CHAPTER 5
LIAM
Jet lag kicks in and my body clock pulls me out of the bed I’m scrunched into. 5 a.m. I groan, some days, that’s the time I go to bed and here I am getting up because I can’t sleep. I’ve only been in bed two hours. Pulling on my jeans and t-shirt, I pad quietly from the room and downstairs.
Goldie’s claws clatter across the lino floor in the kitchen, his tail wagging. I quietly close the door and look around for coffee. Mum and Dad still drink the instant crap, no fresh beans here. Oh well, better than nothing.
Coffee in hand, I retreat to the lounge. At least I’ll get to watch what I want on TV this time. I rest my legs on the coffee table, my head on the back of the sofa and turn the volume down. Classic eighties Simpsons episodes. Perfect. Half an episode later and I hear the stairs creak.
I turn to see Ella hovering near the sofa. She’s dressed in pink fleece pyjamas with a cartoon cats pattern and grips her raggedy blanket. The little girl’s brown hair sticks up in several directions and her bleary eyes remind me of her mum’s last night.
Without a word, she disappears again, and after the fridge and cupboards bang, she returns to the lounge with a huge glass of orange juice.
“Do you always get up so early?” I ask her.
“I’m not tired.”
She wanders to the Christmas tree and pokes at the dangling silver and gold baubles. “Can you put the lights on?”
I flick a switch and the multi-coloured fairy lights shine against the green pine, flickering in a random pattern. In the half-light of the room, the colours scatter across the walls. Christmas. I heave a satisfied sigh at being here and not in the heat of California.
Distracted by the tree, I don’t notice Ella switch channels and the bloody pigs reappear. She’s positioned herself with her back to me, close to the TV, which amuses me because it’s obvious Ella’s doing this to stop me asking her to change the channel.
Little kids. Funny. I finish my coffee then stretch out on the sofa, eyes closing, lulled to sleep by the voices on TV.
****
In my dream, somebody is messing with my hair. I open an eye and ground myself, catching up to where I am. Definitely not LA or a hotel room. Home. I shift around on the uncomfortable leather sofa and look straight into Ella’s wide brown eyes. The little girl’s lips are stained orange from her juice and she’s holding a hairbrush.
“Your hair is pretty,” Ella says.
Half-asleep, I don’t have a response. Has she been brushing my hair? I touch my head. The side of my hair is loosely wound into something that uncomfortably resembles a loose plait.
“I learned to do plaits. I do them to Mummy’s hair, too.”
I scrunch my face up in confusion, looking back into her innocent happiness.
“And my dolls.” She holds up a couple of dolls, one of which has long platinum blonde hair and is wearing scraps of clothing, reminding me why they call Honey, Barbie. Their hair is twisted into weird shapes.
A troubled look mars her happiness. “Don’t you like plaits? You have girl’s hair.”
I laugh at her and she giggles back.
“I haven’t had a plait for a long time,” I say.
“Can you get me breakfast?” she asks.
“Umm. What?” My brain isn’t awake enough for rapid subject changes. “Isn’t your mum up?”
“No, she’s very tired.” Ella tugs at the dolls hair, winding it around her fingers.
Heh. I bet she is. “Nobody else around?” I don’t know what to feed a four year old and this isn’t my idea of a relaxing time at home.
“Everyone is in bed. I’m hungry.” As if the decision is made, she pulls herself up and heads toward the kitchen. I stare at her dog slippers wondering what world I’ve landed myself in. Should I wake Cerys? No, I’m sure I can manage to put some cereal in a bowl.
It’s a long time since I ate CocoPops, Ella’s favourite apparently. She instructs me how long to leave the cereal in the milk to make chocolate milk and I watch Ella in fascination as she happily crunches on her breakfast. I didn’t think I liked kids, though I’ve considered having my own. There’s something good about being around innocence and playfulness after years in the debauched lifestyle I chose.
“Can you take me to the park?” Ella announces, pushing her empty bowl away.
“What?” I check my phone. 7 a.m.
“Mummy always takes me to the park after breakfast.”
“Maybe wait until your mum gets up?” I suggest.
“I’ll ask her.” Ella hops down from the stool and I picture her jumping on the hungover Cerys.
“No. Okay. It’s a long time since I went to the park, too.”
I had plans to shop today, a week until Christmas and I want some of the gifts under the family tree to come from me. I guess half an hour at the park won’t hurt.
Within minutes, the little girl has disappeared and returned downstairs dressed in track pants, a T-shirt, and a pair of pink and silver trainers. Before I can say anything, she heads out of the front door. I grab my blue hoodie hanging in the hallway and follow her out.
****
The wind bites my cheeks as I huddle on the bench, hood pulled over my face. The dark clouds threaten snow, which excites me: a white Christmas. Has Ella had a white Christmas before?
The little girl spends ten minutes repeatedly sliding down the huge metal slide at the edge of a wooden climbing frame. I’m pretty impressed with the playground, better than the one set of swings and graffitied slide we had near my old, childhood house. Nobody else is here, so I pull my phone out. May as well catch up on some texts.
There’s a fuckload from Honey but I don’t answer. I want to pretend she doesn’t exist until I’m in the right head space to deal with her. Once I told Honey the engagement was off, I knew she’d do everything she could to change my mind. If I can be strong enough to walk away, I can be strong enough to keep things as they are. Finished.
There’s one from Bryn, Blue Phoenix drummer and mother hen. That’s if mother hens can be built like the proverbial brick house, and who could scare small children. Bryn’s text asks me to call him with a ‘not urgent’ attached. Rubbing my cold nose, I dial the number.
“Hey, Bryn.”
“Ah, Liam, man. Wanted to check if you’re coming to Dylan’s place for Christmas?”
“Dylan’s? Is he there?” Dylan, Blue Phoenix’s lead singer, is such a moody bastard recently; I’m surprised he’s let anyone set foot in his house.
“No, he’s in London.”
“With Jem?” I ask incredulously. No way. Recently, Dylan and lead guitarist Jem are back in the hate part of their love/hate relationship for reasons I don’t want to know. “Are they buddies again?”
Bryn snorts. “No, he’s sulking back at his flat. I think he’s looking for Sky.”
“Sky? She left the scene months ago.” In the summer, Dylan disappeared without telling anyone and when he reappeared, he’d had a secret affair with some chick who wasn’t interested in him once she found out who he was. Dylan as lead singer is endlessly pursued by the press and he’s a bit fucked up by the whole fame business. I get that, but he makes some shit decisions without thinking about the rest of us. Last I saw him with Sky she’d changed her mind and they were together. Then she disappeared and Dylan refuses to mention her name.
“Yeah. Weird. Anyway, you coming?” asks Bryn.
“No, staying in St Davids. Doing the family thing this year.”
“Uh huh.” There’s a pause followed by the real reason he asked me to call him. “Honey with you?”
“No.”
“Oh?”
“Oh.”
I wait for Bryn to determine whether to push the issue as Bryn would, or step down.
He gives me the male ‘get out clause’. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Ella approaches, stumbling across the wood chip ground toward the bench. Her cheeks are flushed red, hair sticking up from the static of the slide. “Will you push me on the swings?”
“Who’s that?” asks Bryn.
“Who?”
“Is that a kid?” He pauses. “Liam! Have you got a secret love child?”
What annoys me is he’s half-serious. “What the fu...” I catch myself. “No, she’s the daughter of a family friend. I don’t have any kids!”
“Uncle Liam! Swings, please?”
Bryn makes an amused snort. “Are you at a kids’ playground? Wow, you must really like her mum. Cosy date?”
“Her mum isn’t here.”
“Spending the morning at a kids’ playground through choice? Rock and roll, man,” laughs Bryn.
“Shut up. I’m being nice, her mum’s not well.” Self-inflicted, but not well.
“Sometimes, Liam, you’re too nice.”
“Says you.”
“Not nice enough.”
That’s an odd thing to say. “Have you planned a New Year’s party yet?” I ask, grabbing at a subject change.
“Not yet. I need to talk to Dylan and Jem, see if we’re going to have something big at his again.”
“Okay, I’ll make sure I get to that, let me know.”
“It’ll be a no kids party, Liam, so leave your little friend at home,” teases Bryn.
“Yeah, right. You’re funny.”
“Seriously, though, is there anything you want to talk about?”
Ella hops up and down in front of me, rubbing her bare arms. Did she forget her coat? “Uncle Liam. Please.”
Bryn laughs raucously down the phone. “Speak to you later, Uncle Liam.”
I pull my eyebrows together, wondering why I bothered calling him. I knew the reason underneath his contacting me was Honey, but with chicks, we stay out of each other’s business. Unless you’re Dylan and Jem, but I don’t even want to know what goes on between them and girls.
“Aren’t you cold? Should we go home?” I ask Ella hopefully. I overestimated the enjoyment level of a trip to a children’s playground in the middle of winter.
She pouts. “Can I have a little go on the swings? Can you push me?”
Huffing, I stand and tread across the bark toward the swings. She hops onto one and waits. I scratch my neck and look around. I can’t help but always be on semi-alert for someone with a camera. I guess I’m not exciting enough to be pursued at stupid o’clock on a Saturday morning in the cold.
Ella isn’t satisfied with gentle swinging and her knuckles whiten, gripping the chain as I push her higher.
What the hell am I doing?
“How high does your dad push you?” I ask.
“He doesn’t take me to the park.”
“Oh.” Weird. I push her again. “Never?”
“He’s not home much.”
“Does he work a long way from home?”
“No, he likes to go to the gym. And the pub. He sleeps lots because it makes him tired.”
Ella’s dad doesn’t take her to the park? Isn’t that what dads are supposed to do? She squeals as I push her higher.
“Do you think he’ll come for Christmas?” asks Ella. “I miss him.”
Oh, shit. Now what have I done by mentioning him? “Um. Ask your mum?”
“I did. She said she doesn’t know.”
Well, how the hell would I know?
“Ella!” A woman’s voice carries through the cool wind toward us.
I look around. Cerys storms across the grass toward me and Ella, holding something blue in her hand. As she approaches, she fixes me with the same unimpressed stare as I got in the kitchen the other night. Ella has the momentum she wants on the swing and the whole contraption squeaks as she flies above our heads.
“What do you think you’re doing?” yells Cerys.
“What?” I ask.
“You take her out without telling anyone and don’t even put her coat on!” She shoves the blue puffed jacket at me and I grab it in surprise, staring back into the woman’s angry, pink face. She looks up at her daughter. “Well done, you managed to get shoes on her!”
The swing creaks and I step back.
“Ella! Slow down!” shouts her mum. “Didn’t you think how dangerous this is for a four year old?” she snaps at me.
“It’s a swing!”
“Look how high she is!”
“She’s okay.”
“How would you know?” After another glare, she turns back to her daughter. “Ella! Stop right now and put your coat on!”
Ella stops swinging her legs and her mouth turns down at the corners. She watches her mum warily as the swing comes to a stop. Cerys snatches the jacket back from me and roughly shoves her daughter’s arms in.
“I wanted to go to the park!” Ella protests. “And you were asleep.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone before taking her? I woke up and she was gone!” Cerys half-shouts at me.
“Whoa. Okay. Everyone was asleep; I thought I’d help out.”
“What if something happened to her?”
“Like what? We’re five minutes from the house. I think you’re over-reacting.”
“Someone like you doesn’t know how to look after a child.”
“What do you mean someone like me?” She’s pissing me off now and I wish I’d stayed out of her life.
“It’s not like you know what to do with them. When was the last time you looked after a kid?”
“I took her to the playground! What did you think I was going to do? Take her to my drug dealer or leave her with a groupie? For f-uck’s sake!” I stomp away, across the grass.
“Don’t swear around my daughter!” she yells after me.
I stop. “At least I took her to the park!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Ella says her dad doesn’t.”
“That has nothing to do with you!”
She’s right. I’ve no idea why I said it. “Fine! I’ll keep away from you both! I just wanted to help.” I continue away from them, muttering expletives under my breath.
Back at the house, I storm around, unable to believe my peaceful family Christmas has led to practically being accused of child abduction. Screw this.
Following terse exchanges with my parents and sister who are leaving for work, I grab my car keys and leave the house. If I see Cerys again in the mood I’m in, I’ll say something that will really piss her off. If she’s staying all f-ucking Christmas, I need to keep the peace. I could choose to be obnoxious enough to make her leave, but even I’m not that bad.
I drive to Whitesands Bay and walk along the coastal path, watching the churning, grey sea below, comparing it to the crystal blue I left behind in Malibu. Maybe I should’ve stayed and tried to sort things out with Honey instead of coming back to the familiar that’s not so familiar anymore.
Deciding it’s too cold to sit on a nearby bench for long, and that I’m too tired to do much else, I go home. Maybe I’ll go to the pub tonight. Or go and stay at Dylan’s country place until Christmas Eve because I’m not sure I can put up with a week of this before Christmas Day arrives.
When I get home, Ella is in her prime spot in front of the TV and Cerys is asleep on the sofa. Her pale skin and dark-rimmed eyes evidence her hungover state. I did have sympathy for her; but not after the mouthful, she gave me earlier. Looks like it’s siesta time in the house.
I flop onto the useless single bed and stare at the ceiling, playing the conversation last night through my mind. Is that why she was pissy with me this morning? Is this because of what she said last night? I smirk to myself. My little sister’s friend fantasised about me. I get less chicks in Team Liam so I’m not as blasé about attention as Jem and Dylan. There’s something cute about being elevated to hero status by someone who knows me.
Then I picture her naked.
I struggle to remove the image and focus back on the pissed off Cerys who annoyed me. This works for about a minute until a different image of her last night, so close I almost felt her lips on my face. I bet she tastes amazing; she smells incredible. How would her skin feel? An image of Cerys naked in my bed inevitably returns.
This is not good.
I drift to sleep with the fantasies morphing into the kind of dreams that are too real. When I wake up several hours later, my body’s already made the decision. If this woman lets me get my hands on her, I won’t be able to say no.
Illicit, exciting, and maybe a mistake. If Honey can do it, so can I.