by E. S. Carter
“You’re right, Princess Ivy. Let’s go and show Nanna and Grampy how good you are at swimming without your armbands.”
“I can swim the whole way across from end to end,” she declares proudly to my parents with a huge grin on her face.
With happy exclamations of surprise that Ivy drinks up eagerly, both my parents walk towards the exit doors , now with a child each, while I drag their luggage behind.
I may have come to Ibiza to escape memories, and to avoid the people I love, but the last month here has shown me that you can’t run from those who only want the best for you. Without them, you’re at risk of losing yourself. With them, you are found.
“This is my room, Nanna, and that room over there is Arfurrs.”
I can hear Ivy giving my mother the grand tour while I settle Arthur into his highchair for his lunch.
“You seem to have settled in well.” My father observes over his steaming mug of coffee.
“The first week or so was a nightmare while we all found our routine, but yeah-” I offer him a genuine smile over my shoulder and I can’t fail to see the relief and pride on his face as he watches me tend to Arthur “-we’re doing better here. All of us.”
“That’s good, son,” he replies before taking another sip of his drink. “I’m not going to lie and say your decision to leave didn’t both shock and worry us, but it’s evident it was the right choice for you.”
He looks thoughtfully from me to Arthur and back again.
“He’s grown so big,” he finally says, after a long moment of just drinking us in. “And he’s the image of you at that age.”
At his words a burst of pride erupts in my chest. I’ve always known Arthur took after me, but up until now, I didn’t think about how that made me feel. Or, in truth, I didn’t allow myself to feel any positivity from the knowledge.
You see, how can you feel pride in knowing someone takes after you when you hate yourself?
“Mum said the same.”
“Said the same about what?” My mother asks as she walks into the kitchen with an ecstatically happy Ivy in tow.
“That our little Arty takes after his Daddy,” my father supplies helpfully. To which Ivy pipes up, “Even Daddy calls him Arty now, but he won’t let me do it,” she pouts. Her pink lips pursed in a comical glower. “I still have to call him Arfurr.”
At his name on his big sister’s lips, Arthur shouts out through a mouthful of pasta, “Eye-eee.”
And we all stop dead.
“What did you say, little man?” I ask with quiet excitement once the shock of him saying anything other than Da-Da dies down.
With a dribbling smile, he looks right at me, and then his sister, and repeats, “Eye-eee.”
Rapturous applause breaks out from everyone in the room. Ivy dances around while clapping her hands saying, “He knows me, he knows me. Well done Arty!” My parents both cheer and Arthur looks up at me with a big drooly smile and says, “Da-Da.”
And this time, he’s not just making that sound at something in general. With his pasta sauce stained fingers wiggling in the air, and his arms stretched wide in the universal baby gesture for ‘pick me up’, he’s saying those words to me. For me.
“Da-Da.” As if to emphasise that, yes, he really does mean me, he says it again, and my chest explodes with a warmth that erupts through my veins and soothes every brittle part of me.
On sure feet but with shaky hands, I move closer to his highchair and lift his little body to mine. His mucky hands latch onto either side of my face, and I feel the sticky remnants of his food as it smears over my skin.
With a laugh that breaks free from my lips unbidden, I chuckle and swing Arthur up into the air to make him giggle. His delighted cackle encourages me to do it again and again and again. And it’s with my little boy laughing his socks off, my little girl spinning around in excitement and my parents both wiping happy tears from their eyes that Nate walks into the room.
My sauce-smeared face and beaming smile freezes when I spin to see him standing in the doorway unannounced.
“It looks like I’ve arrived just in time. I couldn’t let you guys have all the fun without me.”
Ivy stops spinning long enough to run and pounce on him, repeating with glee, “Uncle Nate, Uncle Nate.”
Then with a glance around his thigh towards the empty hallway behind him, she looks back up at his face and asks, “Where’s Aunty Liv?”
Nate looks from her to us and back again before replying, “She’ll be here in a few days. She’s a little busy right now, but nothing could stop her from coming to see her favourite Princess.”
Ivy accepts his words at face value, but I, along with my mother – judging by the look she gives my father – both see the slight tensing of his features when talking about Liv.
My guess is that his impromptu visit is more than an excuse to visit us. Nate, who doesn’t run from anything, is most definitely avoiding something right now. And if I were a betting man I’d say she’s blonde, bubbly and about five foot five.
“We’re happy to have you here, bro.” I smile as I walk over and promptly deposit Arthur in his arms. “So glad that you can hold Arty here, while I go and wash up.”
Nate blusters and mutters while eyeballing the messy baby I’ve just dumped in his arms, finally giving up and admitting defeat when Arthur grabs a fistful of his crisp –and likely designer – white t-shirt.
“Cheers, bro,” he pretends to grumble as I walk out of the kitchen, but I know he’s secretly grateful for the distraction from the twenty questions that our mother undoubtedly has ready for him.
“You’re welcome,” I smirk over my shoulder as I walk down the hall. To which he replies with a devious grin of his own, “No problem, you’re buying the first drink tonight.”
I stop in my tracks and spin to face him.
“I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
He opens his mouth to argue when our mother appears at his side and deftly removes Arthur from his arms.
“Yes, you are. Your father and I will babysit. It’ll do you both good to catch up without interruptions.”
Nate smiles at me like the cat that just ate the biggest cream dipped canary in history, and I don’t bother to protest because it’s a fight I know I won’t win. Plus, my eldest brother has something on his mind and if I can give him even the smallest bit of support after everything he’s done and continues to do for my children and me, then I’ll willing go out with a smile on my face.
“Huh,” I muse before flashing a shit eating grin at them both. “I wish I’d figured out this whole reverse psychology ‘I’m not going’ – ‘Oh, yes, you are’ malarkey earlier in life. It really could’ve come in handy, especially in my teenage years.”
My mother gapes and then rolls her eyes, but Nate looks thoughtfully at me before he says with a small smile, “It’s good to have you back, Josh.”
“Rach,” I yell from my open bedroom door. “Have you seen my lucky bra?”
I know she’s heard me because she’s in the living room and from my vantage point I can see the top of her head over the back of the sofa.
“Rach, I know you can hear me. Just because I said no to filling in for the support band tonight, doesn’t mean I deserve the silent treatment.”
Silence.
I huff out a breath, turn to grab my robe from the hook on the back of my door and step out into the hallway.
“Rach, please don’t be mad at me. I can’t keep doing gigs at Aurora. It looks like you’re giving me preferential treatment because I’m a member of staff and your best friend.”
That gets a reaction.
“I’m not giving you special treatment,” she snarks as she sits bolt upright on the sofa. “The punters love you. It makes good business sense to rebook acts that keep the customers happy, and there’s always such a buzz after you’ve played a set.”
I sigh as I make my way towards her.
“But you’re biased. You have to like
my music.”
“And you’re so unaware of how talented you are that it makes me want to scream sometimes. Which is why-” she turns her head to look at me over the back of the seat “-I’ve taken this hostage.”
Her hand lifts and I see a flash of lemon silk and lace.
“My lucky bra!”
“The one and only.” A smug grin causes her eyes to crinkle underneath her dark framed glasses. “If you want it back in one piece you just have to agree to do a set for me later tonight.”
“Rach…”
“Nuh-uh, no complaining. Two hours on stage and you can have this pretty back.” She waves it around her head for emphasis, and I step forward ready to pounce.
“Don’t take another step or the lucky bra gets it.”
Her other hand rises to show me a pint glass full of what looks like either red wine or blackcurrant cordial.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I bloody would,” she replies while edging my beautiful boulder holder towards the dark liquid.
“Do it,” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I’ll let the girls run free.”
She smirks again, eyeing the way I slide quietly forward on the balls of my feet.
“Oh, I don’t think you’d do that. Miss ‘I only have a handful. I need all the padding help I can get’ – your words not mine.”
I glance at my lemon lovely and how it hangs precariously close to the lip of the glass, and debate on the chances of finding another one just like it. Lucky bras are irreplaceable, though, and Rachel bloody knows it.
She slightly tilts the full glass to motivate me, and I watch a trickle of liquid as it splashes over the rim and slides down her creamy skin.
“Okay, okay,” I say in surrender. “I’ll do an hour. Sixty full minutes for you tonight. Just hand me back my precious.”
I reach out for my underwear and she tuts and shakes her head.
“No deal. Two hours.”
I narrow my eyes and assess the chances of saving my bra if I pounce on her mid-negotiation.
“Don’t even think about it, Richards. I can see every thought you have displayed on your face. You can’t hide anything from me.”
“Ninety minutes,” I throw back while taking another small step towards her.
She eyes me speculatively, and I wait for her to open her mouth before I pounce.
“Okay- oomph.”
The word dies on her lips as I swan dive over the back of the sofa with outstretched arms. My fingertips graze the lemon fabric of the hostage item as the full glass slips from her already wet fingers, momentum flipping it over to rain down on the both of us. With a squeal, Rachel flings my bra over the back of the sofa just as the glass hits the floor and smashes.
“Why did you do that? I was about to accept your offer,” she grumbles, wiping what I now know to be blackcurrant from her face by the fruity smell.
“Because,” I huff out, using my robe to wipe my face and neck. “In the films, they always tell you to never negotiate with terrorists. And you-” I prod her in the ribs earning me a yelp ‘-are a bra-orist.”
“You can’t back out now. You offered me ninety minutes and I was just about to accept.”
“Nuh-uh,” I reply, pushing myself to my knees on the plump and now soggy cushions to look over the back of the sofa. “If my lucky got damaged in any way, all previous agreements are null and void.”
She spins herself around to look over the sofa at the same time as me, and there, on the wood floor, is my lemon bra in perfect, unstained condition.
“I’ll see you on stage later tonight,” she says with equals amounts relief and smugness.
“Are you ever gonna let me say no? Tell me now, and it’ll save me a lot of hassle in the future,” I gripe as she pushes herself up off the sofa, avoiding the broken glass, and makes her way into the kitchen, emerging seconds later with a mop and a dustpan and brush.
“Well, are you?” I ask as I lean over the back and drag my bra towards me by my fingertips.
Once it’s securely in my grasp, I plonk myself down on my soggy seat and sit cross-legged while she cleans up the mess.
When she’s satisfied that the floor is pristine, and no more glass remains, she kneels to look over at me.
“Why would I let you say no when doing so would deprive everyone else of something I get to see every day?”
The look on her face tells me she’s serious and her words aren’t a tease or a joke.
“You don’t see it, and that’s fine, but one day someone is going to come along and show you just how amazing you are, Halle Richards, and until that day, I am duty bound as your best friend to fulfil that role. And…” she continues with a mischievous smirk. “If I’m forced to use underhand tactics to achieve that goal, so be it. Nothing is safe. Not even lucky bras.”
“I’m not trying to get spotted or be a star, Rach. I love my music, I love writing songs but being in the spotlight isn’t something I aspire to, you know this.”
“And I think that’s a shame, but even songwriters need to get their big break, and that’s not going to happen if you only ever work behind a bar, Hal.”
She slowly rises from the floor and looks at me with a seriousness that’s unusual for my best friend.
“Some talents are given to people to be shared. Your music, your words, they touch people. They’ve touched me. I’m happy living my life, I’m satisfied with my job, hell, I’m even happy being single right now. Can you say the same? Are you happy Halle?”
I open my mouth to say yes, and she stares me down. Rachel has seen me at my lowest. She knows there are still days when I feel alone. Lost. Unworthy.
“I’m not unhappy.”
It’s the truth. I’m not. I have been, for almost all my life, but right now I’m not.
“No, I know that,” she concedes. “But you are coasting, and settling for something because you don’t believe you deserve more. And you do, Halle. I see it, Zoey sees it, everyone sees it except you.”
Then she bends to place a kiss on the top of my head before leaving the room and calling over her shoulder, “I’ll see you at the club later. Wear the pale blue dress because I know you’ll have a breakdown deciding what to wear, so I just made it easier for you. You can thank me later.”
I salute her order, even though she’s gone and can’t see me, and I sit for a long moment fingering the lace at the edge of my lucky lemon bra and mulling over Rachel’s words.
They’re no different to other pep talks she’s given me, but this time I allow them to settle, to take shape and form roots. What would it be like to write full time? Could I make a career out of my music without having to be the one in the spotlight? It’s hard enough to make it as an artist but to break out as a songwriter is a whole other level of difficulty.
The truth is, I may have dreamed about it, but if life has taught me anything it’s that dreaming is foolish and dangerous.
I’d rather be the girl that coasts than the girl that dreams.
“I thought we were going for a quiet drink, not a night in Accede and Aurora. Don’t you get sick of being at your own clubs?”
Nate grins at me from the driver’s side of his Mercedes-Benz AMG GT Roadster as we cruise along the coast road towards San Antonio.
“I have some stuff to do, and I thought we could swing by for an hour and then head somewhere else if you didn’t want to stay. Don’t mind, do you?”
“Can we stay in the chill-out part of the club? I’m not up for techno beats and heaving dance floors.”
He gives me another knowing smile and says, “I already called through to Rachel, Aurora’s manager, and asked her to open it up early as a one off. Because it’s a quieter night with no headline acts booked for Accede, it’s not a big deal to have the other side of the club open early.”
I’m momentarily stunned by his thoughtfulness. I mean this is his business, and with Aurora not generally opening until the main nightclub, Accede winds down, this is putting
his staff out and adding to their workload.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he chuckles while deftly manoeuvring his supercar around the winding coastal road. “It’s not just for you, we’ve decided to do a trial run and have both clubs open in tandem, so those that are all partied out can relax a little earlier in the evening. It’s not a big deal that I brought the trial forward a week or so. Keeps my staff on their toes,” he adds with a wink.
Still, I know he’s made them do this sooner than planned for me, and this knowledge seals up another small crack in my chest.
“Do you still have live bands in Aurora every night?” I ask, more out of a need to move the conversation forward before I become overwhelmed by my feelings, than out of genuine interest.
“We do,” he answers as the road opens and the resort of San Antonio comes into view. “Rachel said she has a real hidden gem performing tonight. She was quite cagey about it when I asked for details, so I’m more than intrigued to see who it is.”
“Let’s hope they’re good with the boss coming in to watch. I wouldn’t want to be in Rachel’s shoes if the band bombs.”
He smirks but then tries and fails to look offended. “I’m not that much of a hard arse. I don’t scare my staff into submission. They all love working for me. You can ask them if you want.”
“I’ll make sure I do that. Seeing as I’m currently an island native, I have a vested interest.”
“How long are you planning to stay?” He asks, only rethinking his words and rephrasing his query when I don’t offer an immediate reply.
“I mean, the villa is yours for as long as you want it, it’s just that before you came we never discussed how long that would be.”
I turn my head to follow the path of the horizon. With the last of the sun’s rays now gone, dusk has settled over the still, almost silvery waters and I try to find an answer in their calm, seemingly never-ending surface.
“Indefinitely… maybe.”
I allow myself to think about returning home. I picture the kids and me walking back into our house. Laura’s house. A dull ache blooms in my chest, my lungs constricting, my throat tightening. No, I can’t see us going back there anytime soon.
