shelter and I couldn’t stomach the thought.
The horrid animal weighs nearly 140 pounds now, and his big head reaches all the way up to my waist. He’s got a half white face with a mahogany brindle covering his right eye. The rest of his body is spotted with various shades of black, brown, red, and tan amongst his white fur. “I’m going to get you into classes one of these days, Bruce. You mark my words.” His enormous tongue flicks out and licks his nose as he continues to stare at me expectantly. Two streams of drool hang from his chops as he awaits my command.
“All right, all right,” I groan. “Let’s go have a walkies.” He leaps up from his spot and rushes into the kitchen and grabs his lead, dragging it across the white slate flooring. He may not be well-trained for greetings, but he sure as shite knows how to get a walk. I clip the leash onto his collar and head out to let him relieve himself. It’s a lot like leading a small horse rather than walking a dog. The looks I get are rather comical considering the bugger weighs more than I do.
This area of town is quite busy with tourists and shoppers, but anywhere you live in London you’ll always find a quiet, green oasis amongst all the hustle and bustle. These tiny parks are my favourite part of London. And the park I take Bruce is extra special because it has an entire area just for dogs.
Once we return, I lead him into the kitchen to refresh his water and feed him. I then pop into my en suite bathroom to get ready for the evening. Bruce eventually resumes his post at the bathroom doorway, watching me the entire time with those sad puppy-dog eyes that say, “You look like you’re going out for the night…I hope this means you’re taking me. And oh, can you scratch my back while you’re at it, pretty please?”
“Not this time, Mongrel,” I say, patting his head and applying one last layer of mascara. I give myself a final once-over in the mirror. I’ve always been the thinner, ganglier, awkward type—like a young girl who still hasn’t hit puberty. Leslie used to say I had a runway model’s body, but I’d much rather have a bit more meat and some curves than the spindly frame I inherited from my mother. It’s easy to develop a complex over thin legs when you have footballers with massive muscular thighs for brothers.
Still, this dress makes me feel like I actually have curves. It’s a diamond white, sweetheart strapless, fit-to-flare cut dress. I curl my platinum blonde locks into loose, soft waves and pin them off to one side so they trail down the front of my exposed shoulder. My minimal makeup allows my bright blue eyes to carry the show. Add a layer of peach gloss and I think I’ve actually achieved the perfect sun-kissed look I was going for.
Tonight, I feel different. Tonight, I feel ready for anything.
HEAR ME NOW
My eyes blink slowly against the spotlights, searching for the clock on the far wall of the ballroom that I saw when I came in from the back. I know I have a watch on my wrist because I never go anywhere without it. But for some reason, I feel the need to confirm the time on another clock every place I go.
To ensure that the time continuum hasn’t failed.
To ensure that where I’m standing right now is real life.
To ensure that I am still alive.
And to ensure the fact that my incessant wish to erase moments from my past still hasn’t come true.
I know it was crap for me to skip the mingling portion of the fundraising event, but I am too fucking nervous to be able to sit with everyone and visit like it is just a normal Friday night. This night is anything but normal. I’ll talk to everyone afterwards. Lord knows I’ll need to. They’ve all been texting me like mad to ensure that I’m okay. My mum, my younger sister, Daphney, my brother, Theo, and even Leslie. I shoot a quick text back to Leslie to let her know that Marisa was fast asleep when I left her with the sitter at their flat. I ignore all the others.
Touching the inside of my wrist concealed beneath my dark brown leather cuff, the texture of the ridged scar sends a churning through my stomach. Before I have a chance to close my eyes and slip back to that moment, I hear the master of ceremonies announce my name.
“And now, a word from one of our generous benefactors, Mr. Hayden Clarke.” The woman’s voice cracks on the end of my name and I bite back the growing urge to roll my eyes. This woman knows I’m not one of the actual benefactors, my parents are. This woman also knows that I’m considered the tragic, wayward son whom everyone watches like a ticking time bomb. They’re all bloody terrified of what I’m about to say.
Maybe they should be.
I stride across the shiny wooden stage, adjusting my thick black Windsor tie and fastening the button on my navy tuxedo jacket. I left it undone on purpose to give my hands something to do. It’s a small attempt at feigning a level of confidence. Power. Intimidation.
Don’t let them see you shake. Don’t let them see you falter. Don’t let them see you weak. You’re not weak anymore. You’re different. You’re healed.
The woman’s plump cheeks widen, making me cringe at the fake warmth she’s radiating. She offers me a curt British smile. The British are always polite. Always controlled. And always on guard. Maybe that’s why I always feel oddly around them…like I don’t belong.
I’ve always hated surface shite.
That fact alone is also probably why last year I fell hopelessly in love with the dark and ominous American dust storm that is Reyna Miracle Miller. Reyna whited out everything around me. She kept me in a dark vortex where I could see nothing but her and us and the misery that we lived in every time our bodies connected. The desolation in which I lived in with Rey felt real and right at the time. It felt like home. I was exhausted by the superficial airs that were so common in my family. Reyna was anything but surface. Reyna was dark and twisted and sad and just as fucked up as I was. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
Ignoring the painful slice I feel in my heart every time I think of Rey, I nod pleasantly to the woman as she steps away from the podium and I fill her space. I squint against the spotlights and see that the ballroom is covered in white linens, low-hanging chandeliers, and splashes of dark purple floral centrepieces at each table. My eyes settle on the table front and centre and land on my mother. Even from up here I can see how nervous she is. My father is doing a proper job at appearing strong and regal. Next to my mum is Daphney, Theo, and, of course, Leslie. I avoid looking at the table next to them because I know exactly who’s sitting there.
I know her face better than I should. I used to watch Rey sleep. I could even tell when she was dreaming.
Her eyeballs would flicker rapidly behind her lids, and she’d let out these gut-wrenching cries that made me beg the universe for some magical power that would grant me a look inside her head. I was desperate to know more than just her physical beauty. She has long dark hair and a curvy bombshell figure, plus an entire sleeve of tattoos on one arm and three black roses on her shoulder and collarbone. I had my suspicions about the meaning behind all her ink, but we never discussed them. We never discussed much. Her grey eyes held millions of secrets that she would never share with me. Our relationship was much more carnal. And I was too frozen in my own misery to ever push for more.
By the time I was able to admit to myself that I was in love with her, it was too late. Now she’s engaged to my brother’s best mate, Liam Darby, and I’m at a suicide gala giving a bloody survivor speech.
Fuck me.
Clearing my throat, I stare into the spotlights and begin the speech I’ve been reciting in my head for months now. “One year ago today, as my watch struck the hour of 11:11, I dragged a blade across both of my wrists.”
A soft gasp emits from somewhere in the room, and I pause to let my amplified words settle in over the audience. I glance sideways to the announcer standing off stage. Her eyes flare nervously and I clench my jaw to conceal the smirk threatening my lips.
“It’s quite a laugh, really…Well, not the trying to kill myself part…That was the opposite of comedy. But what’s funny is that when I volunteered to be the keynote speaker for this evening, the charity gave me a list of trigger words. Taboo phrases they advised me not to say. They gave me suitable alternatives for things like kill myself, slitting my wrists, and even blood”
My eyes ache to look over at Rey to see her reaction right now, but I resist. She’s not a part of my life anymore. Her approval isn’t what I need to be healthy. It’s not why I’m doing this.