Blake
"Sophia. This is Bernie, my mother," he holds his hand to his mouth and stage whispers, "she’s not the ogre she makes out."
Bernie goes to smack him again, but he jumps out of her reach with a chuckle. Her eyes shine at her son and it does strange things to my tummy. The way things are going my insides will resemble a fruit smoothie very soon.
Bernie reaches for me, her fingers gripping my shoulder, digging in with questionable strength. "I’m sorry about my comment. It’s just this is a clean house, it has to be." Her eyes flicker to Shayne skulking in the background. Where Blake is tall and powerful, but agile in his build, lean and strong; Shayne is a powerhouse. And I know why. He fights his demons at the gym.
Everything becomes crystal clear.
My gaze flickers to Blake, but Bernie continues, "If you’re clean then you are welcome here."
Shayne steps forward, "Annoying younger brother, and family black sheep at your service." He gives a broad wink and Blake hisses an exclamation at my side.
"Hey, former Hollywood golden child and drug addict." I offer my hand and give Shayne’s a shake, his lips curving into a smile come smirk.
He leans over the table, sucking the light out of the room as he moves, throwing the low-ceilinged kitchen into shadows. "What’s your poison, Sophia? Heroin? Crack?"
I flinch at his assessing gaze as it sweeps from the bottom of my feet to the hairline of my braids. Blake shifts until he’s created a wall of muscle between myself and the investigative glance of another addict.
"Ignore him." Blake's teeth lock with a snap and I file away asking what happened between the two of them for another time.
The girl with raven dark hair I saw earlier, springs from her pine kitchen chair and I jump. "Hey," she flings her hands around my neck and squeezes damn tight. This is, interesting. I hold my breath in case she forgets to let go and I never get to breathe again. "Oh my god, you smell delicious, like proper posh."
No one has ever said that to me before—and I’ve had things said over the years, normally by fans who can’t engage their brain when I finally make my way along a line to meet them. I giggle nervously and Blake tuts.
"I knew you would embarrass yourself." He knocks her a gentle punch on the arm which she returns with force. Blake’s gaze slides around the rest of the room, his face guarded. "Where’s Darren?"
I counted heads. There’d been four earlier but now there’s just the three. I hadn’t noticed because Shayne and Blake are so damn big they obscure half the view.
"So, there are four siblings?" This is amazing. I’d have been happy with at least one sibling playmate. Someone there just for me.
Bernie nods, sliding a big brown teapot across the table. I’ve never seen anything quite so ugly—I love it. "Darren’s got his sermon this evening."
I blink at her. "I’m sorry, what?"
"Darren, he’s a rector." She looks at me like I should know this, her gaze flicking towards Blake who keeps his face blank neither looking at her or I.
Some more things become clear. I know nothing about Blake. Nothing. What’s his favourite colour? His favourite meal? What his brothers do for a living… nothing.
Bernie turns. "Ah, I’ve just remembered. We need butter, I’ve run out. Sophia, do you want to go get some from the store?"
I perform another award worthy blank look. If you could win an Oscar for it, I’d be way ahead of the field. "Shop?" It’s quite pathetic really how much my voice wavers over that one nondescript word.
Shop.
I’ve never been to a shop by myself, and not to buy butter of all things.
Shopping is a private viewing at a store, and groceries are delivered.
Bernie’s eyebrow raises in my direction. "You know what a shop is?"
"Mam," Blake interjects, but she holds out her hand.
"And you know what butter is?" she queries, a dart of amusement lighting her face.
I nod. I mean there is butter in the fridge at home. Before my downfall, it was put there by staff or Marty, or back in the old days, Blake himself when he’d make me grilled cheese sandwiches. "Sure, of course I do."
"There’s a fiver on the dresser, nip down the road and grab some, would you love?"
This is a test. I’ve been through enough tests, auditions, interviews in my life to know this one.
I’ve been in the house a whole ten minutes and Blake’s mammy is scoping me out.
Problem is, for the last year, situations like this would send me diving straight for the bottle and already there’s a niggle in my stomach telling me this would all be so much easier if I had something settling my nerves. I thrust the thought away when I meet Blake’s eyes and see the flicker of hesitation there.
He doesn’t want me to go alone to the shop.
Bloody hell. I don’t want to go to the shop alone. Bernie may as well ask me to climb a mountain as a test.
"Sure, it’s fine. Where’s the shop?"
Amanda snorts, clutching her hand over her mouth and Blake knocks her shoulder with gentle fingers. "Don’t take the piss out of the city girl, Amanda." He turns his eyes onto me and offers me a strained tight-lipped smile. "You have two choices leaving the front door. Right will take you to the dairy farm, left will take you to the shop."
I purse my lips. "So, I’m not going to get lost?"
"No," they all chorus. Shayne chortles, his dark eyes transfixed on where I stand, his gaze sweeping my arms. Is he looking for track marks? Before they can laugh at me anymore I grab the fiver off the pine dresser and speed through the front door.
Is Blake going to let me wander about by myself? But then this is only Wales, and no one knows I’m here—we left the psycho with the burning weed and twisted letters behind on the other side of the Atlantic. I caught sight of him as I ducked away, his hands were fisted at his sides, his lips set into that impenetrable line, but he let me go, his eyes focused on the GPS bracelet that connects us once again.
Blake wasn’t lying, there is only left and right outside the front door. The old truck we arrived in is parked with two wheels on the curb and I squish myself through the space on the pavement. The air swims sweetly around tantalising me like it did on the journey. The chill from the airport has lifted and while it isn’t palm tree balmy, it’s pleasant to breathe the clean freshness into my lungs as I turn left and wander down the road.
I don’t have to go far. Houses line the road, terrace dwellings running one into the other, vibrant splashes of colour for front doors. Ten doors down a red sign hangs from a wrought iron bracket announcing it’s the village shop.
I gulp as the sign swings, inviting me in.
It’s ridiculous to be nervous. I’m only buying butter, but then honestly, I can’t remember the last time I’ve been anywhere by myself.
"Af’noon." I jump at the greeting, my cheeks flushing before I’m even fully through the door.
"Hey." I shrink into my travel crinkled tracksuit. I should have got changed before embarking on this butter purchasing adventure.
Behind the counter is the tightest perm I’ve ever seen nestled on the head of a worn faced woman. I didn’t know perming was still a thing, but this lady is rocking it. "Err, I’m looking for butter?" I say.
My eyes flit around the store. You’d have trouble swinging a kitten let alone an adult cat.
She jabs her finger at the fridge at the back and I pick my way over cardboard boxes brimming with dusty stock. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I stop mid crammed aisle, sliding it out.
My heart stutters an uneasy beat when I spot the caller and I thumb the red button allowing a shiver of disgust to roll away. I don’t need a conversation with Johnny Fairweather any time soon.
Picking my way to the back of the shop I stop and stare truly stumped when I find a choice of more than one type of butter.
Salted or unsalted.
Shit. Bernie didn’t specify and I’m going to fail the butter buying am I good enough for your son test before I’ve even been in the country a couple of hours.
Salted or unsalted?
I stand staring at the packs of churned milk for longer than they truly deserve.
"You okay, back there?" Perm-haired lady calls.
"Uh, yeah I think."
Checking the prices and totalling it in my head—my home maths tutor would have been so proud—I grab a packet of both and turn back for the queen of the perm who's reading the paper behind her wire-rimmed glasses.
That’s when I see it. Row after row of booze. Beer, cider, whiskey, vodka. All of them. Everything. My eyes zero in on the nondescript red label of the polish vodka.
Maybe it’s the buzz of the drugs lingering in my veins from my crash and burn at Johnny’s, maybe it’s the trauma of meeting Blake’s family but my mouth waters at the thought of the acrid sting of cheap vodka hitting the back of my throat. That buzz. That one mild hit.
Surely, Blake’s family would be easier to manage if I had a little tingle in my veins?
I only have a fiver though.
Even cheap vodka isn’t that cheap.
I turn for the till, the butter getting softer in my hand, but every step seems slower than the last, like I’m wading through thick mud. The queen of the perm still has her eyes down, her attention on her crossword. I swipe at the small bottle and slide it into the waistband of my tracksuit pants.
My heart thuds so loud it makes my head hurt. My pulse races in my veins until a splurge of spew threatens to find its way onto the shop floor.
The lady’s eyes lift to mine as I reach the till. Sweat prickles my top lip and I lick at it with my tongue. She stares a little closer and I freeze. Please don’t ask what I’ve got down my pants.
When she doesn’t move, continuing to watch me with that confused expression, I understand what’s going on. Recognition. She knows me from somewhere, she just can’t place me. Dressed in my tracksuit with my hair in pigtails and wearing just moisturiser on my skin I look very much like the plain relative of a famous person. I’ve seen that look of recognition my entire life; a blank flicker in the recesses of someone’s memories when they think they should know me but can’t marry the sight of me in slouch wear with the girl from film and magazines.
That’s good. I’ve got a quart of vodka in my knickers.
"Just the butter, love?"
I nod, my erratic pulse removing any chance of vocalising a response.
"Here with Blake, are you?" She continues to eye her crossword, there’s just one row left.
"Yes," I squeak. "He’s my bodyguard," I add, mainly for my own benefit.
Her wire-rimmed eyes lift to mine. "Oh, we all know, dear."
"Well, thank you. I need to get this butter to Bernie."
"Of course, you do, my dear."
Grabbing the butter and my small change, I turn for the door.
"You can pay me for the vodka another time," she says.
The floor falls out of the universe.
My eyes refuse to lift from the floor but finding a surprising determination I force them to meet her gaze. She shrugs. "Or, you can just pop it back when you’re ready."
I give her a stiff nod. Her meaning isn’t entirely clear. "Thanks."
I’m thanking a woman for allowing me to steal from her shop and not calling the police as she rightly should.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but she waves me off before I speak. "Enjoy your stay."
"Uh, thanks."
Outside I tremble like a leaf, air hitching painfully in my ribcage. I stole from an old lady and got caught. Worse I stole alcohol when I’m supposed to be sober.
What am I doing? Is this my lowest point? My mind flickers to the other night with Johnny. My low moments are becoming immeasurable.
Outside I gaze blindly until I find the dark clothed shape of Blake leaning against the wall of the shop, his eyes guarded, his dog lying on the pavement at his feet.
Blake.
I take one stumbling step toward him, followed by another.