Ella had just got into bed when there was a quiet knock on her door and Dylan popped his head round.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Course you can, dickhead.’
He grinned and pushed the door open properly. He was wearing sweatpants, a blue hoodie that said ‘Sorry I was late. I didn’t want to come’ on the front, and he had his pillow under his arm.
‘You staying then?’ Ella had already started shuffling over in the double bed she’d begged her mum and Arthur for for about five years before they actually caved and bought it.
‘Is that OK?’
‘I refer you to my previous answer.’
Dylan flopped down on the bed next to her and Ella marvelled at just how tall he was now. In her head, he was at least a foot shorter. And looked about five years younger. He was a man now, there was no way around that, and it was weird. Although not as weird as him being an internationally famous pop star. That was definitely the absolute weirdest.
‘Get your massive feet away from me,’ she said, as he pedalled them under the duvet.
He sighed, tipping his head back.
‘Didn’t want to sleep in the shrine, then?’ she said.
Dylan laughed. ‘Don’t call it that. But yeah. No.’
‘I did tell her she should turn it into a gym. Or a craft room.’
‘It’s weird, right? How she’s left it. I mean … I’m not dead.’
He shuffled in the bed, so he was on his side, looking at Ella.
‘I don’t think it’s that weird,’ she said. ‘You left so suddenly. And we were all just waiting for it to end, you know? We thought the arse would fall out of it and you’d come crawling home and you’d be devastated and we’d have to help you get over it. But you just kept getting more and more famous. You wanker.’
Dylan didn’t laugh, as Ella had expected. Instead his eyes filled with tears. ‘I want to come home.’
‘Fuck off,’ Ella said. ‘You don’t.’
‘I do. I just … I love it. I do. I love the boys and the shows and the fans, but we just never fucking stop. I never get to take a breath, you know? They keep telling us after this show or this album or this promo we’ll get a break, a proper break, and then once it’s close enough that I start thinking about what I’ll do, something comes up and they say “no, sorry, just this one thing”. I’m so fucking tired.’
‘Fuck,’ Ella said. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s shit.’
Dylan’s eyebrows pulled together. ‘It’s not. I mean, I feel like a dickhead for complaining about it. Cos, like, this was my dream, right? I wanted this! And so many singers would kill to be in my place. I should appreciate it. I should enjoy it. But I was, like, counting the days ’til I could be home. Who does that?’
‘That’s fair enough, I think,’ Ella said. ‘I mean, the touring and everything is normal to you now. It’s home that’s special. I know it’s not the same, but I’ve been looking forward to it too. Even though I was kind of desperate to move out, desperate to get to uni and have some independence. And now I’m there – and I love it – I really look forward to coming home.’ Ella wanted to tell him about Nick, but she knew he wasn’t really able to have a relationship at the moment either, and she didn’t want to rub salt in the wound. It could wait.
Dylan nodded. ‘It’s not the same for you though. Cos everyone still treats you the same. For me it’s like it takes a couple of days for them to realise I’m still Dylan, not, like, Dylan Jewell.’
‘Yeah, I know. But – and I know this isn’t the same, I’m not saying it’s the same – but for me … it’s kind of nice to be Ella. Not Dylan Jewell’s sister, you know? And when I come home, I go back to that again.’
‘God,’ Dylan said. ‘I’m sorry. I do wonder sometimes if it wouldn’t have been better if I’d never gone to London. If –’
‘Oh, come on!’ Ella said, her voice suddenly too loud in the quiet house. ‘Don’t talk shit. I mean, first of all, it was your dream. You are literally living your dream. Even if it’s not quite what you expected it to be, that’s an incredible thing. And second of all, you’re making shitloads of money. Enough that at some point if you decide you don’t want to do it any more, you’ll have options. And you can help Mum out. And you paid for Arthur’s hospital stuff. It’s a good thing.’
‘It is, mostly. I know. And I was really happy that I could help out with the doctor like that. But don’t you think it’s weird? That I’m their kid and I’m the one paying for stuff like that? I mean …’ He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘It’s changed us all, the family, so much. And it just feels, I dunno. Weird.’
‘I know,’ Ella said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You know what I noticed? Arthur doesn’t take the piss out of me any more. He used to always go on about my hair or my clothes or the music I was listening to or whatever. But now … it’s like he’s sort of respectful.’
‘I did notice all the questions,’ Ella said. ‘It was like a one-man press conference.’
‘Yeah. And then Mum treats me like a VIP. She came into the kitchen when I was emptying the bin and she almost vaulted the breakfast bar to stop me. Like “you shouldn’t be doing that!”’
‘To be fair, you literally never emptied the bin when you lived here.’ Ella grinned.
‘Arthur used to do it,’ Dylan said. ‘I’m thinking he probably doesn’t any more.’
‘Oh,’ Ella said. ‘You’re right. This is why I hate you. I never would have thought of that. Why do you always have to be so considerate and shit?’
Dylan smiled, but it didn’t quite make his eyes. ‘He’s dying, isn’t he?’
Ella gasped, her eyes filling instantly. ‘I think so, yeah.’
‘Do you think Mum knows or …’
‘I honestly don’t know. I did try to talk to her a bit. Like, it’s stage four and, you know, you only have to look at him. But she went all bright-eyed and started talking about booking a holiday to Madeira. I don’t know.’
‘Fuck,’ Dylan said.
Paige planned to run a bath as hot as she could stand and lie in it for as long as possible, reading one of Lou’s fashion magazines, and then get into bed and sleep for most of Christmas Day. She’d hated Christmas since her mum had died anyway, but she’d never been able to totally avoid it before. And now her legs were aching and there was something clicking between her shoulder blades. And her key wouldn’t turn in the front door.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ she muttered, banging her head gently against the wood. The key was sticky, she knew that. And she knew that if she relaxed, and pulled the key out very slightly, it should turn. She took a breath, she eased the key out, she turned it … and it snapped.
‘MotherFUCKER,’ Paige yelled. She stared at what was left of the key in her hand. She couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Now what? It was late. She was alone. She had nowhere to go and no money and – her chest started to feel tight – no inhaler. Shit.
She sat down on the step and told herself to stay calm. She took a few of the slow, deep, calming breaths she’d learned at yoga once and then stared down at her phone. Who could she call? Her dad would be drunk, she knew from long experience. Plus, what could he do? He wouldn’t know how to transfer money or book her a hotel or anything, even if he was capable.
It would have to be Sharda. At least she lived nearby and was relatively flush. Paige had no idea what a locksmith would cost, particularly at this time of night, but whatever it was, she didn’t have it. It would probably be better if she stayed the night with Sharda and called the locksmith in the morning. She tapped Sharda’s name on her phone, and listened to it ring out. And then it stopped.
‘Fuck,’ Paige muttered. She had no idea what she was going to do.
Her phone buzzed with a message. Sharda. ‘Can’t talk. Lola’s home.’
Paige’s fingers were stiff with cold as she typed her reply, telling Sharda she was locked out, had no money. Asking her if she could come and crash.
‘Sorry, no,’ Sharda replied. ‘I can lend you some cash? PayPal? How much do you need?’
‘Fucking HELL,’ Paige said, dropping her head back to bang against the door. Her eyes burned with tears. Maybe she should ask Sharda for the train fare, go and spend the night in Lime Street and get the first train home. Yeah, it meant Christmas with her drunk dad, but even that was better than this, wasn’t it?
She told Sharda she’d find out and get straight back to her. And then she Googled locksmiths.
By the time Paige got into the house, she was cold and tired and sick from trying not to cry. She climbed into the shower, dropping her clothes on the bathroom floor, and slumped against the wall, sobbing so loudly she almost shocked herself. How had this happened? It was Christmas. She was home alone (she almost – almost – laughed at that), and she had no one.
Leaving her clothes on the floor, she wrapped herself in a towel and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her phone. She should ring her dad. He was awful, but he was still her dad. Maybe she should go home. She should talk to him, at the very least. Her chest felt tight at the thought and she rubbed it with the heel of her hand.
She scrolled to her dad’s number, but she was already struggling to breathe.
‘Fuck.’ Her eyes filled with tears and she rubbed at her chest again. She could feel herself wheezing. She reached into her bag for her inhaler, but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in the pocket of her coat either. She tried to remember where she’d last had it, but couldn’t think.
In her room, she checked her bedside drawer and it wasn’t there either. Her breathing was coming faster now, the tears streaming down her face. Trust this to happen when she was home alone. Wasn’t that just fucking typical.
And then she remembered using her inhaler the previous night and putting it on her bedside table. It must have fallen off. She got down on the floor and reached under the bed. Her fingers closed around the smooth plastic.
Once she was able to breathe again, she rang her dad – first his mobile and then the home phone. He didn’t answer either of them.