by Anna Martin
“Yeah, I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you for that yet. Can I help pick the house?”
“Of course you can.”
“Don’t make it too nice,” Tone said. “I wouldn’t feel right living somewhere proper posh.”
“Yeah,” Summer agreed. “It needs to have….What do they call it? Character.”
“Preferably somewhere a bit dank and miserable,” Ben said, teasing now, but Tone was nodding.
“Great,” Sherrie said. “I need to find a seven bedroom house in bloody Hampstead Heath and drop five mil on the place, but make sure it’s got some asbestos to make you all feel at home.”
“You got it, Sher,” Tone said, rocking his chair back onto its two rear legs. At Sherrie’s disapproving cluck, he dropped it back to all fours.
“Geordie’s right, Sherrie,” Summer said, leaning to grab Sherrie’s hand. “You don’t know what this means to us. It might mean we actually make something of the band.”
Sherrie shook her head. “All I’ve ever wanted was to see my kids happy,” she said. “Money ain’t got much to do with it really, but sometimes it helps.” Her grin turned a little watery. “Not sure when I adopted all you lot, but somehow you turned into my kids as well. I want this fucking band to work just as much as the rest of you.”
That seemed to decide it.
Ben had to admit, getting them all under the same roof would probably do wonders for the band. They were scattered all over London at the moment, and even though they still congregated at Sherrie’s house to rehearse, it was getting harder and harder to coordinate time for everyone to get together. There was no way could they finish an album the way they were going.
As the others ducked out of the dining room, heading to the kitchen and the promise of snacks, Ben hung back until he was alone with Sherrie.
“You alright, Ben love? How’s Stan?”
“He’s okay,” Ben said. “Doing a lot better actually. He should be coming home soon.”
“Maybe he can move straight into the new house.”
Ben rolled his shoulders, feeling suddenly nervous. Sherrie was already doing such a nice thing for them; it seemed incredibly selfish to ask her for more.
“That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, then remembered it was white and he probably shouldn’t. “Stan is….I mean, he’s amazing, but he’s got a lot of hang-ups about being tidy and clean and what he eats. I’m pretty sure he’d be up for living with everyone in theory, but in practice?” He shook his head. “I don’t want to sound like the most ungrateful prick on the planet.”
Sherrie shook her head. “I get it,” she said. “Maybe I can look for somewhere that has a flat above the garage for you two, hmm?”
“I can’t ask you for that.”
“You’re not asking,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing. “I’m offering. God knows I feel guilty enough for not keeping an eye on Stan while you were away. This is the least I can do.”
“No one blames you for that, Sher,” Ben said. “He wasn’t your responsibility.”
“No, but he’s one of you lot, isn’t he? One of my kids.”
Ben smiled at her, his throat suddenly thick. She squeezed his hand again, then dropped it.
“You go take care of him, love. I’ll make sure you’re both okay.”
“Thanks, Sherrie.”
Ben put off telling Stan about the new house for a couple of days, not wanting to remind him about the realities that were waiting for him outside the hospital room. He was making good progress, Leslie was pleased with him, and the regular therapy sessions were starting to rebuild his confidence. Ben knew Stan’s goal was to get out as soon as possible, and he couldn’t help but feel torn between his desire to have Stan home and to leave him where he was, with all the professional help that came with his stay on the eating disorders ward.
It took Sherrie and Geordie only a couple of days to find a house that fit all of the requirements that had been thrown at them. Sherrie called it a “fixer-upper” and, checking out the pictures online, Ben had to agree.
The house was in a good area, a short bus ride or a longer walk down to the pub if he had to work, only a few streets away from a Tube station that would take him anywhere he wanted to go around London, and with a huge basement where the band could rehearse without disturbing their—likely very posh—neighbours.
Thought you and Stan could have the attic, Geordie told Ben via text message.
There was only one picture of the attic conversion room on the estate agent’s website, but it looked like the space was a recent refurbishment. It covered about two thirds of the house’s impressive floor space and included an en-suite bathroom.
Ben didn’t have any furniture of his own, and Sherrie had said she’d kit the place out, but he had some savings set aside and let his mind wander to how he’d set about decorating the room.
Yeah, thanks mate, he texted back.
He didn’t have time to say anything else—he was at the top of the escalators at the Tube station and his phone signal was about to disappear.
They needed their own sofa, he decided as he finally squeezed onto a train and leaned against a door because there was no seats left. With their own sofa, they could watch TV upstairs on their own if they didn’t want to socialise with the others. He’d put Stan’s sketches on the walls and get a nice, sturdy bed for the two of them.
It was easy to daydream on the Tube; it was one of those places where he wasn’t expected to concentrate on anything or interact with anyone, and his mind could fill in all the gaps and come up with possibilities—solutions, instead of problems.
His face was familiar on the ward now, and the nurses waved Ben through without stopping or questioning. He nodded to Leslie, who was sitting at the front desk, and knocked before letting himself into Stan’s room.
“Hi,” Ben said with a warm smile, pleased to see Stan sitting in the chair next to his bed with his laptop open. He quickly crossed the room and placed soft kisses on Stan’s lips.
“Hi, yourself,” Stan said when Ben pulled away. “Did you get a haircut?”
“Yeah,” Ben admitted, running his hand over his head. “I think they cut the sides too short.”
He’d pulled the length of his hair back and secured it with an elastic, keeping the weight off his sweaty neck. He sat down on the edge of the bed, since Stan was in the visitor’s chair, and gripped the edge of the mattress.
“I like it,” Stan said.
He was back to looking almost normal, in the clothes Ben had brought in for him. It was just jeans and one of Ben’s shirts—a blue one, rolled up to the elbows, with a white tank underneath it. Ben thought he looked beautiful.
“I need to talk to you—” he started at the same time Stan spoke.
“Ben, there’s something—”
They both laughed, and Ben inclined his head. “After you.”
Stan took a deep breath and snapped the lid of his laptop shut. “I’m going to quit my job,” he said in a rush.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I’m still going to write for the magazine, but freelance, instead of being on the staff. I’ve contacted a few other people I know too, to ask if I can pick up freelance work with them. I think I can keep a much better schedule if I’m in charge of my own workload instead of constantly being pulled onto other things.”
“That sounds good,” Ben said, nodding. “I mean, you were working ridiculous hours before. If you freelance, then you should be able to control it all a bit better, right?”
“That’s the idea,” Stan said. He fiddled with the end of his hair, which had been folded into a long braid. “It means I lose the flat though. It came with the job, and the magazine is going to want it back. I’m not sure how long I have left….”
He trailed off as Ben started to laugh, then held his hands up in apology. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said, still grinning. “I just—I came here to talk to
you because Sherrie is buying a house. For the band. So we can all live together.”
“Oh,” Stan said slowly.
“I came over to ask you to move in with us. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Stan pressed his lips together, trying to hide a smile. “Oh,” he said again.
Ben slid off the bed and crouched down in front of Stan, pulling both his hands forward and gripping them lightly. “We have our own room,” he said. “Geordie texted me to say there’s an attic room that’s huge, bigger than the others. And it has its own bathroom, which is separate to the rest of the house. I don’t know how you feel about living with other people—especially when those people are my friends, who are fucking weird. But it’ll be our space up there. The two of us together.”
“You know what I want?” Stan said with a sigh.
“Go on. Surprise me.”
Stan grinned. “I want… a night in on the sofa, with some horrible film playing on the TV so we don’t have to watch it. I want to wear your pyjama pants and an old T-shirt and snuggle.”
“Is that it?”
He laughed. “Yeah, pretty much. I want just the two of us, you know? Me and you.”
“Snuggling.” Ben said the word like he was testing it out. “Do we do that?”
“Yes,” Stan said gravely. “You are a very competent snuggler.”
“In that case,” Ben said, then brushed his lips over Stan’s knuckles, “let’s work on getting you home. So we can snuggle.”
Moving stuff out of Stan’s flat and into the new house was something Ben had expected to do on his own. He’d moved so many times over the past few months, he was starting to get sick of the sight of boxes, especially when they were filled with his stuff.
This time, though, it was something more permanent. Or so he hoped.
Instead of spending a day trying to move all of Stan’s things, Ben bit the proverbial bullet and forked out for a moving company to do the work for him. The expense made him wince when he thought about it, so he tried, very hard, not to think at all.
The upshot was, the entire contents of the flat in Bow Quarter were expertly packed, carried downstairs by people who weren’t Ben, transported across London to Hampstead Heath, and carried back up three flights of stairs to the attic bedroom. The boxes were dumped in the middle of the room ready for Ben to unpack, and he was ultimately grateful he’d forked over the cash.
He’d spent most of the day “supervising” as the others moved in in drips and drabs. No one was particularly organised, which wasn’t surprising in the least. The only things that were taken care of were musical instruments, set up in careful formation in the basement while boxes of clothes and DVDs were scattered through the rest of the house.
If Sherrie hadn’t turned up with boxes of pizza and demanded they “clear their shit up,” Ben was sure boxes would have remained stacked in the hall for months to come. As it was, Sherrie was scary, plus she owned this place, and they were all still slightly in awe of the fact she would do something so nice for them.
Now all Ben needed was for Stan to come home.
Chapter Sixteen
Stan sighed and tipped his head back. This was his favourite chair in the common room, the one that had a good angle to see out the window and the TV, if he wanted to watch it. TV use was carefully monitored and only the most bland and un-triggering of shows allowed, so they were currently all being lulled to sleep by some gardening show.
They were in fucking London. No one here had a fucking garden.
Stan’s therapist—or one of them, anyway—was very insistent that Stan integrate himself into the ward community. James wanted him to interact with the other residents, to play cards with them, to pick up a knitting class. James didn’t seem to realise Stan was a very social person, that he loved being around people, but being surrounded by other eating disorder patients only reminded him he had his own eating disorder to deal with. Stan didn’t want to see suffering and pain at every turn. He wanted to see vibrancy and joy.
Still, the best way to escape was to play the game and make the effort, and to make the progress he really needed to make it in the real world. There was something very comforting about the thought of going to live in a house full of people. He’d never particularly wanted that before, but now, having his friends around him seemed like an appropriate new chapter.
“Stan?”
He looked up to where Leslie was standing in the doorway to the common room. Stan smiled at her and unfolded himself from the chair, then rushed over to give her a hug. Leslie stopped by almost every other day, a bright point in this depressing place.
“I’ve got some news,” she said as they stepped into the hall. “I spoke to Dr Caldwell. They’re going to soft-release you.”
“Does that mean I can go home?”
“Yes.” She beamed at him. “You need to come back for all your therapies, but you’re essentially an outpatient.”
“Oh my God.”
Stan threw himself into her arms again and tried not to sob.
“It’s going to take a day or so to get everything sorted for you,” she said, gently rubbing his back. “And I’d expect you’re going to spend a lot of time going back and forth to different appointments, so prepare yourself for that.”
“Okay. But I can go home. With Ben.”
“You can.”
“I need to call him.”
“Then we should do that.”
Stan never expected it to be easy. Nothing about the past month and a half had been easy. Nothing about the few months before that had been easy either. All in all, it had been a pretty rocky year.
Ben turned up with Tone, which was probably a good thing. Tone was the only person who was able to keep Ben’s mother-hen instincts under control; while Ben wanted to cluck and fuss and do every little thing for Stan, Tone shrugged, called him a prick, and went for a smoke.
“Partner,” Stan said, making loose fists and rapping his knuckles against Ben’s chest. “Lover. Not carer. Not nurse. Okay?”
Ben kissed the knuckles. “I’ll try. I promise to try.”
Stan sighed and relaxed into Ben’s arms.
“Kirsty said she’s sorry she couldn’t come help you get home, but she’s busy with work. She’s going to come over and see the new house later this week.”
“Sounds good,” Stan mumbled against Ben’s chest.
He had paperwork to fill in—so much paperwork—and an agreement between Stan and his primary doctor that any sign of a relapse would mean he was immediately brought back onto the ward for observation. There were lists and nutrition plans and therapy schedules, and Stan wasn’t allowed to miss any of those for the time being either. He had responsibilities and the number of a cab service that worked with the hospital and would turn up at his house to take him to his appointments whether Stan called them or not. It was a good service.
Finally, finally, they were allowed to leave. As the automatic doors closed behind them, Stan felt a sudden rush of nerves. He wasn’t on his own again, not yet, but this was undoubtedly the first step towards that.
“How are you doing?” Ben asked when they were in the cab. Dirty city rain was pounding at the windows, unseasonable yet strangely welcome.
“Good,” Stan told him. “I’m excited to see the house.”
“You’re gonna love it,” Tone said. “The kitchen is huge.”
“Are you done decorating?”
“Pretty much,” Ben said.
“We’ve got some bloke coming round next week to put proper lights up in the basement,” Tone said. “At the moment, we’ve just got a bunch of lamps down there. It’s the only place we can practice without seriously pissing off the neighbours.”
“Sounds good.”
“And Summer wants to redecorate the living room,” Tone said, scratching his belly. “Something about it being too prissy. There’s like, flowery wallpaper in there at the moment. I said she should paint it black and be done wi
th it.”
“I can help,” Stan offered. “I like doing things like that.”
Tone grinned. “You should definitely talk to her.”
“How’s it all working out? You all living together?”
“Well, we arranged a cleaning service after three days,” Ben said. “After Jez threw a plate at Geordie’s head because he refused to wash it up.”
Stan snorted with laughter.
“We’ve got a fucking dishwasher, for fuck’s sake. Anyway. So now we have a cleaner who comes over three times a week to do the kitchen and bathrooms and the living room. When we split the cost between all of us, it’s not too bad and it saves on the arguments.”
“Sounds like a sensible plan to me.”
The rain had eased off by the time they got back to the house. Stan had spent the past ten minutes plastered to the window, becoming steadily more shocked at the size and opulence of the houses in this neighbourhood.
“We don’t really live here,” he breathed as the car pulled over.
“We really do,” Tone said. He passed the driver a few notes and swatted at Stan’s hand when he tried to give him some money back.
“This place is gorgeous.”
The ground-floor exterior was painted a pale cream, like the other houses on the road, and the upper floors were all exposed brick. It was set back from the road and had a shiny, dark blue front door and a hedge to offer a little privacy
So classy.
So very not Ares.
Ben shouldered Stan’s bag and took Stan’s hand, then gently tugged him up the path.
“I’ve got your keys inside,” Ben said.
He used his own set to open the door, revealing a light, bright, airy hallway and curving staircase.
“This must be a joke.”
“Nope,” Tone said, shutting the door with a bump of his hip. “Take your shoes off, please. There’s a cupboard there for you to put them in.”
“Oh shit, sorry,” Stan said, immediately toeing at his Vans.
“He’s winding you up, love,” Ben murmured.
