by Roxie Noir
She sighs.
“I suppose I’m hungry enough,” she says, her voice defeated.
Like all proper pubs, the Crossed Lance is a dark maze of brick, wood, leather and alcohol smells inside. The moment we cross the threshold, Elizabeth looks like she’s smelled a fart, and the look doesn’t go away as we’re seated at a high-backed booth.
“Tell me about the gala,” I say while we look at menus, Elizabeth scrutinizing hers like it’s going to tell her the whereabouts of the Holy Grail.
“Oh, I just need a bit of help with it is all,” she says. “And I thought it might be a nice way for you to become acquainted with a better class of society, though of course we haven’t got time to put you through a proper finishing school or anything. But you’re already marrying my brother, so we may as well simply forge ahead.”
Under the table, my toes clench at finishing school, and I stare carefully at the menu, trying not to let Elizabeth see how much she’s getting to me.
I know she doesn’t like me and doesn’t really want me marrying her older brother. I’m not stupid. I can tell.
But I also know that I can’t afford to be anything but perfectly, properly nice to her, because after all, she’s his sister, and I have to be nice to my in-laws. Take the high road and all that. I may not have gone to a proper finishing school, but I at least know the rules of how to be a good person.
“I’m very excited for it,” I say. “I’ve never thrown or been to a real gala before.”
“Yes, I’d imagine not,” she says, her voice distant. “I doubt they have them in New Jersey.”
That’s it. Just the way she says New Jersey, like it’s some sort of drug-infested rat hole, makes me need a break from her and her fucking attitude. I put my menu down on the table, force a smile.
“I’ve got to go use the loo,” I say, my voice so sweet it could rot teeth. “Be right back!”
“Mhm,” she says, and if she says anything else I don’t hear it because I head away from her and out of sight.
Straight to the bar.
Even though I’m sure that downing a double whiskey will take longer than going to the bathroom should, I don’t particularly care right now. I just need a few minutes to myself, along with some liquid courage, before I can go back and deal with Elizabeth’s mindfuckery.
Am I grateful for her and her family’s generosity? Yes. Of course I am.
But is she holding it over me and being a huge bitch about it? Also yes, so my feelings here are sort of a gray area.
The bar in the pub is dark, a couple people crowded around it. The bartender, an older woman, nods at me, and I order a double Jameson, and she just nods again. She pours, I pay.
The clock’s ticking. Elizabeth is probably already wondering where I am, so I flex my fingers against each other, grab the whiskey, and down it in two gulps, letting it heat my throat, my stomach, the wonderful slightly-fuzzy feeling that expands outwards and into my limbs.
Okay, I think. Go back, deal with whatever shit she throws at you, it’s fine. Everything today is fine.
I put the glass back on the bar, take a deep breath.
“Not even half-one and you’re drinking already?” Liam’s voice says.
Chapter Six
Liam
Frankie whirls around like she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, lips clamped, eyes wide, curls bouncing.
“I thought drinking with lunch was a cardinal sin,” I say, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans, trying to look her in the eye and not anywhere else. “Shows weakness of character, general moral degradation, all that rubbish.”
She smiles, slumps back against the bar.
“You scared the bejesus out of me,” she says.
“Good thing you’ve drunk plenty for courage.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve earned it.”
“Long hard day of vacation, then?” I ask, deliberately winding her up. “Did the servants at the manor house burn your scones this morning at breakfast and overboil your tea?”
Now she’s grinning, leaning loosely against the bar, shoving one hand through her hair like she’s trying to tame it. It doesn’t work. I’ve got the feeling that trying to tame her hair never works, and I think again about sinking my fingers into it, feeling her curls against my palm, pulling her closer—
“They were out of my favorite jam, didn’t even lay my clothes out on my bed for me, and my personal maid pulled my hair while she was brushing it,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve got a tough life, Liam.”
“Certainly sounds it,” I agree, deadpan. “I imagine it would drive me to drink as well.”
I don’t know why I went down this particular path. I rather wish I hadn’t, as talking about the manor leads to talking about the people at the manor leads to her fiancé, Little Lord Prick, and he’s the last thing I’d like to think about.
“I’m on a girls’ day out with my future sister-in-law,” Frankie sighs. “We have... some differences. And I should get back before she realizes I’m not actually in the ladies’ room and comes looking for me, or — uh, shit.”
Her eyes focus on something over my shoulder, and she stops mid-sentence.
“She’s come looking, then?”
“Jesus, she’s like a bloodhound,” Frankie mutters, then clears her throat. She plasters on a smile, tries shoving her hand through her hair again.
“Elizabeth! Hi. I was just coming back from the bathroom when I ran into the one person I know in Shelton besides you guys, and we just got to chatting right here by the bar, sorry for taking so long, but you know, what a weird coincidence!”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph she’s a terrible liar. I doubt the double shot of whiskey is helping things much either.
“You do know the bathroom’s in the back?” the sister-in-law says.
She’s on the tall side, back ramrod straight, blonde hair and one of those pinched faces that speaks of perennial displeasure. I get the feeling that she’s unaccustomed to using the words please or thank you very often.
“That must be why I couldn’t find it!” Frankie says, her voice just a little too loud. “Anyway, Liam here... works at the flower shop in Shelton, the one where I picked up some flowers the other day when I had jet lag and woke up at like six in the morning and no one else was awake. Remember?”
“Not particularly,” the other girl says, looking at me coolly, a bit like I’m a horse she’s paid for but now she’s got doubts. “You work in a flower shop?”
Her eyes pause on my full-sleeve tattoos, and I curse Frankie for lying and not even coming up with something believable.
“That’s right,” I say. “How’s that bouquet doing?”
“It’s lovely,” Frankie says, her eyes a shade too bright as she pushes herself off the bar. “Anyway, it’s been nice chatting, but I guess I got so lost that Elizabeth had to come find me, so I should get going!”
Elizabeth doesn’t move, just looks at me, cocking her head to one side.
“What’s that flower shop called again?” she asks. “I swear I never can remember the name.”
Goddammit, Frankie.
“Shelton Flowers,” I say, since that’s as good a guess as any.
“Shelton Flowers,” Elizabeth repeats slowly. “Lovely, I’ll look you up sometime. Sorry for Françoise.”
I frown, open my mouth to say there’s no need to apologize but they’re already gone, winding their way between tables with Elizabeth right behind her. I watch them disappear into another room of the pub, somehow not quite sure what just happened.
Well, I saw Frankie and she lied about how she knows me, that’s for certain. It’s not as if I thought she was coming to have a drink at the Hound’s Ears with the Little Lord’s full blessing, but now I know for a fact that it’s her little secret and mine too, I suppose.
And she drinks whiskey with lunch, the voice in the back of my mind whispers. Maybe not always, but sometimes at least.
I shake my hea
d, walk away from the bar, back toward the door to see if Harry’s gotten here yet.
Best to forget it all, I tell myself for at least the third time that day alone. The girl, the lying, the drinking, everything.
Three days later, my phone rings, a number I don’t know. I’m brushing my teeth before going to work, and I ignore it since people I don’t know are rarely anyone I’d actually like to talk to. I ignore it twice more while I’m in my shitty Vauxhall, winding along the road between my cottage and the pub.
Once I’m there, watching a batch of old codgers silently drink their ale, it rings yet again and I roll my eyes getting it from my pocket.
“I don’t bloody want to — oh, Christ,” I say, answering the thing.
“So you are alive,” Sheila says. She owns the Hound’s Ears, so I do answer her calls.
“Is someone saying I’m not?”
“Just the younger Lady Winstead, who just rung me in quite a huff insisting that your phone number was incorrect and demanding the correct one,” she says. “Naturally I called to check, but it seems correct to me.”
I narrow my eyes, watching two men talk animatedly at the rear of the pub.
The fuck does Elizabeth Winstead want with me?
I don’t like it. I didn’t like meeting her and I don’t like the gnawing suspicion I’ve got that she’s figured out who I am and that I’m familiar with her future sister-in-law. Even though I’m new to Shelton, I’m well aware that the Winsteads do own most of the town and could easily make my life here quite difficult.
I started over once. I’ve only just got myself a fairly normal life where I go to work and come home and no one ever wants to shoot up together. I’d rather not start over again.
“I don’t generally answer calls from numbers I don’t know,” I explain.
“I’m not surprised, it’s a wonder you answer my calls, you cranky bastard,” she says.
There’s a pause, and I can practically see her taking a long drag of her cigarette.
“But you used to be in a band, yeah?” she asks.
I raise my eyebrows, lean back against the bar.
“Yeah.”
“Think you could hook up a microphone and a few speakers?”
“That’ll depend on the microphone and the speakers.”
“She’s got some high-class gala tomorrow night and whoever she had booked to set her up has backed out, said she’d pay you double to do it and pay me to give you the night off for it,” Sheila goes on.
By now, I’m honestly not sure whether Elizabeth Winstead knows who I am. She could well have found out that there’s some bloke who used to be in a band without knowing he’s the same one she saw talking to Frankie at the bar.
Wait.
There’s a fucking thought.
Frankie’ll be there.
I’ve not seen her since we met by accident in the pub, but I’m quite sure that if her sister-in-law is throwing some gala, she’ll be there on the Little Lord’s arm. It’s the last place I want to see her, but I do want to see her.
“Liam,” Sheila rasps again. “Can I get you to take one for the team or what?”
I think of Frankie, wriggling out of her jacket, or glassy eyed the other afternoon. She’s the absolute worst reason I’ve got to do anything.
And yet.
“Yeah, I’ll do it,” I say. “No guarantees, though, I’ve not touched sound equipment in almost years.”
And before that, I had people to do it for me, I think.
I don’t say it out loud. Sheila thinks I was in some garage band, not selling out stadiums.
“Well, you’re better than nothing,” she says, and hangs up.
“Love you too,” I say into the dead line.
From the bar, Arthur gives me a funny look, then goes back to drinking.
When I get home, there’s a letter in the mailbox. It’s card-shaped, thick and cream-colored, addressed to a Mr. Liam Fenwick in lovely cursive handwriting. Los Angeles return address, festooned with postage to get it across the pond.
I think I know what this is. It’s fucking obvious, but when I take it inside I still put it on the kitchen table so I can contemplate it after I put the kettle on, watching it a little suspiciously while I wait for the water to boil.
When I finally open it, I’m right, of course. It’s an invitation to Gavin and Marisol’s wedding, to take place in two and a half months, in Los Angeles. The RSVP card asks whether I want sea bass, chicken, or filet mignon, and it even has the right kind of international postage. All I have to do is check ‘accept with pleasure,’ fill out my name, and send it back.
I sit there and stare at it for a long, long while. I don’t know that Gavin really wants me there or if he’s just being polite. He’s probably got some fancy wedding planner. Maybe I ended up on a list by accident, maybe his new PR person whose name I forget thought that he should invite me because it looks good.
Maybe he genuinely wants me there. Maybe he misses me, too.
I haven’t seen him in a year in a half, and the very last time I did was an absolute fucking wreck. I told his girlfriend — the one he’s marrying now — he’d been cheating on her and that he’d never loved her.
I was lying, of course, because Gavin’s always been head-over-heels for Marisol, but I was jealous. Jealous that he found someone, jealous that he could get better and I couldn’t, jealous that it wasn’t just the two of us getting high in the back of the tour bus any more.
The very last thing I remember of him, I was sitting on the floor of a spare bedroom in his massive house, blankets over the windows. Re-creating the squalid apartments of years past, recapturing some sort of fucked up lost brotherhood.
I had a needle in my arm and he came in, looked at me. Disappointed that I’d taken the last of it.
So I tossed him a baggie, he left, and minutes later I nodded out. When I woke up the next afternoon, still leaning against the wall, the room stuffy and awful, his house was a wreck and he was gone.
But tonight’s not about Gavin. Tonight is for sticking to a plan and calling Darcy, who’s probably going to shout at me, but I do deserve it.
I think I’m getting better at this. The first time once I was finished I had two long glugs of whiskey, straight from the bottle, but the most recent I didn’t have a thing.
I take another sip of tea, then dial her number. I swear even the ringing on the other end sounds like it’s halfway across the globe, and it goes five times before she finally answers.
“Hello?”
“Darcy, it’s Liam.”
“Liam. Are you finally calling me to apologize?”
I see the news has made the rounds.
“That’s right.”
“Good. Let’s hear it, you fucking asshole. Start with the part where you put us all through the wringer by almost fucking dying.”
Despite myself, I smile, because even after all this time, Darcy is Darcy, and I did miss her. I missed all of them.
“Darcy,” I start. “Along with a variety of other things, I’m terribly sorry for nearly dying...”
Chapter Seven
Frankie
“All right,” Elizabeth says, knotting her hands in front of herself. “You two are going to be in charge of making sure none of the technology breaks down. Frankie, you’re good with computers, right?”
“Sure,” I say, mostly for the sake of being agreeable. I wouldn’t say I’m good with computers, just... fine with them.
“Point me toward the bar, as usual,” Alistair says, a grin on his face.
Yesterday I heard him grousing to someone about how, this year, Lizzie had roped him into helping with the gala last-minute. He didn’t exactly say it, but it was obvious that he thought this kind of thing was beneath him. Women’s work.
While men’s working is what, drinking scotch? That part was unclear.
“Allie, you promised,” Elizabeth says, her lips forming an exaggerated pout.
“And you promised y
ou’d stop calling me that.”
Elizabeth bats her eyelashes at her older brother, then smiles, just a little too coyly for a smile at her brother.
“Come on, you like it.”
The side of his mouth hitches up, smiling back at her. I look away, because while there’s nothing exactly wrong here, these two can be a little weird sometimes. Slight Flowers in the Attic vibes.
Very slight, but really, any is too much.
“What do you want me to help with?”
She smirks. I swear she does, even though that prissy little smile only lasts half a second while she flicks her gaze to, then tilts her head prettily at her brother.
“I need you to keep track of the audiovisual aspects,” she says. “Particularly because the man who was supposed to be running all this claims to have bronchitis, so I had to get someone else last minute and I’m sure the two of you can guess how many people in Shelton are qualified to hook up sound equipment.”
“You know I’m not one of them, right?” I ask as she turns and begins walking through the main ballroom. The gala is being held at the Hotel Pentshire, in Brougham, a building that dates to Victorian times where the rooms begin at three hundred pounds per night.
I have no idea who’s coming to Brougham and spending that kind of money. It’s charming, but I wouldn’t think a fancy hotel could survive here. Not that I know much about fancy hotels.
Elizabeth just laughs.
“Of course I know you’re unqualified,” she says, and she sounds a little too happy about it. “But you’ve at least gone to university, which gives you an edge over most of the rabble around here.”
One of the men setting up chairs looks at her. She smiles at him dismissively.
How does she find a new way to be the absolute worst every single day? I think.
Elizabeth leads up through the ballroom doors, briefly through a hallway, then opens something that looks like a nondescript closet.
Standing in the middle of a tangle of cords is Liam, scowling down at something in his hands. Elizabeth clears her throat.
