by Tilly Delane
“Oh, I know it’s for me, Rowan. You’ll always be hard for me, big bro.”
I can feel his facial muscles next to my cheek as his smirk goes full-on grin.
“But I also know the difference between theory and practice. So, where is she?”
Raven
For the nurses, halfway day is the only day in a guest cycle when they all get a day off at the same time, while the therapists hold the fort. That doesn’t include Christine or me, so as per usual, the two of us are the only ones left behind in The Village, since the rest have gone drinking and Sunday shopping in Swanage. Unlike the therapists, though, Christine and I are not expected to meet and greet the crowd, so while we’re not exactly off duty, we’re not on either.
So we have a little tradition.
As soon as we can, we raid the buffet, pile two plates sky-high with all the best foods, slip away into Christine’s house and up to her room, crack open a forbidden bottle of bubbly, sit on her bed, eat and get a little tipsy, but not so much we can’t act sober should the emergency we’re retained for actually happen. It’s good fun, but today my heart’s not in it. Or my mind. Or any of me, really. I saw every one of my guests’ people arrive, except for Rowan’s. Silas and his girlfriend hadn’t gotten here yet when Christine and I squirreled away our plates.
Tristan’s mom had turned up first, half an hour before the official time.
Then came Charlie’s parents, around the same time most other people arrived. Both his mom and dad showed up, which makes a welcome change from last time when only his dad came. And they brought Charlie’s little sister Ally. Tristan’s eyes went wide when he saw that little peach, and he went straight over and introduced himself. Good for him. I get the feeling our swimming lessons are really boosting his self-confidence. I can already see it in his relationship with Charlie. It’s becoming less and less hero worship and more two buddies hanging out. Although now Tristan idolizes Rowan instead. Not sure if that’s a good trade-off.
After watching Charlie’s folks and Tristan plus Tristan’s mom hook up, I even stayed around long enough to watch Simon’s wife and kids arrive, tense expressions on their faces, but forcing smiles. His wife suits him. You can tell that they’ve been together a long time in the way they walk and talk. And I can see the longing in her eyes when she looks at him when he’s not looking at her. Like she still sees the ghost of the young guy he once was. Like she hasn’t completely given up on him yet and is still hoping she’ll have that guy back if he manages to kick his addiction. I don’t fancy her chances much, though. Not because I think he won’t make it ─ he might, he might not, hard to tell ─ but because he just doesn’t look at her the same way. He thinks he does but, really, he looks at her like she’s an old car, one he loves dearly because of the memories but that has outlived its purpose. And in the back of his mind, he already knows he’ll have to scrap it. It’s sad.
Of course, I could have hung back long enough to meet Rowan’s brother and the American girlfriend. But I went and hid instead. Like a coward. I don’t really know what that’s about. It’s like their arrival is going to burst our bubble, and I don’t want to help them do it with me being awkward around them.
And it would be awkward as hell.
I can’t be seen to hang with a guest and his group. It would raise serious questions with the Denyers, Lewin and Rothman. It’d be different if Rowan could introduce me as his girlfriend, but he can’t.
And I’m not.
The thought chokes me and I can feel tears crawling up my throat. Suddenly it hits me what this is. I feel left out. I have never felt left out before in my life. Because there was never anything I wanted to be part of badly enough. But I want to be part of this. And I can’t.
Fucking stupid job.
“Right, enough of this, lass. Spill the fuckin’ beans. You look like someone’s died. What’s the matter?”
Christine looks at me sternly, an effect spoiled thoroughly by the humor glittering behind her eyes.
We’re sitting in her nicely temperate room, which she cleverly chose not to be on the top floor. And unlike me, Christine was wise enough to claim the biggest room on the second floor, what the Brits call the first. The fact that it’s the biggest, plus not having to contend with slanted ceilings that your six-foot-three lover constantly knocks his head on, if he forgets to hunch while he fucks you to oblivion, means she has enough space for a bed, a wardrobe and a coffee table with two cozy chairs and a couple of bean bags, right by a huge window with a beautiful view.
In actual fact, she has two windows, since she has two outside walls. The window by the coffee table overlooks the back garden. But there is also a window to the side of the house and because hers is the last house in the row, through that one you can see the path coming up from the parking lot.
I may have stood at that window just before I nestled in my chair.
And I may have caught a glimpse of Rowan with a slightly shorter, slightly less wide, but infinitely more dangerous looking, guy and a redhead who’d give Jessica Rabbit a run for her money in the hourglass department.
I evade Christine’s current scrutiny by letting my eyes wander around the room, but there is not much to get stuck on. Though you’d expect her larger than life personality to come with a certain degree of creative chaos, her space is always meticulously tidy and normally I love visiting with her. Just not today.
I finally meet her eyes and shrug.
“I haven’t got anything to say,” I respond and sip my drink.
Christine is on her second glass of Moёt already, but I’ve barely drunk a third of mine. I lean forward and pick up a smoked salmon and cream cheese canapé from my plate. Can’t answer questions while I’m chewing. Talking with your mouth full is rude. One of the many useful rules my mother instilled in me, instead of protecting me and not whoring me out.
“I call bullshit, Ravenna,” Christine says and snatches the salmon bite from my hand before it gets to my lips. “I’ll have that, ta. You’re getting to eat nowt until you tell it all to Auntie Christine. It’s to do with your fighter, right?”
The canapé disappears in her big, masculine mouth and she starts sucking it, sucking it, while she watches me expectantly.
I look at her like a deer caught in headlights. How the fuck did she figure it out?
“Oh, come on, gimme some credit, woman. I’ve known you nearly a year. You’re getting laid. There’s no two ways about it. I see him lookin’ at ye and I see ye lookin’ at him. Besides, he’s the only one I’d do outta this lot.”
I find my tongue.
“Shit. Is it that obvious?”
She smiles, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Nah. I was fishing,” she admits and leans forward. “Glad it worked, though. Go on, talk. I bet he’s huge, right?”
“Christine! I’m not talking about it. It’s not happening. Nothing is happening. I’m not sleeping with a guest. Uh-uh. I am not getting fired. You hear me?”
“I’m officially offended. I would never!”
She pauses and grins.
“Now, back to the size question...”
I take another gulp of my champagne and feel myself loosen up. I trust her. She wouldn’t rat on me. Firstly, because she’s a decent fucking human being, secondly because what we’re doing right here, right now is a fireable offense and lastly because she has nothing to gain from it. It’s not like the bosses would pay her a bonus for snitching. And she was dead grateful when I told her about Rothman trying to run interference and that I set him straight. Forewarned is forearmed.
And aside from all of that, I wouldn’t be able to help the slow smile that is spreading on my face even if I tried.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod, looking coyly at the bubbles in my glass. “He’s not a small boy in any department.”
“Well, good for you, lass.”
Christine holds up her glass and we clink.
“Here’s to getting properly shagged. There is n
owt better in the world.”
We drink.
“But this,” she says, making a circle in the air with her palm to indicate my face, “is not a shagged, happy face. This is an unhappy face. Now talk.”
So I tell her.
Rowan
I start looking for Raven as soon as I walk onto the green, but she appears to have vanished. It doesn’t help that we get interrupted every so often by other people making their introductions.
I see Charlie and his folks, Tristan and his mum, Simon and his family. And everybody wants to say hello to everybody and make introductions. All of a sudden, everything’s become terribly British at The Village. In between, the Denyers, Alan Allsort and, of course, Lewin all require handshaking as well. The entire time I look around for black locks and indigo eyes, but she is nowhere to be found. Just as I start to get worried, Christine, Raven's second-in-command, heads us off at the buffet in the old church.
“Rowan,” she says smiling as she approaches Silas, Grace and me.
Silas looks at me with a raised eyebrow and I surreptitiously shake my head. I mean Christine is nice and all, but not my type. Bit too much testosterone for my liking. And, really, I only have one very specific type left. She’s about five four, the most beautiful, complex, intelligent woman alive and fits my dick like a glove.
“Hi. I'm Christine,” Christine introduces herself to my brother and his girlfriend. “How do you three fancy coming back to my house? We're holed up in my room.”
As soon as she says ‘we’ in that conspirative tone, my heart soars at the realisation that Raven has told her about us.
I’m not a dirty secret any longer.
Still dirty, but not a total secret.
Which makes me worry.
Surely people will notice if we disappear with Christine and if Raven is nowhere to be seen at the same time, they will put two and two together. Though when I look around, I realise we might just fly under the radar since numbers in The Village have swelled considerably and there are bodies everywhere. Most people have a maximum of three or four guests, some less, but there are also a few guys in houses that I have had little to do with so far who seem to have invited about twenty people each. Amazing what the promise of a free buffet will do, even in rehab. There is well in excess of a hundred people milling around, outside on the lawn and in here, dipping into the old church on food recces.
Still, I look at Christine with a frown on my face while Silas and Grace look on puzzled.
“Are we gonna get away with that?” I ask quietly.
“Sure, pet,” she grins then turns her gaze on Grace. “Your name’s Grace, right?”
Grace nods, confused because she has no idea what’s going on, since I didn’t really get much of a chance to explain anything but the basic problem with the Raven situation to her and Silas between the car park and here, due to all the fucking interruptions.
But Grace, laidback goddess that she is, simply takes it in her stride when Christine grins at her with a thumbs up.
“Good. Just play along,” Christine instructs and then suddenly her volume goes super loud, which isn’t uncommon for her. “Grace! Well knock me sideways with a shovel. Gracie! Long time no see! How are ye, lass?”
Then she pulls Grace out of Silas’ constant loose hip-to-hip embrace and draws her into a hug to pat her enthusiastically on the back. Without even a split second of hesitation, Grace effortlessly joins in the charade.
The two of them give such a blinding performance, making up some cock-and-bull story between them about camping in the Scottish Highlands, complete with a cast of hilarious side characters, that there is a moment when even I actually question if they do know each other.
As their beautiful imaginations unfold, they start walking away, arms slung around each other’s shoulders as if they were truly old mates. And all Silas and I can do is trail behind them with hastily laden plates and entirely genuine gobsmacked expressions on our faces.
Raven
I get fidgety about ten minutes after Christine leaves me with the promise that she’s going to retrieve my man and bring the party here. My man. Her words. They scare the shit out of me, but somewhere, deep, deep down in my fucked-up psyche, I like that sound. Way too much.
I don’t get time to dwell on it for long before I hear the front door of Christine’s house open and four pairs of feet trampling up the stairs accompanied by raucous laughter. Mostly Christine’s.
The door to her room opens, and she falls through with her arm around Jessica Rabbit, who is much prettier and less provocatively dressed in real life than her cartoon alter ego, in jeans and a tailored lace-up pirate shirt.
In real life, she is aptly named. She has a kind of simple grace that I could never attain, but without an ounce of arrogance. I would bet my bottom dollar she has no idea how much of a jewel she is.
“And then, remember when we blindfolded Paul and fed him worms, letting him think they were spaghetti? That was hilarious,” she says, laughing.
She has a weird kind of transatlantic accent that makes me feel even more American than Christine and her Yorkshire twang do. The two of them are hiccuping with laughter now, tears gathering in the corners of their eyes.
“Yeah but not as funny as,” Christine can barely get the rest of the sentence out because she’s pretty much wetting herself, “when we fed Peter the spaghetti, pretending they were worms.”
I have no idea what’s going on, but their joy is infectious.
So much so, I gotta laugh at them laughing. I don’t even stop when my heart goes into triple overtime, because once they’re in the room, I see Rowan and the guy who I know to be Silas appear behind them with bemused expressions on their faces. While Silas stops by the redhead’s side, Rowan swerves around the group.
He makes a beeline for the table and dumps the plate he’s carrying next to Christine’s and mine. Then he pulls me up from my chair, brushes a reassuring kiss over my lips that nearly knocks me out of my boots with surprise, turns me to face the others and cradles me possessively from behind. Christine and the redhead stop laughing and Christine’s eyes go soft at the tenderness between Rowan and me.
“Guys? This is Raven,” he introduces me with an almost reverent tone in his voice but releases me from his embrace again as soon as he says it, so I can make my own way toward them.
The respect makes me smile.
I’m not a possession, I’m my own person.
I take a step forward at the same time as Silas approaches me. He doesn’t offer me a hand. Instead, he scrutinizes me unashamedly for a moment.
He is good-looking in a completely different way to Rowan. He’s got typical boxer’s charm. Slavic cheekbones, a flattened nose, and hazel eyes that are a bit disorientating because there are so many different colors in them.
He also carries a completely different aura to Rowan. There is no doubt in my mind that he is equally as deadly, but he’s also way, way more serious. And when he smiles at me, it's not a broad smile but one that tells me I'll have to prove myself to him before it will ever reach his eyes.
He scares me, I realize with a jolt.
Not in a physical way because he also comes across as old school, as somebody who would never ever raise a hand to a woman. No, I am scared to the bone because I realize that his seal of approval will make or break my relationship with the man standing behind me. Relief floods my senses when Silas puts a hand on my shoulder and gently squeezes it.
“I’m Silas,” he introduces himself in a voice barely above a whisper yet immensely powerful all the same.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Christine relieve him of the plate he is carrying in the hand that isn’t weighing me down. He lets her take it without losing eye contact with me for even a split second.
