Unplugged: A Blue Phoenix Book

by Swallow, Lisa

  Relaxing after the crap of the last few months — deaths, overdoses and tours cut short — is hard. The last time I had peace and downtime away from the band was… no idea. Years ago, and I’m lost.

  Honey currently appears as a regular extra on a new TV comedy show. I watched it once; it was bloody awful, but when she raves about her big break, I smile encouragingly. The part she has does little to counteract the bimbo image.

  If Honey isn’t working, her day is filled with wedding organisation. Three weeks to go and my feet aren’t cold, they’re fucking ice blocks.

  When I came back to the States after Christmas, we patched things up. In a way, I’d behaved the same as her: Honey swears she only kissed Mason, and I kissed Cerys. I didn’t tell Honey. I know why Honey behaved as she did; and although I understand the depth of her insecurity and need for attention, running to another guy every time we fight isn’t the answer. What if next time it’s more than a kiss? Will being married be enough for Honey to believe my commitment to her? These niggling whispers over the last couple of months are now voices drowning my thoughts.

  At the centre of my doubt is Cerys. Although we haven’t spoken since the day we kissed, the night is as indelibly inked as any of my tattoos are. Honey kissed a guy and had no emotional desire to get close to him; I wanted Cerys and I would’ve traded Honey for her. That makes what I did worse and why each day the doubt grows. The problem isn’t the possibility Honey could be unfaithful again, but the attachment to Cerys I can’t shake. Every time I think about Cerys, and every time I crave to go back to the moment in time that fused me to her, I’m unfaithful to Honey. I can’t give Honey my whole heart when I left a part with Cerys at Christmas.

  But I can’t have Cerys; she’s with another man. If she no longer is, our time meant less to Cerys than me; otherwise, I’d have heard from her. I toyed with the idea of contacting Cerys a few times, but if she is still with Ella’s dickhead father, my interference won’t be welcome. I asked Louise about Cerys a couple of times, on the rare occasions I speak to her, but only got a ‘she’s okay’ response.

  The deeper we get into wedding plans, the more I get caught in the tide. I switch off, let Honey get on with the military manoeuvres, and reassure myself everything will work out and this is all pre-wedding nerves.

  ****

  Blue Phoenix gets a shitload of fan mail and someone in our PR department opens it and sends out crap to people — postcards, stickers, whatever, I don’t know. Dylan is insistent that every piece gets answered which means there’s a backlog of months. Each piece is opened, date stamped and added to a pile. I bet some of these people aren’t fans anymore by the time they hear back.

  Today, I got a letter from Cerys and my grip onto the world I returned to slipped.

  Not strictly from Cerys, but Ella. I’m handed a pile of fan mail and inside is a picture of three people and a dog in the snow: a man, a woman, and a girl holding a doll. The dog and the man have the same orange colour hair. My name is represented by an L and half-formed letters to make the ‘iam’. ‘Ella’ is scrawled in a corner. The letter is date-stamped two weeks after Christmas. On the back is a note from Cerys:

  Ella drew a picture to thank you for her Christmas gift. She loves Olaf and takes him to bed every night. Your gift for me was very thoughtful, thank you. I hope you are well. Cerys x

  This sucker punch to the head prevents me thinking about anything else all day. Four months ago, she contacted me and I never responded because I never got the fucking letter. Why didn’t Cerys ask Louise for my real address instead of sending c/o Blue Phoenix? Did Cerys make any decisions based on me not contacting her? I shake away the ‘what ifs’. What if everything fizzled, that the spark of our kiss was nothing more than the lonely need Cerys spoke about.

  Fate made the decision for us with a little help from our own stupidity.

  I stick the crayon picture on the fridge with a magnet. Isn’t that what you do with kids drawings? After kicking round the house obsessing about Cerys, I head out to my meeting with Tate Stephens. Music has been part of my life for eight years and despite Blue Phoenix being on a break, I have the need to keep working. So, I have session work lined up with Tate’s band, Landlocked, and I need to discuss the details. Honey’s pissed off because it means delaying the honeymoon; but our whole life is a luxurious holiday, so I fail to see the need for another. I guess the romantic in me is hidden too.

  I’m on a high when I get back to the house in the evening. The meeting was awesome. Getting involved with Landlocked is a breath of fresh air, a meeting of musical minds. Their music isn’t as heavy as Phoenix’s, but my signature bass flows perfectly into their sound. I fucking love my job.

  “Hey, babe!” I call as I walk across the granite floor into the tiled kitchen. Honey doesn’t reply; she’s not exactly the domestic type so I don’t expect her in the kitchen. Her red sports car is on the drive so she’s around somewhere. Maybe she’s in the pool. I head to the fridge to grab a beer before looking for Honey. I’m psyched about the session work and want to chat about my plans.

  Ella’s picture is missing from the fridge.

  I check the floor and kitchen counter but everything gleams, the stainless steel utensils carefully arranged in a stand on the marble counter, the show home look maintained. I open the cupboard where Honey shoves things that taint her perfect house and search through the pile of papers. Nothing.

  Resting against the counter, I swig my beer, my scalp prickling with irritation. I want the fucking picture. The fact I feel so strongly edges Cerys back into my mind, and is another wake up call.

  Honey appears, dressed down in black yoga pants and a tight pink tank top. Well, as dressed down as Honey gets, which basically, means minimal make-up and no hair extensions. Like this, Honey is as attractive as when she’s had make-up artists working on her for an hour, or wearing the designer clothes she fills the house with. I tell her she shouldn’t hide behind the fake, that to accept herself she needs to let people see who she really is.

  We’re both aware of the perception the public has about us thanks to the picture the media have painted. Bryn says I’m fooling myself when I say she’s not a gold-digger. Perhaps she’s smarter than she makes out, but under it all she’s a frightened girl escaping a past that left her with nothing, including knowing who she really is. So yeah, big-hearted Liam gets sucked in again.

  She’s on the phone and crosses to kiss my cheek before continuing her conversation; some shit about bridesmaids’ dresses. Wedding. My scalp prickles further.

  “Really doesn’t help when Jewel crash diets and loses a dress size so close to the wedding,” remarks Honey as she ends the call. “Now her dress has to be remade.”

  “She lost weight? Jesus, is there anything left apart from her bones?” I reply.

  Honey kisses my nose. “She wants to look her best on the wedding day. As long as she doesn’t outshine me, I’m good.”

  Honey is half-serious. I already got the brunt of her fury when Dylan got engaged to Sky, as if they deliberately chose to do this purely to overshadow her. Honey’s insecurity controls her life, expensive sessions with psychologists make no difference; her head is screwed.

  “How was your day?” I ask, eager for a subject change.

  “Yeah, busy, so much to organise.” She launches into one of her dizzying rambles about her meetings with the wedding planner. So much for a subject change, this is her sole topic of conversation recently. Add that to my uncertainty, and I’m bored.

  Honey doesn’t ask about my day.

  “Where did the picture go?” I ask her, indicating the fridge.

  “The trash.” Honey’s stance changes and she crosses her arms across her ample chest, squashing her tits together in a distracting way. “I wanted to talk to you about that. Who sent it?”

  “My sister’s friend’s daughter.”

  “I read the back. Why did Cerys put a kiss?” Honey’s cutesy voice has hardened.

  I
wince at the tone she uses when she says ‘Cerys’. Oh, fuck, here we go. “I doubt Cerys meant anything, it’s just a greeting. I bought the kid a Christmas present...”

  “...and her a present,” interrupts Honey. “Why?”

  “Because she was staying at my parents’ house and it seemed rude not to! Wow, Honey, why the questions?”

  Honey’s tone rises and I brace myself in case we’re heading for Honey hysterics. “You put a picture on the fridge from some kid I don’t know and expect me to just ignore it? What if you’re having an affair? Or this is your kid.” She pauses, blue eyes widening. “Oh, my God! Is it your kid?”

  “No!”

  Honey tips her head and her lack of response could mean anything. I doubt she’ll drop this in a hurry. She studies my face a moment, lips thinning before taking a deep breath. Jesus, maybe she’s finally learning how to control herself.

  “Honey, she means nothing; she’s an old school friend.” Saying the words triggers a further realisation. I’m lying otherwise my stomach wouldn’t lurch at the denial.

  “Fine. Whatever. It looked crap on the fridge anyway; kids’ pictures aren’t really part of my colour scheme.”

  At that moment, I realise my dream of a life with a wife and kids isn’t one that’s part of Honey’s future plans. I chose to get engaged because I want a family; and if one picture is a mark on her perfect home, there’s no way children would be allowed to enter her flawless world she spends so much time creating around her.

  I bought into a fantasy that will never be reality, as big an illusion as Honey has about being married to a rock star.

  By the end of the day, I’ve searched every corner of my heart and soul; and I know I can’t marry Honey.

  ****

  CERYS

  The card from Liam arrived last week. I deliberately didn’t include any contact details with Ella’s picture because her fantasies about the funny man with long red-hair are bad enough without adding in mine, but he found my address.

  When Craig left two weeks after Christmas, her four-year-old mind decided Liam was going to arrive like he did last time her dad was away. She nagged me to go to Lou’s house to see him and I had to explain he wouldn’t be there. I showed Ella pictures of Liam on the internet with Honey, and explained that was who he lived with now.

  Back then, Ella still waited for a reply to her letter but it never came. This disappointed me because Liam had appeared to understand her. Back in his rock and roll life, maybe he is the self-centered rock star who doesn’t have time for a little girl’s feelings and not the guy he was in St Davids.

  Maybe not.

  Inside the Frozen themed card, he’s written:

  Dear Ella

  Sorry I took so long to reply. The postman took a long time to deliver your letter. I love the picture. I had fun the day we made the snowman. Tell your mum I remember her too and I’d like to chat to you both some time. Liam x

  Included is his phone number. Convinced this letter was delayed, I check the postmark. Less than a week ago. I rub my eyes in confusion as Ella enthuses over the picture of Olaf on the front. Why is he writing to say he wants to talk to me when he’s getting married next week?

  My heart races at the mixture of disappointment and excitement. I know he’s definitely getting married; Louise is in LA already, and I’ve seen the intensifying interest in the nuptials on the front page of magazines recently. I stop buying them because everything Blue Phoenix upsets me.

  Does Liam realise how unfair he is dragging me back to the past? So much was left unsaid after Christmas and it should remain that way. I hand the card to Ella who takes it to her room.

  CHAPTER 15

  MAY 2014

  LIAM

  The Californian sunshine fills the world with brightness and colour that’s at odds with how I feel. Drinking orange juice and taking painkillers for my hungover head, I stare over Dylan’s infinity pool, at the illusion of the drop into the sea.

  I expected to wake to a phone full of messages from Honey, but there’s none. I presume she’s still at our place in Malibu deciding on her next move, while I skulk here like the rat I am.

  Leaving your bride high and dry on your wedding day is disgusting enough; leaving Honey and her carefully orchestrated media frenzy on a Blue Phoenix wedding day is the worst thing I’ve done in my life. I didn’t even hang around to explain, I just left. Bryn brought me to Dylan’s home. LA isn’t far enough away from the disaster for me, but Bryn’s right, I can’t leave until I’ve faced her.

  No, the worst thing I’ve ever done is letting everything get to this stage and not backing out. What can I say to Honey? I can’t make this better, only worse. Once I knew I couldn’t marry her, I had two weeks to sort out the mess. And what did I do? Fuck all. I told myself it was too late and to just do it, and then see what happens. We could always divorce. This pisses all over my underlying belief that I marry once and for love. Nobody gets married with divorce in mind. That’s fucked up.

  A couple of days before the wedding, my parents arrived with my sister. They moved into the guest rooms and watched in awe as the wedding took shape. I watched with a constant edge of nausea following me through the days. I asked how Cerys was. I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help it. Louise was cagey, wouldn’t tell me much, but I did get out of her that Cerys and Craig split two weeks after Christmas.

  Another punch to the head.

  The day of the wedding, I crawled out of bed at the latest time I could. I dreamt about Cerys the night before my wedding and took that as a sign. The secret I’ve kept locked in my heart since Christmas can’t stay hidden. Cerys touched me in ways Honey never did and there has to be a reason why. If we’d really just been two hurt people looking for comfort, the need to see her wouldn’t have obsessed my thoughts for the last two weeks.

  ****

  Avoiding confrontation at all costs has landed me in this fucking mess and led to the need for the biggest confrontation of my life. I want to run back to England – or anywhere – so I don’t have to walk through the door of my house and face the woman whose heart I tore out yesterday. I would’ve done it if Bryn and Dylan hadn’t talked me around. Cowardice is part of the reason I’m in this situation and I steel myself. I have to do this once, and then never see Honey again.

  The house is quiet when I walk through the double doors, all the guests have moved to local hotels or returned home. I haven’t spoken to my parents yet either; fuck knows what Mum’s going to say about me treating someone like this. I gently close the door behind me, but the sound echoes down the tiled hallway. Where will Honey be? If I’m really lucky, she’ll have left already.

  Several large designer leopard print pink suitcases rest at one end of the open-plan room that spans the back of the house, but I can’t see Honey. Anxiety clutching my chest, I step into the room and wait for her to realise I’m home. I don’t notice the figure curled up on the sofa, until she speaks.

  “You’re late, Liam,” says Honey, quietly.

  The guilt at seeing the pale faced girl with red-rimmed eyes smacks me as hard as I deserve from her. Make-up free, she’s the Honey I met all those months ago before she shaped herself further into the illusion she surrounds herself with. There’s no clever shading hiding her skin tone and transforming her face, or dramatically made up eyes disguising her as someone else. This is the real Honey.

  My mind blanks, I grasp at all the rehearsed words; but I can’t find them. I’ve received the brunt of Honey’s anger before and that’s included hysterical, physical attacks on occasion. That Honey isn’t here; I think she’s more broken than ever.

  I fucking hate myself.

  “I don’t know what to say,” is the best I manage after an eternal time staring at each other. I don’t sit but remain in the doorway, arms crossed in defence.

  Honey makes a derisive sound. “I bet.”

  “I should’ve stopped it weeks ago. I’m sorry.”

  “You mean it wasn’
t a last minute freak out?” she asks, voice cracking. “You decided before? When? How long have you lied to me?”

  I cover my eyes because the tears appearing in hers tighten my chest as the guilt strangles my insides. I need to take advantage of the calm I wasn’t expecting. “You know things aren’t right… weren’t right for weeks.”

  “We were busy, things got hectic, and I didn’t know you stopped loving me. How could I know that?”

  “Honey, when was the last time we spent time together. Really spent time together and not just a snatched lunch.”

  “You’ve been busy…tired. You always wanted to be on your own when you came home. I respected that. I was busy too.”

  “Do you think it’s normal for the man you’re about to marry not to want to share a bed with you…” I don’t say the words but the last time I had sex with Honey was weeks ago, it felt wrong when all I could think about was Cerys.

  “You said you needed space; I was respecting that.” The tension in her body, the breathing speed increasing, these are signs I recognise too well.

  “I’m a fucking asshole,” I tell her. “I hate myself for what I’ve done to you.”

  “Why? Why did you do it on the day? You could’ve done it a week before, Liam… a day….”

  “I don’t know.”

  Honey approaches me. She’s dressed in a blue, silk gown fastened around her waist. I brace myself for anger, screaming, a slap; but instead she touches my cheek. “Because you’re still not sure, if you were, you’d have cancelled earlier. It was just wedding day nerves. I still love you, I understand if you were scared. We can take a step back, see how things go…”

  “What?” I rip this woman’s heart out and humiliate her in front of the world, and she tells me she loves me? I move away. “Honey, no.”

  “But if you don’t know why you walked away, we can figure things out, can’t we?” she asks.