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ficbynic · 7 years

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T A K E C A R E - Chapter 10 - North Hampstead Pt. II

"It's funny, isn't it?" he then asked, ending the silence. "What?" "How I feel like I know you, but I don't." "What do you mean?" Emilie smiled but frowned her eyebrows.

Story page (Catch up!) | Author | Talk to me | Read on Tumblr only.

NOVEMBER 2017 "Charlie," Emilie warned, making her way from the kitchen area back to the dining table where both of the girls were having their dinner, "Don't make such a mess, please. You haven't been good at dinner time lately, have ya?" Just like yesterday evening, Charlotte wasn't eating. She was playing around with her fork again, poking in the mashed potatoes, avoiding her greens. Emilie was getting quite sick of it. "You don't want to go to the naughty step, do ya?" Little Charlie looked up, apparently recognising the words, knowing what they meant, but confused as to why they were used addressing her. "Charlotte has never sat on the naughty step before," Denise told Emilie, confirming what Emilie had already suspected. "Well, maybe we should try it, because you girls should eat your dinner, shouldn't you?" "I'm eating my dinner," Denise objected. "Yes, you're doing well, Denny, but Charlotte isn't," Emilie explained, "And if Charlotte doesn't eat well she'll get hungry during the night and she'll wake up. We don't want that, do we?" "No. I don't like it when she cries at night." "No, neither do Mummy and Daddy, so that's why we have to make sure Charlie eats her food." Emilie didn't understand why Charlie wasn't eating. She had to be hungry. It wasn't like Emilie allowed a lot of food in the afternoon. It was like any other day and normally, Emilie was amazed by how much Charlie could fit into her little stomach. Meanwhile, Charlotte wasn't making any progress, ignoring her nanny's previous warnings. "Charlotte, come on, eat your food," Emilie ordered again, "You need to eat at least a few more bites." Emilie could feel herself getting more and more annoyed. It was only Wednesday. There were still a couple of hours left of her work day and then there were two more days until half term break would finally be over and things would get less chaotic next week. Also, she hadn't heard from Harry and she also didn't like the prospect of not being able to see him or properly talk to him for the next few days. He would be in Manchester tonight, Glasgow tomorrow, and then it would be another long day of work until they could potentially meet up again on Friday night. But even those plans weren't made yet. Everything was still up in the air. Frustration getting the better of her, Emilie moved towards Charlotte, fetched her fork and brought a bite of mashed potatoes towards her mouth. Even though it was just a small bite and she'd initially obeyed, opening her mouth, Charlotte didn't swallow down her food, instead spitting it back out on the plastic plate in front of her. "Charlotte, please!" "That's actually really messy," Denise commented. "Charlotte, that's naughty! We don't spit out our food!" But Charlotte wasn't done yet. With an angry look on her face, her little hand reached out towards her plate, getting hold of whatever had just been in her mouth. She held the food in her fist for just a second before, without thinking of it twice, she brought up her little arm to the side and shamelessly threw the food on the floor. Emilie couldn't believe what she saw. "Alright, naughty step." She immediately stood up from her chair to pick up Charlotte and carry her to the stairwell in the hallway. The bottom two steps were below the child gates that Emilie made sure were always locked, and were used as a "time out" if the girls were misbehaving. Well, so far, the naughty step had only been used when Denise was misbehaving. But that was about to change. Charlotte didn't really know what was happening. She hadn't really reacted when Emilie had abruptly taken her from her high chair. When she sat her down on the bottom step of the stairs, Charlie's lips were still a tight line. Without explanation, Emilie left the hallway, leaving the door to it open, and returned to the dining table. Soon enough, Charlotte came running, entering the living room again, perhaps thinking this was a game. "No, Charlie, naughty step." Emilie picked her up and carried her to the stairs again, making sure she sat down on the bottom step before returning to Denise. Yet again, Charlotte left her spot and came running and the process repeated itself. "She doesn't understand it," Denise spoke, bringing one of her last bites of food to her mouth as Charlotte came running towards them for the third time. "She will," Emilie argued, hoping the words didn't come out sounding too harsh. After about four or five times, Charlotte seemed to understand it wasn't a game and they weren't having fun and Emilie was actually upset with her. She started whining when Emilie brought her back to the staircase and sat her down on the bottom step again. After maybe seven times, Charlotte understood she wasn't going to get anything from running back to the dining table and she kept sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. Emilie let out a big sigh, her breath shaking, and joined Denise at the table. Adrenaline was pumping through her body, wondering if she was doing right by introducing Charlotte to the naughty step like this. If felt weird to have been the one using this form of punishment for the first time. Emilie felt like it should've been Catherine or David. But then again, Emilie was the one raising the kids five days a week, when Catherine and David only had two full days a week with their children. That part of her work was still weird to comprehend to begin with. After sitting at the table for a minute or two, Emilie decided the time out had been sufficient. She returned to Charlotte in the hallway. "Charlie, this is the naughty step. You sit here when you are naughty," Emilie explained, simultaneously wondering if this was perhaps a bit too much to try to make clear to a 22 month old. Emilie's brows were raised as she looked into Charlie's teary, big eyes. "You didn't eat your dinner. And you threw your food on the floor. That's very naughty." Still, Charlotte was gazing at her. "Do you want to go back to the table to Denny?" "Yesh," little Charlotte muttered out, already standing up from the bottom step of the stairs. But Emilie wasn't done teaching her a lesson. "Are you gonna be good and finish your food?" "Yesh," she repeated, tears brimming "Are you gonna say sorry?" "Sowwy," she then cried, reaching out her little arms towards Emilie as big tears fell down her chubby cheeks, "Cuddle!" Emilie picked her up and held her shaking body close. She was properly crying, tears staining Emilie's shirt. "Alright. Shhh, honey, it's alright," Emilie soothed. All of a sudden, she felt guilty and bad for having been so strict. Maybe Charlie was too young to understand it all. She swallowed away her own emotions, feeling like tearing up herself. Charlotte reacting like this broke her heart. She'd always reach out her little arms and demand a hug, but never like this. Not when Emilie had been the reason of her tears, anyway. After a while of walking around the room, calming Charlie down, she stopped sobbing and was ready to sit in her high chair again. When she did, Denise made a nosy comment, actually enjoying seeing Charlie got punished while she wasn't. Charlie frowned, but after that, she was all fine again. Bath time went alright and the girls seemed to be in good spirits, making Emilie forget about the dramatic dinner time and the way she'd punished Charlotte earlier. Until Denise brought it up the second Catherine came through the door at around a quarter to seven. "Charlie had to go on the naughty step!" "Did she?" Catherine was putting away her work bag and was still in her coat, but didn't fail to give Emilie a questioning look. "Yeah, I figured I'd have a go and try and see how she responded to it," Emilie said, feeling like she had to defend herself. "And?" Emilie went on to tell her that Charlotte didn't seem to understand it at first, but eventually did and kept sitting on the bottom step. "Alright. Well, that's good. If you feel like you need to use the naughty step, feel free to do so. We trust you to know when it's appropriate." "Do you? " Emilie thought. Things like this were still very awkward and weird for Emilie to be dealing with. She didn't know what Catherine really meant. For all she knew, she could be complaining about it to David tonight without Emilie ever knowing. "Oh, Emilie, before I forget," Catherine then started, "Would you mind babysitting tomorrow evening? David will be out and a friend of mine just asked me if I'd meet her for dinner." A punch in the gut was what it felt like. Emilie was making twelve hour days taking care of two little girls. Babysitting would add another few, not only being in charge of putting the girls in bed, which, in Denise's case, was quite the task, but also being responsible for the girls staying in bed. "Sure," she replied nonetheless, feeling like she couldn't say no, especially not after tonight's eventful dinner and not knowing how Catherine really felt about using the naughty step method on little Charlie, "No problem." ~~ "It's absolutely draining. This week has been the toughest week so far. It's like it's my first week here. I've literally got a huge headache. One is one, two is twenty, I swear to God, everything's so much tougher now that Denise is here all day." Emilie was sitting on the Ainsley's sofa on Thursday night after another exhausting day. It was nearly nine o'clock and Denise had only gone quiet at around eight-thirty, after it took over half an hour to get her to go to sleep. Harry was currently on stage in Glasgow. Emilie was talking on the phone with her Mum, making sure to keep her voice down, because she didn't know when either David or Catherine would get back. "I'm sorry to hear that, honey. Just one more day and at least Denise will go back to school, right? It will be back easier that way, right?" "Yeah, I guess so." "What are you doing in the evenings, then? Maybe it's a good idea to get out and be away from the house, even if it's only for a little while. It might help you, mentally, when you physically get away from it all." Emilie instantly thought of Tuesday night, having dinner at Harry's. It was one of the most relaxing evenings ever. "I tend to get super tired so I haven't really gone out and done anything," she lied to her Mum. "What about just going for a walk after work? Or visiting the new friend you made? Or does she not live within walking distance?" "It's one tube stop away. But, yeah, tomorrow evening, maybe," Emilie went along with it, not thinking about Tilda though, but about Harry, who by that time should've returned to London. She wanted to spend time with him. "Anyway. How is everything going back home?" "We're all fine, Em. Gitte and Viktor are fine. So is Jo. He was actually going to talk to you about maybe coming over for a weekend." Emilie was embarrassed and disappointed in herself realising she didn't feel excited about that prospect. "Was he?" "Yeah." "Oh, I thought he would be busy with school." "He is very busy," Agnes agreed, "But he misses you and wants to check out London with you for a couple of days." Emilie thought about Harry and how she wanted to spend more time with him while they could and how Jonas could potentially get in the way of that. She felt like a horrible sister. "Okay." "So what are you up to now?" her Mum asked. "Are you staying up until Catherine or David comes home?" "No, I don't think so. I'll be here in the house for another while to make sure the girls are fast asleep and then I'll be off to my room." ~~ On Friday afternoon, Emilie again allowed the girls to watch TV. She was prepared to again watch Charlotte lose interest after a while and to see Denise's eyes were slowly getting tired from watching the massive flat screen. She wasn't prepared that Denise insisted on watching Madagascar 3 again. Emilie could barely stand the sound of the music that started whenever the evil little French lady appeared on the screen, ready to hunt down the animals. Are you back yet? She knew it was only three o'clock and had no idea when Harry would be making the trip down to London, but still, she felt like asking him. They texted this morning, talking about the shows, Harry telling her about spending time with family and catching up with friends. They didn't speak about when they would see each other again. It took a while for Harry to reply. I'm on my way down, I'll be in Hampstead by five. Do you have plans tonight? Let me check. Emilie nervously ticked her fingers against the back of her phone, awaiting Harry's answer. If he had plans tonight and couldn't hang out, of course, she'd understand. She wouldn't blame him for having a social life and other people to spend time with. But she'd hate it if they wouldn't be able to hang out. If that were to be the case she could imagine herself either going to a bar with Tilda or some of the other girls and get tipsy, or lie in bed all night and end up crying. I don't! Want to come over? ~~ At around seven o'clock, Harry's gate clicked open after Emilie entered the correct code. She made her way along his driveway, putting her phone back into her pocket, when she noticed the front door flung open, Harry already standing in the doorway. "Hey," she greeted him. "Hi." To her surprise, Harry welcomed her with a kiss. A quick peck placed on her lips before he stepped aside, letting her enter the hallway. A very good start of their evening, Emilie thought. "I get a notification when someone's entering the code," Harry explained how he knew she'd arrived. "How are you?" "Good, good. Tired. But I'm fine. I'm so glad this week is over!" "I can imagine." He took her coat when she removed it from her body and put it on the coat rack before they entered the living room. The previous time, Emilie was met with different smells of food being prepared in the kitchen. The house now seemed quite empty and silent. A few candles were lit, adding to the calm vibe in the living room. There wasn't any indication that anything was happening in the kitchen. "Didn't feel like cooking me a full meal this time?" Emilie joked. Harry didn't immediately answer. "Don't worry, I'm kidding, I wasn't expecting you to." Harry smirked. "I'm glad you're so fond of my cooking. But I was thinking we could order something in, if that's alright." "Of course!" "Are you into sushi?" The Japanese dishes were delivered only half an hour later. Harry had gone quite overboard, ordering lots of different selections, accompanied by side dishes. They had dinner sitting down on the soft, long pile carpet in the living room, eating from the coffee table, and quickly ended up on the sofa after they finished their food, lying closely beside each other, once again a blanket draped on top of them as they watched typical English Friday night shows on the telly. They were mostly talking over them, though, telling each other about their week. Emilie yawned. "I don't want to move for the next twelve hours." It was nine o'clock and Emilie felt at peace lying next to Harry, who had wrapped his arm around her shoulder, keeping her close. "You can stay over, if you'd like," Harry then offered. "At least you wouldn't have to leave the house for the next twelve hours." Emilie was a bit startled by Harry's suggestion. "Oh, I... Uhm..." She was stammering, not knowing how to reply to his suggestion. "I didn't bring any stuff..." "I've got stuff," Harry simply answered. "Spare toothbrush, something for you to wear, what more do you need?" Emilie raised her brows up and down and thought. "Not a lot," she admitted. "You don't have to stay if you don't want to, of course," Harry said, eyes focused back on the television screen, "But it would be nice." "Yeah. Yeah, it would." It only felt natural when Emilie found herself in Harry's bathroom just an hour later. It hadn't been awkward. It hadn't been weird. There were no unspoken implications of what was happening. It was all very organic, it all happened naturally. Emilie was just going to spend the night because it felt nice to do so and she didn't feel like leaving. Harry had given her an upstairs home tour and showed her around. When they ended up in his bedroom, he'd straight-forwardly asked her where she wanted to stay. In one of the two guest bedrooms, or with him. Emilie felt a bit embarrassed to admit she'd like to stay with him and share beds, but Harry had just smiled, making her feel at ease throwing in a cheeky comment about how he thought she made a good choice. When Emilie was given the privacy to get ready for bed in Harry's bathroom, a smile appeared on her face when opening the drawer Harry told her she would find some "toiletries and stuff" she could use. A bunch of toothbrushes, toothpaste, and bottles of body wash and hand soap were kept in the drawer. Peaking in another drawer Harry had pointed out, Emilie even found makeup wipes and skin care products she was assured she could use. It was only then when Emilie realised that Harry was no stranger to wearing makeup for shows or photo shoots. After she was done getting ready for bed, she returned to the bedroom where Harry was waiting for his turn in the bathroom. She was now bare faced, wearing the clothes that Harry had given her. A large, black shirt of his, and a pair of light grey, thin fabric sweatpants. "Those look good on you," he commented when laying eyes on her, "Comfy for bed?" "Yeah, they're great, thanks." "Good. I'll be right back." Emilie meanwhile put away her clothes and her bag, putting her phone on the nightstand and got in bed, her back against the headboard. After only a few minutes, Harry appeared again, wearing a grey T-shirt and what seemed like black boxers. It was quite the surprise for Emilie to see him dressed so... scarcely. And Harry noticed. "Don't look at me, I'll get self-conscious," he squealed, hurriedly making his way to the other side of the bed. Emilie rolled her eyes. "I think we both know you don't." He laughed. "It's just that I haven't seen your tattoos before," she explained. "And I haven't seen yours," he argued. "Oh, yeah, because I'm covered in them." "Well. I wouldn't have been able to tell." "I don't have any," Emilie honestly told him. "Ah, don't give it away," Harry smirked, "Spoiler alert." He got in bed next to her, his flirty remark sending a chill down Emilie's spine. "Or is this your side, normally?" she asked him, referring to the side of the bed she was now occupying. "No, you're good. I'm mostly towards this side, actually," Harry answered with a smile. "Your bed's really comfy, so far," Emilie then commented, moving to lie on her side, facing Harry. "You think?" "Yeah." "Good." He moved closer towards her, looking into her eyes before pressing his lips onto hers. The kiss was long and slow. Time consuming. Sensual as they explored each other. No one or nothing that could stop them. The sounds their kissing produced made Emilie's mind go wild, lying there in Harry's bed, Harry lying there with her wearing just a T shirt and underwear. When Emilie opened her eyes after, she figured she must've looked just as sleepy and comfortable as Harry did. "It's funny, isn't it?" he then asked, ending the silence. "What?" "How I feel like I know you, but I don't." "What do you mean?" Emilie smiled but frowned her eyebrows. "When's your birthday?" Harry asked in return. He made Emilie chuckle, not expecting him to ask such a random question. "February fourteenth," she replied. "Valentine's Day?" Harry's eyes were wide. "No way." "Yep." Emilie smiled, taking in the expression on his face. He was absolutely gorgeous. "Ninety-four, right?" Harry asked again. He'd known because she told him before that she was twenty-three. "Yeah." "So what's it like to have your birthday on a holiday? Do you get twice as much presents or is it the other way around and you end up missing out on stuff?" Emilie frowned. She didn't really celebrate Valentine's Day. Not if she was single, that is. She'd only spent two Valentine's Days being in a relationship. She thought about her ex and how he had kind of gotten away with giving her one present, although it being slightly bigger than he would have probably gotten her on just her birthday or just Valentine's, but she never got "twice as much", as Harry'd call it. She told him, simultaneously cringing that she was going into detail about her relationship with her ex boyfriend. Harry knew she had one significant past relationship that lasted for about a year and a half. She'd told him on the way back from Golders Green when Tilda having a boyfriend back home had been brought up again, because of the weird guys in the bar. Harry had managed to kind of indirectly ask her if she was dating a lot, being here in London, which led to Emilie opening up about her past relationship. She thought that for now, that was more than enough information. "Well, I'm going to remember to buy you two gifts, then," Harry commented casually after hearing her out. He was yawning after, changing his position in bed a bit, moving to lie on his back. His hand stayed up near his face after yawning, scratching the stubble on his chin. Emilie's heart did the thing again. Did he really just give her a reason to believe that he'd still be in her life by February next year? After she would've left London? Emilie could only hope he was being serious about his prediction. Realising she was hoping he was serious about it brought along a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Isn't your birthday near mine?" she managed to change the subject. "First of February, yeah," Harry answered, luckily not being weird about the fact Emilie had known his birthday, a random fact anyone on the planet with an Internet connection would be able to find with just one Google search. Still, it was weird. "Ninety-four." "Ninety-four," Harry repeated and confirmed. It was funny how they were so close in age, although Emilie didn't really have any other experience in past relationships. Emilie's ex had been her age, as well, just four months older. Harry seemed like he had a lot more life experience, though. Of course he had. Being taken away from home at just sixteen obviously results in growing up quicker than the average teenager. "Tell me more about what you studied," his voice then sounded. He was back lying on his side, facing Emilie again. "I studied Danish, focusing on language and literature. Bit of history, as well. I minored in psychology. I also did some English and journalism courses." "What do you want to do for a job?" "I don't know. I haven't got a clue." Emilie smiled. It was something she hadn't been thinking about at all since arriving in London. In a way, she still didn't quite believe she graduated university. Maybe that was one of the reasons she decided to leave home. Just to let it simmer for a while, getting her head around the fact she was done studying. She also didn't feel like going for a full-time proper job yet, before having travelled. Staying in London wasn't only a great opportunity to go abroad, it was also a way to kind of postpone the process of trying to find a job. "I like languages. Obviously. I like to write, as well. I don't know, I'd also like to get into doing research again. I liked working on my thesis." "Mmhm," Harry hummed. He was just gazing at her, his eyes soft as they focused on particular parts of her face, always returning to her eyes. "That's great. I would have absolutely no idea what you'd be talking about." Emilie laughed and she noticed how her expression of amusement made Harry smile in return. "You know tons of things I have absolutely zero knowledge of," she said. Coming to think of it, she figured Harry had close to no education. Emilie, even though highly educated herself, knew that it meant nothing. Harry was proof that you didn't need to have a university Master's degree in order to be intelligent. "What about your siblings? Younger brother. And your sister's older than you?" "Jonas is twenty-one, he's in university. My sister Gitte is twenty-five, she works in finance. She just moved in with her boyfriend, Viktor. They bought their first house together." "That's nice. Close to... where you're from?" "Holmegaard." Emilie grinned because she told him the name of her hometown before and it was clear that he'd forgotten. It was probably quite hard for him to pronounce it, though. "Yeah, it's pretty close, about half an hour drive. It's nice for my Mum now I'm not at home and Jonas is back at his dorm for uni." "Yeah. My Mum misses us like crazy whenever we're gone, me or my sister." "What's your sister doing?" "She's into the blogging thing. She writes for websites. She's always been great at that." "Cool," Emilie honestly commented, "That's something I'd also love to do." "Yeah?" "Yeah, I guess." They talked some more about random things, Harry bringing up the show he had in Stockholm, on Sunday. They talked about Scandinavia and if Stockholm, where Harry had been on multiple occasions over the years, was anything like Denmark and the places Emilie had grown up visiting. They were both extremely tired, though, and it wasn't long until Harry turned around to dim the lightning in the room, the surroundings turning pitch dark. They were both more than ready to fall asleep. "Good night," he then softly spoke. "Night," Emilie repeated. "Is this okay?" Emilie felt him moving up to her closer after she turned her back on him, wrapping his arm around her waist. "Yeah," she assured. In fact, it was more than okay. She exhaled deeply. "Good night, Harry." "Night, Em." Emilie's eyes had already been closed, but when he called her that, they immediately shut open again, her heart skipping a beat. Em. A nickname given to her by the people who loved her back at home, ever since she was little. She knew it was an obvious one. How else would you nickname someone named Emilie? But it was a special one, to her. Not just anyone called her that. She wouldn't allow just anyone to call her that. But hearing it come from Harry's mouth felt wonderful. ~~ It must've been around three am when Emilie woke up. She smiled when she saw Harry peacefully asleep next to her, his face towards her. He was snoring a bit. That wasn't what woke her up though. She simply needed the toilet. As quietly as possibly she got out of bed, careful not to touch Harry or move the duvet from his body. She made her way around the still unfamiliar bedroom, her hands in front of her in search of the door to the attached bathroom. Flicking on the light, she let her eyes get used to the sudden brightness. The first thing she saw was her reflection in the mirror. A blissful feeling took over her as she saw herself wearing Harry's shirt. She nearly cracked a smile when she realised she liked it on her. When she returned to the bedroom a minute later, she was surprised to find Harry sitting up straight in bed, balancing his weight on his left hand behind him and using his right hand to rub his eye. "Hey," she whispered, "What're you doing?" "Oh. I... I thought," he mumbled in reply, "I thought you'd left." Emilie furrowed her brows, making her way back to bed. "Why would you think that?" "Don't know." She climbed back in, the warmness underneath the blanket immediately engulfing her. "Why on Earth would I ever voluntarily want to leave this amazing bed of yours?" Harry didn't respond but followed Emilie's example, laying down and resting his head on the pillowcase again. "You'd be crazy to think I'd randomly leave in the middle of the night." "Good," he mumbled, his voice hoarse. Emilie watched him lying next to her. His eyes were opened, scanning hers. "Go back to sleep," she whispered. "Come here, then." He reached out to her, his hand finding its way to her waist, pulling her in closer. Emilie's face was now pressed to his chest, her arms naturally finding their way to wrap themselves around Harry's torso. The next time Emilie opened her eyes, the room had lit up significantly. She figured it must've been well into the morning, the sunlight creeping through the curtains, the room no longer pitch black. It took a few seconds to realise the noise that woke her up wasn't the familiar sound coming from the alarm set on her phone, but from another buzzing noise that echoed through the room. She then realised it was Harry's phone, sitting on the nightstand at the other side of the bed. All of a sudden, she felt Harry's presence right beside her, moving in his sleep, before eventually seeming to wake up, as well. He sighed a few times, letting the buzzing sound continue. He then coughed before moving to the phone to answer the call, turning away from Emilie in an attempt to let her sleep, not knowing she was already awake. "Jeffrey," he greeted the caller, his voice full of sleep. It was evident he had been asleep until his phone rang, just like Emilie had. Emilie instantly knew it was Harry's manager. Harry told her about him on multiple occasions. They were best friends, but also business partners, which could become quite complicated, Emilie assumed. What would Jeff Azoff be calling about on a Saturday morning? "I'm well, still in bed, how are you?" Harry spoke again before he paused. "No, I skipped training this morning." Emilie frowned. She couldn't quite distinguish the sounds coming from the phone even though the room was dead silent. Harry must've lowered the volume. "Sure, what is it?" Harry then was silent for a bit, apparently listening to whatever was important enough for an early phone call on the weekend. He sighed once or twice, his free hand going through his hair, before finally replying. "I actually thought I was quite clear on all of that. So... No. I'm really liking it this way, actually. How it is." The guy on the other end of the line was starting to talk again. Emilie focused and could catch something about tour and hotels. Jeff was listing advantages, it seemed like. With that, his voice was rising. Easier, convenient, less travelling, cheaper. "I've told you in advance and I'm sorry, but I'm not gunna change it. This is how it's gunna go." Harry seemed quite determined but it seemed like Jeff wasn't letting him get away with it that easily. "But this isn't America, is it?" Harry asked in return. "I just like getting back home, I don't see how that's so difficult to understand?" Jeff's voice sounded again. "I get that, but they can always reach me. Everyone can. Besides, when did we have any of those problems on the road in the States?" He paused but there wasn't an answer coming from the other end of the line. "Exactly. I'd understand it if there were other things planned in between, like, radio shows or interviews, awards shows, but I've purposely decided against that. So I can get home every night." It started to make sense to Emilie now. Jeffrey wanted Harry to stay on the road with the band and the crew, instead of flying back to London after every concert. "So instead of the hotels and the transportation and the flights between cities, just arrange the jet to fly me from London to the show and back every night." Harry listened to what was being said on the other end of the line again. "There'll be days in between shows and I don't like staying in hotels. I've done that before. It's not like I can properly go out and explore, you know that." Another brief silence Emilie couldn't make anything of. "It's got nothing to do with that," Harry spoke, "Jeffrey, nothing's gunna make me change my mind." He laughed without humour and turned around in bed again, slowly finding his way back to Emilie. "Then cancel them," he lowered his voice a bit, "Have someone cancel them. I've made it clear that I wanted to get home every night weeks ago." Jeffrey's voice sounded again, before Harry answered. "I am. Alright, thanks." It seemed to end the phone call. "Cool, I'll see you then. Bye. Thanks, bye." With a sigh, he turned back around to put his phone away before returning towards Emilie's side of the bed. His arm was instantly wrapped around her waist again. Before he had the chance to move closer to her and press his front against her back, Emilie turned around to face him, seemingly awaking from her slumber. Her narrowed eyes met his. "Hey." "Hey." "What was that?" she mumbled, finding comfort in his arms, not letting him know she was completely aware of what was just discussed over the phone. "Nothing, babe," Harry assured, moving his thumb along her cheek. Butterflies were fluttering in her stomach hearing him use that term of endearment. It didn't keep her from speaking up again, though. "You were talking-" "On the phone," he interrupted, "Nothing important. Let's go back to sleep for a little bit, alright? It's only nine." Emilie hummed in agreement and closed her eyes again, crawling up to Harry a bit closer, her chest soon pressed against his. | < Previous chapter | Next chapter > | | Story page | Author | Talk to me |

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rudimentaryrecollections · 5 years

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The Quiet Site 22 July – 27 November 2018

I caught the bus to Penrith the next day. There were heaps of cool young looking people gathering at the train station there organising to go to Kendal Calling, a music festival nearby. I took a bus to the Brackenrigg Inn, overlooking Ullswater in Watermillock.

Peter, Emily’s boyfriend picked me up. He was a mad redheaded dude with a bushy beard, more chilled out then even me. He was to train me in the coming weeks. He set me up in my caravan and showed me around, introducing me to the other staff and the owner of the campsite, Daniel.

We had some drinks at the campsite pub that evening. I was on form and charmed the other staff easily. But I was hungover when I started work the next day. The work was simple enough however, and despite my worries I quickly proved myself a hard and capable worker there. All were pleased, and I was offered ongoing employment.

It was cleaning work. The brunt of it was cleaning the glamping accommodation - Tipi tents, pods (wooden tents) and Hobbit Holes. That, and the toilet and shower block. And I worked the occasional bar shift at the Quiet Bar. I was nervous before my first bar shift, and gulped spiced rum before it started to try settle my nerves. My main anxiety was that I would be too quiet working at the Quiet Bar! That I would not have the charisma and personality I thought a bartender should have. I needn’t have worried. Just being polite and able to fill empty vessels with liquids was enough. And in time the rest came naturally.

In my time off I quickly explored the surrounding area. I explored the meadow paths and climbed Little Mell Fell, which our campsite sloped down from. I hiked to Aira Force waterfalls and got lost coming back, following sheep trails that wound through bracken ferns as tall as me. I cut over the Gowbarrow Park fells in the cloud, found the path again and drudged back to camp with sodden boots. A hot tea and shelter had never felt so nice.

I hiked the Ullswater Way, a path that went around the lake, and wild camped at Sandwick Bay.

I finally got a National Insurance number after an overnight trip to Newcastle, where I had to go to a government jobs centre to prove my identity.

I read a pocket-sized book, in the Collins Gems series ‘Kings and Queens.’ It detailed the known history of kings and queens of Scotland, Wales, Ireland and England. In doing so, it provided a brief history of these countries. I found it most fascinating, and ordered more books from the Gems collection. I bought books on trees, mushrooms, edible food, survival and the weather.

I worked to improve my natural knowledge. Collecting plant and fungus specimens, and identifying them with the aid of my books, and further online reading where needed.

I added nettle to my curries, elder berries to my porridge. I feasted on blackberries, foraged for blueberries and collected crab apples. Wild comfrey replaced parsley from the shops. This fresh food supplemented what food I could get for free from the camp store, canned beans, rice, pasta, cheese and the likes – to a point where I was eating quite well for free.

I was being paid more money than I could spend so I started saving. Things were going quite well for me but I was missing some companionship. I booked flights back to Australia for a two month trip over December and January. There would not be much work at the campsite over winter, and I wanted to see friends and family.

Companionship

In the first few months I would occasionally have drinks with some of the staff, but this disappeared as the site got busy and our work schedules overlapped. I was enjoying hiking and animating and living on my own, but at times I was getting lonely.

I was messaging Kim a fair bit but she had no interest in visiting England, as she was saving for a trip to New Zealand. I was using tinder but the options were limited in my area. And I was unwilling to travel far to meet someone.

I met a woman, Lucy, five years older than me at Aira Force on one of my days off. I had made some hummus and brought some beers my boss had given to me (which had been left on-site by a guest). I basically counselled her for two hours as she figured out what to do with her life. She had been travelling and now was had the option to move to Italy or to London for teaching positions.

It wasn’t really the date I’d dreamed of, I guess I was hoping for a hookup like I’d had a few time when I was backpacking. When she decided to go home to Carlisle we said farewell and she thanked me… And I said, “You owe me…” Why did I say that? I knew she didn’t owe me a thing. I felt dark for having said it. Strange… I walked upstream, a way back I hadn’t been before. I was in a dream like state.

On the top of Gowbarrow Fell, I found magic mushrooms. I put them in a bag and examined them more closely when I got home, researching thoroughly online to ensure they were what I thought they were. I dried them out and stored them in a jar in my larder.

We had a good team at the campsite of about a dozen and I got along with everyone. One day, as I was cleaning, the owner’s son George came to me looking mortified. “I just went to clean the bell tents… but I forgot which ones needed cleaning. I went into thirteen, because there was no car out the front. And inside there was big fat bald guy fucking his wife. Both stark naked. I said sorry, sorry, and came straight here….” Young George went home early that day.

The Saucy Sausage

There was a catering van on site which did breakfast and dinner. It was called The Saucy Sausage. Staff ate free. It was owned by a middle-aged Geordie man named Nigel. He was very friendly but could be quite brash. In my early days at the campsite he was moving houses, and I helped him with some heavy catering fridges. He gave me his two cents on the campsite and the area. He said it was beautiful but not much of a party or social scene. I told him I was looking for this kind of place, I needed a break from drugs and alcohol. We kept talking and he told me about some big German guys he’s once hosted. They were known as journeymen. They were stonemasons, and came from a village where young men, after being apprentices were sent out into the world to be journeymen. They were to travel and work for nothing more than food and shelter and not use the internet or mobile phones, in order to learn how their craft is done in different places and to learn the value of their work.

We moved the fridges and I noticed he had a short temper – never aimed at me but just in general. Afterwards he gave me 30 quid, which I hadn’t expected… Not bad for two hours work. I couldn’t help feeling nervous around him from then on however, like I had to be on tippytoes around him. Meditation and alcohol alleviated these feelings however.

One evening when he saw me at the campsite he invited me to a reggae gig. An English band, Zion Train. In ten minutes I was in his car. We went to the pub for a few where I met his wife and their friends, a couple from Glasgow. We got rip roaring drunk and as Nigel drove us to the Art Gallery beneath a radio tower where they were playing we drank strong gin and tonic from a plastic bottle and I felt like I was a teenager again. When we got there they distracted the ticket collector and I snuck past them without needing to pay.

Needless to say I bought the first round. And when the band started I danced my pants off. Nigel kept bring me beers through the gig and when I went to get a round I was quiet sloshed and got bottles of San Miguel instead of the draught ale we’d been drinking and Nigel got upset and I told him to bloody cheer up it’s not worth getting upset about. After the gig we went back to Nigel’s and I sipped some whiskey and discussed current events and philosophy with him and then I slept on his couch. I had a splitting headache in the morning when he drove me and his daughter to the Quiet Site. They opened up The Saucy Sausage for breakfast and I lay down for an hour before my cleaning shift started.

Fantasies in the Dark

I set out late one afternoon with my camping gear. I ate some mushrooms and was intoxicated them as I made my way downstream at Aira Force in the dark. I was trying to meditate, and walk without a torch, and it was so very dark. I felt like the forest wanted me to fall and fertilise the soil for its roots. I stumbled across a circle of short wooden seats, about waist high. They looked like they were for elves. My mind went to imagining things. I set up my camp under a yew tree nearby. I’d had mushrooms before and enjoyed them, but I’d come to an unfamiliar environment, in the dark, under the influence of them which was unwise.

I imagined I had to appease the elves to stay a safe night here, so I went and left a boiled egg in the circle of chairs as an offering. As I lay in my camp, all sorts of delusions went through my head, fantasies of elf councils in the dark, of their malevolent attitude towards me. And I snapped out of it. Realised these were all fantasies I was creating, and felt silly for leaving the egg down there. But it was not just this fantasy I broke out of. But other fantasies, stories I told myself about myself and others in my day to day sober life, for as long as I could remember. I meditated and honed my mind. What you think is not real. What you believe is real to you, but you can choose what to believe. And what you believe is only real to someone else if they believe it to. So choose what you believe wisely, and manage your thoughts. I slept the mushrooms off, I was not enjoying them that night. I’d taken them hoping to have some spirtual epiphany.In the morning I went to the circle and ate my egg I’d left to the ‘elves’ for breakfast. And so I’d lost my superstitions. It was near the gardens and the bottom of Aira force where other wooden artworks were.

I walked to Glenridding and boarded the steamer. I got off at Howtown and climbed up Hallin Fell. I got the steamer to Pooley Bridge and walked home.

Second Thoughts

In September I went down to London for a second screening with flucamp. They’d wanted me to participate in a clinical trial for months but the dates hadn’t worked for me to take time off. On the way down I visited Camilla in Manchester. I met her at a bar in the university area where she was photographing a psych-rock evening. I drank and met some of her friends and she wandered round, photographing and seeming to know everyone so I left her to it really. She introduced me at one point to Lucio, the monthly psyc-rock gig organiser from Sicily who was a bit standoffish when I told him I met Camilla through tinder. He liked her.

Camilla and I left to meet some of her other friends in a nightclub called Gas. It was a young gay couple Kurt and Mattias and their female Liverpudlian companion Jodie who was also somewhat standoffish with me. Her and Camilla got touchy and I got shy, but then Jodie called me good looking and Camilla put my hand on Jodie. So they were lovers. And it was strange… I was shy and a bit uncomfortable but I was consenting if Jodie was... But she was really drunk and must have remembered something that happened to her as she started saying how bad men were so I went to get another drink and sat across from them as Jodie seemed distress. Kurt and Mattias were fun gay guys and witty and cracked jokes to lighten the situation and secretly told Camilla and I that Jodie had been a handful tonight and was the drunkest they’d ever seen her.

So we went back to Camillas and drank red wine Jodie was really drunk and stood there swaying so I made room on the couch for her and she sat down and was being somewhat abrasive to everyone. Camilla rolled a joint and it was passed around and I said no the first time because I couldn’t have weed in my system for the flucamp screening and besides weed tends to disagree with me these days but there was a part of me that wanted to sabotage my chances of getting into the trial. So when it came back round I had a light puff on the joint and it was soothing.

Camilla made Jodie a grilled cheese sandwich and then she was sick so Kurt and Mattias took her home in a cab. Camilla and I hooked up for a bit but were exhausted and fell asleep. The next afternoon I caught the bus to London.

When we stopped at a service station I saw ten quid fall to the ground and a man walking away from it. “Excuse me!” I caught up to him, “you dropped this.” I gave him the tenner and he looked taken aback and as I walked away he checked his pocket and realised it had fallen and his face lit up with this random act of humanity and he gave me his thanks.

In London I checked into the hostel and had a quiet night. The next day I went to the screening which took about two hours. I struggled with the spirometer test technique but was signed off on.

I was paid 100 quid and reimbursed my travel expenses for this.

I bought a single malt whiskey and sipped it in my hostel room. I prepared some dinner and gulped some more whiskey. I made small talk with some people. An American girl was cooking kale with coconut oil and bragged about how healthy it was. I told her it’s full of saturated fats and they use it to induce obesity in lab rats. She got defensive and I told her to read the nutrition info but she was brainwashed and refused to believe me. I got really mad about it because she was friends with everyone there and I seemed like the bad guy. So I left and was mad in my room. Clearly I was caring too much about things. My head was spinning. I’d drank the whiskey to make myself chatty because I wanted to meet people… but it is silly to gulp whiskey. It’s a drink meant for sipping.

Sharp Edge

Time moved on at the campsite and the weather cooled as the winds from the Atlantic became more consistent. I worked and hiked and ate and slept and tried to meditate from time to time and work on my animation. On a clear day I asked Peter to drop me off at the bottom of Blencathra. I was to hike up along Sharp Edge, a steep ridge scramble.

I wasn’t the only one walking up the knife edge ascent. Many came up and down, some with sure-footed canine companions. And the views were awe inspiring. Why wasn’t I doing this more often?

Competent Crew

I took a week off to take a five day sailing course in south Scotland. In Largs I met the instructor, Alis, a Czech yacht master. The other crew were Rob, a retired farmer was doing mile-building in preparation for his yacht master testing. Chris, a middle-aged teacher from Elgin was there to complete his Day-Skipper course so he could skip for school trips. Matt, a 23 year old junior doctor, a prodigy was also doing his Day-Skipper. They all had experience sailing one man dinghys or crewing sea-going yachts. I was the only newby, doing my competent crew to learn the ropes.

I did my best to to try to learn but most of the attention was given to those doing their day-skipper course, so for a lot of it I just had to watch and learn and participate where I could. I was given the helm a couple of times each day and Alis guided me.

There was a lot to go through, a lot to learn. Too much information, but I’m sure a lot of it soaked through. How to moor the ship, how to shape the sails, right of way on water, Coriolis effect, knots,

At times I felt like deadweight, the others got to doing the things as they knew how to do them while I tried to stay out of the way. I was not often shown how to do things as they got to it and so I had to ask, yet I can be a slow learner for practical tasks and often there wasn’t time for me to practice so they just did it. And it is tight knit on a ship, I was always around other people, which wears me down, I need time alone. So I’m not sure if life at sea could be for me.

But it was a pleasant trip. A great way to travel, and see places you would never see otherwise. From Largs we sailed to the Isle of Bute, and harboured at Rothesay. From there we sailed to Tarbert. Chris informaed me there are many Tarberts around the British isles, all named by the Norse, to indicate a narrow piece of land where vikings would land their ships and roll them to the other side on logs - to avoid treacherous water or reduce the time of their voyage.

We sailed to the Isle of Arran, stayed again in Largs to fuel the engine and went back to Bute, spending our last night at Port Bannatyne.

We drank beer and played pool and darts celebrate the end. Alis met us for pub dinner. I had halloumi battered like fish and served with chips, and we stayed on for dessert. Everyone had passed their course. Chris and Matt would receive RYA certification as day-skippers, allowing them to charter yachts in coastal waters. Rob had miles added to his logbook, needed to be certified as a yacht master. And I would get a piece of paper saying I completed the competent crew course. My first taste of sailing. I drank up.

A group of locals cleared the dining room as we finished our meal and started setting up their instruments. They met here every Thursday to play Scottish folk tunes. A dozen of them started up with all sorts of instruments and voices. And onoxious drunk man with his guitar often interrupted, strumming out of time or trying to shout the song over the singing. The village idiot. Matt and I wondered if he was autistic. But talking to the locals we just learned he was an arsehole. At the bar Rob had a word to him and he left, and the music was better for it. A short man in his sixties drank stout from a bottle next to us. He’d lived in Rothesay all his life and worked as a steward on the ferry to the mainland.

He got up to dance and sing one song. Everyone began stomping their feet and singing the chorus and for a moment I felt blissfully jovial and at home. The song was ‘Doon in the Wee Room’ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5-uQat7OodE The room reverberated with the merriment of the singers and audience. I was down in that wee room in my mind, drinking and laughing life away.

We were up early with headaches. All but Alis, never drinking on the job. We returned to Largs, doing a man overboard exercise with a floating buoy on the way. We parted ways on the dock.

I was in two minds about the trip. For one, it was a brand new experience, I’d seen some great new places. On the other, while I’d learned a lot, I felt far from competent as a crew member, alongside four experienced sailors. If anything, I left knowing how incompetent a sailor I was. C’est la vie.

Lisa

I’d matched with Lisa on tinder in Cumbria, but she lived in Galloway, on the other side of the border. We texted for a while and eventually met up in Carlisle. She was Dutch, but spoke English with a Scottish accent. She loved Scotland, and wanted to live there for the rest of her life.

We met at the train station and walked over to Carlisle castle. We climbed a maintenance man’s ladder onto the castle walls and walked along them, watching the city go by. A ladybird strolled along the walls where we stood for a while. A grim place, we decided.

We had to climb down as the ladder had gone when we came back. We explored some more then went for a pint. We walked to the train station in a hurry. She bumped into a guy she knew who was with a girl and they chatted for a bit and then her train was leaving so she left in a rush and I didn’t think it went so well, but she texted me saying otherwise the next day.

A couple of weeks later I met Lisa again and had a great day. We met at Annan, near the Scottish border. There we followed the Annandale Way, a river path, to Hodom Castle. Well, Hodom Castle caravan park. The castle grounds were a campsite. The castle was in disrepair and entrance was blocked. We climbed into the castle yard, used for caravan storage, and had a picnic there. A ladybird rested on a blade of grass nearby.

When we were done we kissed but I had a runny nose so I stopped it. We walked back to Annan as the sun fell, hoping to hitch a lift but being unsuccessful. We held hands and trod on and it was alright. In Annan I had a pint and she a whiskey, at two different pubs. I really started to like her. She lived in her broken down van at an outdoor activity centre on Loch Ken, where she also worked. A similar situation to me, so we understood each other. We understood the great beauty of living on natures doorstep, and yet the isolation that came with it.

We had a proper kiss on the station platform, and with warm hearts caught trains headed in opposite directions. The last bus from Penrith had long gone when I got there, so I trekked home in the dark, and the warmth in my heart remained.

Wandering what to do

I had four weeks before my trip to Australia and was counting the days. I was lacking variety in my work, and longed for warmer weather. Lisa would be too busy to meet again before my trip. So on my next day off I hiked away with my goretex coat full of food, water, a torch, a map and a knife. I was hoping to reach Helvellyn, the highest peak in the area, but the days were getting very short. I hiked past Aira Force toward Glenridding. I had mushroom tea in a jar and I drank it when I turned off the Ullswater Way and followed a sign post that pointed toward ‘Seldom Seen.’ It was there I saw red squirrels for the first time in England. Seldom Seen indeed. I continued up and up and the weather was good and I reached a pass and could see Helvellyn. But it was late so I turned in the direction of Sheffield Pike and reached the summit. And it was magic. The future the present and the past swirled around in my mind and my thoughts were turbulent.

I found my way down to Glenridding and bought some beers and waited for the bus. The moon was high and full and bright and reflected off the lake as I walked back to the Quiet Site. When I got back to my van I felt great and alive and wanted to do something fun but it was the quiet site so I quietly listened to music and went to bed.

Winter Droving, Camilla’s Birthday

The next day I got up late and had a beer. I knew it was Camilla’s birthday so I messaged her wishing her a happy one and she invited me to her party that night.

I caught the bus to Penrith where the Winter Droving festival was being celebrated. Once it was a harvest style festival where the farmers drove their livestock through the village. There were people in fairy tale costumes and troll outfits roaming around town and the whole thing had a very paganistic vibe. There were market stalls and I drank mulled wine and Irish cream and roved around. There were two stages with great local bands, reggae, dub, psych-rock, alt-rock, celtic folk, ska. When it was dark the parade started. Giant animal shaped lanterns were paraded by different crews of masqueraded men and women who had competed in various competitions throughout the day – such as the pint carrying competition. I drank bitter from a can and when it was over I caught the train to Manchester. At the station there was a woman with her friends ready for a night. Fake tan, short skirt, singlet. I had three layers, a shawl and an overcoat on. She was visibly shaking from the cold. I almost offered her my shawl, but the train came. I would lose my shawl later.

On the train I ate a lot of cheese and bread and nut and a wrap and some fruit and drank beer. Then I opened a mindfulness app and meditated for an hour. If I was to party, then I ought to prepare my body and my mind.

When I got off the train my mind was in the right place. This is the place it should be before any recreation. I’m here to have a good time. I walked to her neighbourhood and called her as I did not know her exact address as she’d moved. I waited in a bar with free wifi and drank soft drink for the sugar kick and hydration. Eventually she messaged me back and I walked to her house. Inside I met her house mates and her friends and some familiar faces from last time. I put a case of beer in the fridge and started on the separate six pack to bring me up to their level.

It was fun. Everything seemed fluid. I drank and ate tapas and talked with Kurt and Mattias and newcomers. A guy wandered around with a wig and a silk dressing gown. I sat with Andy for a while, a local who lived in the flat and watched the madness go by. People carried on. A racist neighbour yelled at complaining about the Spanish at the party. I talked and talked and everyone was sloshed.

Camilla offered me some MDMA she’d been given as a birthday present. It looked clear to me so I had a bump. The euphoria and love came. And the time jumps. I’m sitting chatting. I’m on the balcony with Kurt and Mattias, my arms around Camilla, her touchy as a joint is passed around. I’m with Liz, the half-American half-English with a shaved head and wig. There’s no beer left. I get out my bottle of emergency port. There’s another gay couple there with ket and I have a bump. And I was in that dream like universal connectedness state where everything felt alright and everything happens was happening and will happen for a reason it’s nature feel the comfort and relax and enjoy this moment. A group of us sit passing the bottle of port talking all sorts. We all love and appreciate each other even though most of us are relative strangers to one another. There’s pockets of Spanish speaking Spanish, Galicians speaking Galician, and English speaking English. And everyone speaking English.

It’s a small apartment. I’m tired. Everyone is gone but Liz and I and Camilla. Liz goes to sleep in Camillas room. Camilla is all but asleep on the couch trying to roll a joint. I tell her not to bother we’re both practically asleep as it is. I put my shawl over her and I join her on the couch, using my coat as a blanket. It is broad daylight when I wake. I stumble outside to find a toilet, delirious, and remember I’m in Manchester so I wander up the stairs to the bathroom then collapse back on the couch.

I wake and drink two litres of water and plug my phone in to charge with the help of a Galician man. When I wake again I am well rested and feeling surprisingly well. Still dreamy but very content and not feeling ill at all. I gather my things and when I go to leave Camilla is on the couch so I kiss her farewell on the head and she looks like she’s seen much better days and I know she must know where my shawl is which I can’t find but I’m happy for her to have it, may it serve her as well as it’s served me.

I get to the train station and sit on the platform while I wait for the train. A worker comes up and asks me if– “Are you ok man?” I say, “Yes, I am going to Penrith.” He tells me when the train is expected and says I just wanted to make sure you’re ok. I reassure him I’m fine. And I was. I’ve never felt this content with everything the day after a party. I guess I achieved my goal, to have a good time. It was nice of him to ask though, I’m glad there’s guys like him working at train stations.

In Penrith, I missed the last bus home, and trudged contentedly home for 3 hours. I was at peace as I walked over fields and through forests in the fading light, listening to ambient music.

Four weeks pass by peacefully. I go to the local pantomime, an English Christmas time tradition. Owen, the bar manager at The Quiet Site wrote and directed it. The play fit with Owen’s character, being a gay conservative man. In pantomine tradition is was full of double etendre, quirky costumes, lewd jokes, audience interaction and musical numbers. The play was set in Roman Britain and compared the resistance to Roman rule in with Brexit.

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dontshootmespence · 7 years

Text

Coercion - 8

@coveofmemories @reiding-and-writing @my-xomatosis-s @skeletoresinthebasement @passionate-hedgehog @camigt1999 @eideticenticement

You are just about to start your new job at the BAU after years of working to get there, when a man you don’t know approaches you with an evil plan and knowledge of every sordid detail of your past. What will you do? Will you give into the man’s demands? Or will you be able to find another way out?

----

Every nerve in your body was on fire. Every twitch of your muscles brought you unbelievable pain, coursing through you like a rollercoaster out of control. Every time you tried to open you eyes, your body willed you not to. That didn’t actually happen, right? You questioned yourself as your muscles screamed while you pushed off the couch. Nope, it was all real. When you looked toward the counter near the coffee pot, where you normally kept your gun and badge, you saw they were missing. Correction, they weren’t missing. They had been taken away after Ashton messed up the life you built for yourself.

Hotch said he wanted you to come in, so you made your way through the molasses that was your apartment and stepped into the shower, doing everything you possibly could and using every lotion you had to try and make your body feel better, but nothing was working. It was as if you were walking through quicksand.

After pulling on an outfit, you went toward the kitchen, again, to grab the gun and badge that weren’t there. When you realized it for the second time that morning, you spun around and knocked a vase off the counter, shattering it into a million pieces. You walked to the window and forced yourself to breathe. “Throwing a tantrum isn’t going to get you anywhere,” you muttered aloud, bending down to pick up the pieces of the broken vase. Thankfully, it was a random vase and nothing special, so you threw the pieces out and returned underneath the window to sop up the water on the ground.

When you stood up, you did a double take as the chills ran up your spine. You could’ve sworn you saw the unnaturally white smile of the man that stole your life from under you, but you stared out the window and saw nothing. It wasn’t wise to give yourself time to think, so you grabbed your bad and drove into work on autopilot.

Once you’d pulled into the parking garage, you tried to calm yourself before going in. “Your time is later, his is now.” Every minute you sat here was another minute Ashton had to evade the grasp of the BAU.

By the time you got upstairs, everyone was already in, except Derek - at least you couldn’t see him. Maybe he was already here. To be honest, you were convinced that once you had gone home for the night, they returned to get work done without you. “Morning,” you muttered softly. You couldn’t bring yourself to say good morning, because it wasn’t.

“Where are we on locating him?” you asked. Let’s just cut to the chase. You could feel the tension in the room. They didn’t want you here and you were uncomfortable being in their presence knowing they would never truly trust you again.

Spencer muttered something under his breath about how you’d be a lot closer if you had come clean to begin with. You ignored him. To do anything else would result in a fight and this wasn’t the time or the place to air your dirty laundry with Spencer. If he wanted to bitch you out, it would have to be done another day. Garcia looked up from her computer, which she’d brought into the round table room. “Hey,” she said quickly, neglecting to add her usual trademark perkiness into the mix because she was so far, the only one that didn’t hate your guts. “I got in about two hours ago because I couldn’t sleep, so after I chugged down an extraordinary amount of coffee, I started tracking down every place that Ashton has lived or worked throughout his life, whether it be from before or after we put him away.”

“That sounds like it’s gonna be a lengthy list,” Rossi said, looking down toward where you sat with a piteous look in his eye.

Garcia allowed her fingers to flow over the keyboard and waited until she heard the machine printing outside. She was getting a hard copy for Spencer, because even in 2017, he didn’t want to move into the digital world. After returning with his papers, she sent the information to everyone’s devices and started in on the explanation. “This slippery son of a bitch has lived and worked in all corners of the globe, so I’m assuming we’re going to have to narrow down this list before we start looking for him.”

“Definitely, babygirl,” Morgan said, coming into the room and stiffening as he saw you. Without a word, he moved between you and Garcia and moving you aside. He didn’t want you anywhere near anyone. Swallowing everything you wanted to say to everyone, you moved toward the corner of the room and went over the list of places that Ashton had lived. Garcia wasn’t joking. He literally had lived all over the world. He’d had homes in LA, New York, Atlanta, Washington DC, London, Paris, Glasgow and Thurso, Scotland and Hong Kong. And that was only where he’d lived. Add working areas and his opportunities for escape were literally endless.

Immediately, one thought came to your mind. “Garcia, do any of those countries have extradition policies regarding the U.S., specifically not extraditing someone back to the United States?” You were directing all your questions to Garcia because she was the only one who wasn’t looking at you with utter hatred, but Hotch was the one to answer.

“No,” he said quickly. “China won’t extradite, except for Hong Kong, so we can’t narrow it down by that.”

Dammit. You curse yourself and rubbed your temples, trying to make everything go away. “Okay,” Spencer said out of nowhere, coming out of his thinking space after what seemed like an eternity. “When it comes to where he’s lived, we can get rid of any of his homes that he lost when he was put away, more specifically if they were resold to someone else. He’s looking for an escape route, so he’s not going to draw any unwanted attention by killing someone who’s in an old property. He’s going to go to one he hasn’t lost. He lost nearly three-quarters of his wealth after he was put away, but he still owns a lot.”

Of course. That made complete sense. You should’ve thought of it. Spencer shot you a look as Garcia rifled through all of his properties, knocking item after item off the list. After nearly two hours, you’d determined that he wasn’t going to be in the United States. Despite no existing extradition treaties, it would be more beneficial for him to leave the U.S. “How do we even know that any of this is true?” Spencer blurted out amongst the silence. It ripped through the air, making your head shoot up to look at him. So he wanted to air your dirty laundry, so be it. “Why are we taking her word on this man? How can we be sure she’s telling the truth?”

You expected this. To be counted. But you were on the defensive anyway. “What purposed would I have to lie about this man?” you retorted hotly. “Look, I get that you are beyond pissed at me, and hurt, and are all undoubtedly going to hate my existence for the rest of my life, but you’re telling me, Spencer Reid, that after a year of sleeping together you can’t tell whether or not I’m telling the truth?”

“I used to think I knew you.” He lifted his hand to his mouth to try and stop himself, but he couldn’t. “I used to think you would never do anything to hurt me. And then this. I don’t know how to trust you.” His eyes watered, but he kept the tears at bay. Everyone was staring between you both, searching for something to say that would get you off this topic and onto something else, and then Rossi spoke up.

“Reid, did you ever tell Y/N about Bentley Ashton?” Spencer shook his head. “Then where would she have gotten that name unless he approached her?” Thank you, Rossi. Whether or not he trusted you, at least he was trying to make a case for trusting you now.

Spencer didn’t want to admit that Rossi was right, he wanted to hold onto his anger, so he said nothing, switching to narrowing down Ashton’s European and Asian holdings. But you couldn’t focus. You couldn’t shake this feeling. What was it? Were you angry with Spencer? With yourself? Yes, but that wasn’t it, at least not right now. Were you sad? No, that wasn’t it...it was pity. After everything you’d been through in your life, this is what it had become? It wasn’t fair. “Y/N?” Emily asked, bringing you out of your haze. “Anything that might help?”

“I’m sorry,” you replied. “What was the question?”

“Is there anything that he said to you that might indicate where he was going to go?” She repeated. Maybe there was something deep down that you might remember. Not like code or anything, but maybe something he said was indicative of where his needs were - other than money. As you filed through the brief conversations you had with him in your mind, there was only one common denominator.

With a deep breath, you said the word. “Family.” That thing you had once, no twice, no three times in your life only to have all of them ripped from your grasp. Spencer’s eyes bore into you. He thought of you as family - rather he did. Now he didn’t know how to feel. Morgan wanted to spit in your general direction for even mentioning the word. “He kept talking about how he lost everything. How wife left him. Took the kids. The way he spoke, I don’t think he expects that he’ll ever get them back, but my belief is that he’ll find some way to keep the memory of ‘his’ perfect life, the one he ‘deserves’, alive. Are any of the properties on his list ones that he frequented on vacations with his family?” You choked the last bit out, feeling the emotion nearly overwhelm you. Would you ever have that again? You needed to step outside.

A huff escaped you as you got up. When Hotch called after you to ask where you were going, you screamed back. “Fresh air.”

The second you got outside, you broke your promise to yourself yet again. Crying. Fuck it, after all you’d been through, you deserved to cry. Slouching against the wall, you rested your head in your hands and sobbed, the tears threatening to drown you. If someone were to ask you what you wanted in this moment, you would’ve told them all you wanted to do was be alone - other than have your entire past disappear and pretend this never happened. But if you couldn’t have that, you wanted to be alone. Apparently, the universe was against you even in this small way, because all of a sudden, you saw a set of footsteps you recognized as Rossi’s

Other than Garcia, you’d gotten closest with Rossi after being introduced by Spencer. Since he reminded you of your father, you gravitated toward him. Once, about three months after you started dating, you went to dinner with the team and afterwards, you went for a walk in the park. That night, Rossi pulled a ball off the ground and he started throwing it to you. You used to do that with your dad. Or at least, you remembered doing it. “What do you want, Rossi? you asked, almost painfully. “Do you want to yell at me too? Tell me how much I shouldn’t be here? What an awful human being I am? Because honestly, I can’t deal with it right now.” The tears built a dam-like wall against your eyes and stayed there. “I regret what I did...but I didn’t know what else to do. Spencer was more important than anything to me...he still is.”

“I know,” he said, taking you off guard and breaking the dam within you. “I came to check on you.”

“Why?” you asked, your voice shaking with self-hatred. “After what I did to JJ, why would you care about me at all?”

He took a deep breath and sat by your side. “After more than 30 years in the field, I’d like to say I’m an expert on human behavior,” he started, placing his hand on your back. “All of us are. You can never predict a person’s behavior with 100 percent accuracy, and that accuracy is even less when it comes to ourselves. It’s much easier to look at someone else, and ‘cast the first stone,’ as opposed to looking at ourselves. What I mean to say is, no matter what anyone in there says, if they were faced with the same situation that you were, more than likely, they would save that one person they loved at the risk of everyone else.”

That’s what you’d thought, but you weren’t sure whether that was your guilt speaking or not. “I’d like to think so. Hotch would do it for Jack. JJ would do it for Henry or Michael or Will. If someone came after Joy, I’m sure you’d do anything to save her, including killing someone. The only difference is that none of you found yourself in this situation. None of you found yourselves having to decide between killing your friends or possibly risking the life of the man you loved. I’m not proud...” you choked. “I hate myself for what I did. The guilt follows me around, like a shadow of myself. That’s probably why my muscles feel so heavy. And I think they always will to some degree, but I want to help. I want to do something right with my life. I want to feel like I’m useful to someone before I leave this mortal coil! Is that so much to ask?!” You screamed the final bit, once again allowing your head to fall into your hands. “Rossi, it’s been so long since I’ve felt like myself. I don’t know what the real one is, and I don’t know who I am. I just want to be a good person. What I can remember of my parents is good...I just wanna make them proud of me. Even if it’s only once...”

Rossi stood up and grabbed your hands. “Then let’s go find this bastard. Look, Y/N,” he said, tilting your chin up to meet his. “I believe you. I believe this man put you up to this. I believe you never wanted to do this. You were put in an impossible situation. I truly believe that any of us would’ve done the same - or at least considered it. And if one of them says they wouldn’t consider it, they’d be lying, because I know I would have. I also believe I can forgive you for what you’ve done...but only if you come back upstairs and help us find him.”

Your body gave out and you tilted into Rossi’s embrace. “I’m sorry, Rossi. I’m so sorry. I’ll find him. I swear. I’ll make my parents proud...I’ll make you proud...I promise.” When you looked at him, you saw your father - you’d be damned if you disappointed him.

“Let’s go get him.” Maybe there was hope. Maybe everyone wouldn’t hate you when this was over. Maybe, there was some way, somehow, to make things right.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #dontshootmespence #coercion

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spraffin · 7 years

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03/04/17

MARCH

I know tomorrow is going to come because I’ve seen it. Sunrise is going to come, all you have to do is wake up. The future has been at war, but it’s coming home so soon.

March arrived quietly; entered stage left without making too much noise, and sat down without a fuss. It came with a warm breeze and new hope, new self-worth, and new goals. When February had finished its perfomance, it had bowed with feigned humility, and clambered undaintily down from the stage. February knows how impressive it was. February wore me out with progress, and had me sleeping so often that it took me a while to notice how much harder I was living while I was awake. On the day of my audition, I was finally able to access the sweeping confidence I adopt whenever I feel fulfilled - the same confidence I use when I’m working with kids at Glen and at parties with new friends. I felt tall and upright and genuine. Tara from my building in Granton was there, and I was struck by my progress since leaving from the moment I greeted her - I considered her a close friend, but until then I don’t think we’d ever had a conversation in which I was properly focused on her, since I was always so overwhelmed by anxiety. We took part in a two hour workshop and I charged into it with more energy than I knew I had. I delivered my monologue one and a half times without panicking, and I was congratulated for an entertaining and engaging performance. Following this we were interviewed privately. A stern woman with curly hair who Fin had described to me as a “terror” talked softly to me about my options and why I’d left Granton a third of the way into my course. She was very gentle and told me how brave she thought I must be. A few days later, I got an unconditional offer. The idea of a future is so strange and foreign when you’re in recovery. It’s overwhelming to suddenly be confronted with a limitless stream of possibilities that you never thought you’d see again - to be re-met by opportunities you’ve already mourned. I am confused, but excited. I’m getting stronger and stronger.

We are all going to be part of each other one day. The future is a blue sky and a full tank of gas.

I accepted the offer and thought hard about performing. There’s little I feel more wonderful doing. I love comedy, I love singing, I love pretending, I love making up bits on the spot. I love being looked at and admired and laughed at. Empathy makes me so much better at being entertaining. I love feeling huge and bright. I love other people and I love them in a crowd, whether they’re sat in rows beneath me or gathered around me at a party. My entire understanding of self-esteem is about performance. I can’t function without it so I’m going to learn how to do it better.

March came with warm days and tough mornings, slow nights. I spent time with Lauryn and skipped rehearsal more than once and slept and played guitar. Rinse and repeat. But then came the end of the month, and the journey to Northamptonshire.

TRAVELLING

Lord I’m one, Lord I’m two, Lord I’m three, Lord I’m four, Lord I’m 500 miles from my home.

I took my medication and climbed onto the coach, and slept until we reached Glasgow. It was dark and gorgeous and raining, and I grinned and wriggled in my seat and fell asleep again. Birmingham at six A.M. The sun rose through thick white fog while I sat in the dark rail station. I felt euphoric but so relaxed. I smiled hard as the train pulled into Northampton. I got on an eight A.M bus full of English school kids who yelled in abrasive shrill accents. Spencer and I found each other in Kettering, and the weight of our friendship was overwhelming and so sweet and thick and heavy like honey.

The next few days passed in a blur of blankets and patterned curtains and sunlight glowing into a cup of tea. I basked in the rare and amazing gift of total comfort in the presence of someone else. Alice turned out to be the most beautiful cat in the world. Megan and I swapped books and we visited a country park with Spencer’s nieces. The kids were adorably goofy and charming and told us they knew being gay was okay because they watched Shane Dawson. We had ice creams and then headed home for noodles and incredibly cheap wine, the kind that tastes like acetone and should really be saved for when you’re drinking in a public park in your school uniform. We laughed - I remember laughter as an almost permanent state that I lived in while in England - and made beautiful art and ugly art and explored Northampton. I was glum and drained for the return journey, and found Birmingham ten times as beautiful at four A.M than I had the first time I’d passed through. Chinatown glowed red in the darkness, like the last embers of a fire, the wind biting. I walked back and forth for miles to kill time before the coach left. I made it home after fourteen hours and fell immediately into bed.

Then, the days were tired and nerve-wracking. I napped on Lauryn and painted blue and green and gold onto her eyelids. Heather went to a job interview and I sat next to her smiling smugly, internally screaming “that’s my friend!”. Imogen and I went to see a singing competition. Lucy was immense as usual, belting angrily, so much power coming from a tower of five-foot-nothing, commanding attention in her uniquely compelling way. Rachael was angelic and soft and sweet, and her face exploded into a smile when she won.

My family left for the Lake District on Friday evening, and I packed frantically for Edinburgh. I was overcome with anxiety - my ribs throttled my heart like a cage and I breathed as if it was my last chance. I knew I wouldn’t be going near Granton, but my head was reeling and spinning as I pictured Princes Street. I thought about the frost underneath my feet in Sighthill, the sun over Leith Walk, crying on the tram, crying on the bus, crying in the rain, crying in my bedroom. I remembered my panic and anxiety about my friends from Glen, and how fervently I believed that none of them could ever or had ever loved me. I took my medicine and slept for as long as I could bear.

EDINBURGH

Olivia was texting me, and kept me distracted for much of the train journey, but the coldness rose up my throat and choked me, and when I stepped into the station something inside me collapsed. I was shaky, but I walked until the sun hit me, and then I found Josh and Rowan. It was hard, but I forced myself to focus, and concentrated with all of my might on where I was and who they were, and then I was okay. My hands shook while I ate lemon tart in Costa, at the same table I’d sat at when I’d seen Holly at the beginning of October. Rowan was gentle and I looked at her and not out of the window at the city. By the time Elyse had arrived, I was stable.

We made it to the cathedral early, and the sunshine was streaming through the stained-glass and I was teasing Josh and Rowan about their affection for each other. We found Gordon immediately, then Kate, then Tembu, and I made Kerridge’s lip bleed when I jumped into a hug with her, and when I caught Ley-Anne she said “Did you bring the posters? Good. Oh yeah - also hello, and I love you.”

Tembu chose Josh and me to represent SEC youth in a video for General Synod. The producers recorded me describing my experiences with faith, then followed me around with a camera for a while. We knelt down to write our favourite memories from camp on a huge paper banner. We squashed around a table littered with chainmail materials and Tembu brandished pliers. We ate lunch with the Glen DVDs blaring in the background, cries of nostalgia and joy echoing from every direction. Finally, we were herded into an ante-chapel where Claire Starr sat wielding a copy of Winnie the Pooh. Time for a little something. Kiron, Tembu’s youngest, climbed over my lap restlessly until I scooped him up and we headed outside to run around.

I found Aidan and Hannah, Rebecca and Iain gaggled together underneath the cathedral, singing. Samuel climbed the wall and stood miles above us. Rebecca and I breezed into the ceilidh hall to watch the band set up. I saw Claire BE rush her way into a red dress and hurry back into the throng like a hero to organise it all. When Andrew arrived, everything felt warmer. I’d missed my best friend. I danced all but one dance, sweated and laughed and jumped and whooped and ran. There is nothing more fun than a ceilidh. There is no better way to wallow in the experience of your love for your friends.

Emily guided me to the tomato quiche and stuffed me with samosas, and Rachel and Claire congratulated me on my recovery in the cold dark outside where we drank water and Taylor smoked. I was in my element all evening, making everyone laugh, and I was never lost for words. I feel like I am becoming myself again. I am better.

We roared Auld Lang Syne and charged at each other in a messy overexcited throng. Rebecca was so lit up and happy, and I felt exactly how she looked. I was so lighthearted. The delegates left and the leaders pulled chairs into a wide, messy circle, pulling out beers and wine and cider, chatting excitedly. I chucked an ice pack at my twisted ankle, grinning wildly and teasing Taylor, yelling protests at anyone who made a face at my Lambrini. “Get a fucking life, Thalia!” “It costs £1.50, ya dick!”

For to see her was to love her! Love but her, and love forever!

We entertained each other with stories and jokes and games. Before the circle finally dissipated into several groups, Mark got up and sang Ae Fond Kiss. His voice filled the room and I watched as everyone closed their eyes, sat back, let it spill over them. I felt lucky. I feel lucky.

Kirsty and I shrieked with laughter twenty times per conversation, and Kerridge ranted about her overwhelming affection for me only three ciders in. Ley-Anne and I spoke quietly about all that had happened to us and I plaited her hair. I felt the night come in strong as I flitted between the clusters of my friends, laughing and chatting to each and every one of them. I drank Taylor’s rum and we held hands and giggled with Neil for hours on end. We charged into the kitchen area at three A.M like animals to a watering hole to eat bread and red velvet cake, and then I grabbed my blanket and we settled down on the floor and finally fell asleep.

We woke because we were cold. My teeth chattered, and we climbed first to the thermostat and then to the plate of leftover quiche. Hannah ambled over to sit in front of our radiator, grumbling up a storm with sleep in her eyes. Everything was so easy. When did everything get so easy?

Mark addressed the cathedral and told us all that Glen fuels his ministry. Tembu thanked us and God for the camp. I am so lucky. I am so lucky. Samuel and I read the intercessions and I gave Andrew the card I made for him and Rachel. It took so long to extricate myself from the group - farewell hugs occupied us for fifteen minutes. I can’t believe I once feared I’d never be back with these friends. I headed down Princes Street in the brilliant sunlight to find Jodie and Rebecca in the gardens. We ate lunch under a tree and chatted a little sleepily but so happily.

I am tired now, but I can see how fast I’m improving. I want to feel ambitious again, and I’m working so hard. I’m really, really proud of myself.

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nauseateddrive · 5 years

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WAITING FOR LULU by Andy Martin

"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.” - Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

I'm in The Wuthering Heights pub. I know, it's a shameless exploitation of the novel's title, but Lulu and I didn't care when we stumbled across this place in the early nineties. We liked the way it blatantly took advantage of its location on the edge of the remote Haworth moorland. We had dinner here before we set off into the open country with our tent and camping equipment.

Tonight though, I'm finishing my meal alone. I undo the top button of my shirt and release the pressure around my neck. I remove my Anglican clerical collar and place it on the table in front of me. Being back here, I feel like a twenty-year-old again. I look at the oak beams on the ceiling. The place hasn't changed. It still has the same decor: the lead windows and ornate mirrors; paintings of the Yorkshire landscape in gilt frames. The smell of polished wood and real ale. I'm the only customer tonight. I look towards the door, half expecting Lulu to walk in but it's extremely unlikely. It's been eight years since I last saw her.

I reach into my shirt pocket for a picture of her, taken in her student house in Glasgow. Her eyes stare back, wild and dark. Her pale skin is unblemished, with naturally pink cheeks; blonde hair cropped short at the back; long at the front, hanging down to her jaw-line on one side. She changed hair colour frequently, but blonde suited her best. Behind her, scrawled over the walls in black ink, are verses of her poetry. She never stopped writing: in notebooks, on scraps of paper, on her hands, wherever she was, whenever she thought of it. She even wrote one on the back of this photo. I study the familiar words:

It's a picture of a house I built burning in my head,

It's a picture of a little boy bouncing on a bed,

It's a picture of a little girl bouncing by his side,

It's a picture of a daddy who may as well have died.

I turn it back over. There's a white fold line across the middle of the photo, but it's the only picture I have. I place it on the table next to my dog-collar.

Outside, snowflakes tumble down in ever-changing courses. Fleeting shapes fall and disintegrate on the glass before my eyes can catch them. More drift down against the winter landscape and I'm lost in memories of Lulu once again.

The first time I saw her was on my twentieth birthday. I was in The Jug of Ale with my mate, Coddy. It was crowded; music thumping, lights flashing, everywhere the cacophonous din of laughter and chatting.

"Hey, Dan." Coddy nudged me, pointing to a girl on the dancefloor. "What do you think of her?"

I wasn't sure who he meant. Most of the girls looked the same to me - short skirts and white stilettos.

"Yeah...she looks all right," I said.

It wasn't my kind of venue. I spent most of the night slowly nursing a pint of Guinness while Coddy did his best to impress any female who would listen to him. He'd managed to speak to a girl with long dark hair.

"So, what do you do?" she asked him.

"I'm an astronaut," he said, with his typical straight-faced confidence.

Then I saw Lulu. She walked up to the bar and stood inches from me. She wore a purple, knee-length dress with Doc Marten boots, but what drew me to her most were her eyes. They were dark, but incandescent with life.

***

"Your bill, sir!"

The waiter places my bill on the table. Two men stand by the door, ready to lock up for the night. A glance at my watch tells me it's midnight. I apologize for keeping them, put my collar and photo in my pocket, and settle up. I step outside into the cold air. The moon is big and bright. It's stopped snowing and the wind has died down. Everything is white.

There's no sign of anyone outside. I pull my coat collar tight around my neck and stroll along the path towards the heath, the inspiration for Emily Bronte's tragic love story. 'Wuthering Heights' was Lulu's favourite book.

Last time we were here it was under cloudless blue skies. I remember sitting outside our tent in the long grass surveying the endless moors, breathing the sweet warm air, watching the wings of insects dancing in sunlight. The memory is etched in my mind. Lulu noticed a white rose growing next to us.

"Look," she whispered. "That is so rare." She took hold of it and broke it off halfway down it's stem. A thorn pierced her skin and drew blood but she didn't flinch.

"Whenever you see a white rose, think of me." She handed it to me.

I wanted to ask her to marry me there and then, but I was scared of being turned down.

Instead, I asked, "Do you think we'll still be together in ten years?”

"Maybe." She smiled, amused at my question.

And then, to try and ensure we didn't ever lose contact, I came up with this ridiculous idea: "Let's meet back here in the year 2000, whether we are or not, on the date of Bronte's death. Midnight.”

"The nineteenth of December. Okay." She looked deep into my eyes and smiled.

I held the side of her face in my hand and reached towards her. Our lips touched. Tongues. Two souls merged together; the outside world non-existent. Bodies touched; stirred.

***

A single snowflake lands on my nose. Then another. I look up into the night sky as the snow starts to fall again. I pull back my coat sleeve and look at my watch. It's quarter past midnight. I don't know if the idea was to meet at the pub or where we camped. I don't hold much hope but wander further down the lane.

"Like the eternal rocks beneath." That's how Lulu once described her love for me and I felt the same for her. I'd never met anyone so fearless and unpredictable, yet at other times she'd be lost in deep thought. She studied Art, while I read Theology. We started going out after lectures, drinking and smoking together, talking into the early hours, spending every available moment with each other.

I walk through the falling snow, along a dim, deserted path in the direction of the rock-face, close to where we camped. From the gate on my right, the lane slopes towards the open countryside. I sink up to my calves in soft, fresh snow. All I can hear is my own breathing and the light crunch of each step as I move forward.

Lulu didn't know her parents. She was brought up in a Catholic orphanage on the west coast of Ireland. She didn't talk about her childhood very much. All she ever told me was that she'd been abandoned when she was six years old. She hated the thought of being left by anyone again; she told me she preferred not to get too close to people.

I stop for a moment and hold my breath. There's not a sound except for the very faint whisper of snowflakes landing all around me. As I set off again, the crunch of my footsteps is deafening.

I arrive at a steep bank and the snow slides away in clumps. I grab a branch above my head and a dusting of white powder falls, but I've made it. I'm in an open space with a view of endless hills. I stand for a long time, taking it all in, looking for any sign of life on the beautiful, desolate moor.

We saw each other every day for a year. She gave no explanation before she left, except that she needed to get her head straight. A week afterwards, I received a poem from her in the post, along with a note saying she was staying with an aunt in Ireland. A few weeks after that, the lease ran out on my house. I tried everything to get in touch with her but no-one could help. The university wouldn't provide me with any information and no-one knew her home address, or even which village she was from. I never heard from her again. I spent a few months drinking myself into a numb haze until I realised I was better off getting my life back on track, training for the ministry, helping all those other broken-hearted people.

I've been the rector at St Matthews in Ayr for three years. None of the leadership or parishioners know anything about Lulu. I take a deep breath. After tonight I'll be able to put to rest any thoughts of a reunion. The air is crisp and still. Nearby branches crack as they strain under the weight of fresh snow. I stand motionless on the moor, listening.

Moonlight shines through the clouds and my eyes become accustomed to the light reflected on the heath. Apart from black shadows under bushes, everything seems as bright as daylight. Then I hear a faint thud and feel a chill on my neck. I listen carefully. I can sense someone near. Close behind me. Maybe two meters away. Maybe closer. I'm too scared to turn. A rustle. Someone out walking their dog perhaps? Or is it just the sound of winter on the moors?

"Lulu?"

I turn, but there's not a soul for miles. It's stopped snowing.

A memory comes to mind. A burned-out tree nearby, destroyed by lightning. All that was left was the remains of the trunk; the top brown and charred. I'm not far from it. I step forward.

Around the side of a hill is the rock-face we climbed - its towering presence imposing. It was at the top that Lulu and I held each other, surrounded by endless countryside. I stand motionless, absorbed by the familiar sight, and it feels like Lulu is here with me.

Another memory unfolds. Something she said to me. A Bronte quote. What was it? I close my eyes to concentrate. There was a moment when Lulu had slipped from my arms and looked straight at me:

"Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!"

I open my eyes. The seriousness of her face when she said it. And yet here I am, back on the heath, unable to find her.

Praying feels pointless tonight. I reach into my coat pocket and take out a small bottle of Glenlivet. There's a crack as I twist off the cap. I hold the bottle to my mouth and take a generous gulp. The acrid taste of scotch burns the back of my throat. My eyes are warm with tears and I throw the bottle as hard as I can onto the heath. It lands with a quiet thud and disappears into the snow.

I stumble backwards a moment and through blurred vision, I see the burned out tree. Such a distinctive sight. It must have been hit directly to cause that kind of damage. One side of it is covered in snow and the other is untouched. I walk towards it and see words scratched into the bark:

IF ONLY

YOU'D COME

Andy Martin is a Philosophy teacher. He had a number of articles published in the music magazine Brum Beat. This is his first short story.

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docholligay · 4 years

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Little love letters--Lena

And of course I can’t help myself by ending with something where I even made myself a bit misty-eyed, cooked up in the middle of the night while I couldn’t sleep, staring at the ceiling and thinking of things of this nature. I love a good tragedy, I guess it can be fairly said of me, but I like it best when things are bittersweet. This is my bittersweet chocolate for me, but also all of you.

The London Record-- a future run date

To My Wife’s Next Wife

by Lena Oxton

When this is printed, she’ll be cross at me, I know, but I’ll be dead and so there won’t be much she can do about it. When this is printed, she’ll say that I was a bit of a wicked thing, not to tell her I was doing it, and I suppose she’s not wrong. When this is printed, she’ll tell you she won’t ever marry someone else, and that, I hope, is not true.

I hope that you’re reading this right now, her next wife, and I hope you take everything I say under advisement.

First of all, let me tell you all the reasons you want to marry my wife, Emily Oxton, formerly McNair, originally of Glasgow, and maybe living there when you meet her. But just as likely not, she’s built up quite a life in London, so if you’re reading this, and I hope you are, keep your eyes out for her all about the United Kingdom.

I met her in a grotty little pub out on the East End, which does want for a bit of romance, so if you could manage more a meet-cute for her, she’d very likely be grateful. She never did much like telling the story of being stood up, and how I simply wouldn’t stop trying to cheer her, and how it took her days to call me. So I’d appreciate you giving her a story she enjoyed telling, if you’re feeling generous.

You’ll know her immediately. There’s few women like her, and I knew it that day in the pub, dank as it was. If you see a tall gorgeous redhead, with long legs like a supermodel’s, but carries herself like she doesn’t know that, it might be her. You’d have to check and see if she has those same bright, clear eyes, and the freckles that go all the way down her shoulders. If those check, ask her a question, and you’ll know its her by the soft singsong way she talks, like everything’s a question.

I suspect you will already be in love with her, at this point. At the very least, you’ll want to pop round for a drink with her. If the soft dress with the foxes and rabbits embroidered on it puts you off, let me explain that she’s a reception year teacher, or I hope she will be again by then--she’s taken some time off to care for me--and her kids love the dresses. She loves the kids, loves to teach them, and she’s so good at it. She’s good with the soft and small things, and though you can’t know it, just meeting her as you are, your heart will melt seeing her with them.

It’s fun to bring her flowers at work, though it’s a bit unprofessional, and see their eyes grow wide, asking Miss Emily just who you are. She’ll blush a bit, it’s very winning.

I did that, when we were first together. She’s a bit shy in the beginning, you know. I would walk her home--and you had better walk her home, I won’t have my wife marrying someone who wouldn’t be a perfect gentlelady to her--and she’d stammer at her door, wanting to invite me in and afraid to do it, all the same. Had to invite myself up, really. I was a perfect gentlebutch about it, mind. That first night I slept over, we did nothing but fall asleep holding hands on the couch.

So you must be patient with her, you see. Emily takes time, as all things worth enjoying do. Once she kisses you, and smiles at you, once she makes you dinner in her flat, it’ll all have been worth it, I promise. If you thought she was beautiful before, you’ll find her stunning when she trusts you. She glows under the light of love, and she deserves every inch of it.

I’m hoping the next woman she marries can give her children, though I can’t really be too cross over something I couldn’t manage for her. She’ll be kind even if you can’t. We whispered it to each other one night on my couch, how we’d both wanted it, how an unhappy twist of medical truth had made it impossible for us both. We might have adopted, had things turned different. But they didn’t, and so all I have is this letter to you, telling you she would make the best kind of mother, and however it happens, you should give her the chance.

It’s hard to get my thoughts straight, all the things I need you to know about Emily, and what a wonder she is. My days are measured in moments now, and I fall asleep halfway through a sentence sometimes. No one ever tells you the business of dying is boring as well as inconvenient. That one’s not about Emily, just consider it a bit of free advice. But I must get it out, you see, for there’s the risk you won’t know all the things I need for you to know when you marry her.

Her favorite hot chocolate is the Wispa Gold, and she likes it best on winter afternoons when it rains. She likes wines that are a bit sweet, and prefers cider to beer. She hogs the duvet, so you’ll need to make like the Swiss and have two. She loves to have her hair brushed and braided, when she’s feeling a bit sad. She prefers Italian food to nearly anything else, and doesn’t care for oysters, and she’ll only order a pudding if you suggest it first. Her perfume is Memoires d’une Autre Domaine, and you should buy it for her, she’s a bit loathe to spend the a few quid on herself. That last bit might have changed, by the time you meet her, but I had to learn all of this myself, so you’re getting ahead all the same.

Emily is a terribly sensitive thing, and you must be tender with her sometimes. When she cries after a movie, I want you to be sure to hold her tight and kiss her tears. Let her know you think it’s sweet that she’s so. She’ll surprise you with her strength, too. I have found her to be a proper rock against everything that’s befallen us, this first and last year of our marriage.

She deserved so many things I couldn’t ever give her, and a longer marriage is one of them. I look to you to fix my mistake.

I say she was so strong, even crying at a commercial or something, because she chose this. I told her the truth before we married, and she chose to take my hand for whatever time it was anyhow. She didn’t have to do that. I tried so many ways to give her an out, and she never did take it. So you see how lucky you are, to find someone like her. She believed in that oath of in sickness and health before she even took it.

You are, ideally, a woman with a steadiness and a safety I lacked, but still having enough of the spark she seemed to appreciate in me to keep her laughing.She loves to laugh. If you were a bit neater than me, she’d appreciate that as well, I think. You like to cook, but want to have help in the kitchen, because she likes to help. Mind that you take her on holiday--I don’t want anyone who expects her to be kept at home. You should own at least one good suit, and wear a tie when you take her out, like the lady to be shown off she is.

If you work to be worthy of her, I’ll help you find her.

There is so much to have with Emily: She is the sort of woman who will meet you at the airport with flowers, simply because she thought there needed to be some celebration of your being home again. This magical thing will grin at all of your plans, and hold your hand as you walk through Paris, or anywhere you care to take her, with wide eyes, for she appreciates all the small things of this world. When you’re unwell, she’ll read to you in that brogue of hers I’ll miss hearing so much. You’ll feel warm, on the coldest London day. Nothing gets through her.

I promise you, if you take the time to become my wife’s new wife, you’ll be the happiest woman on this grey rock we call a country. Even when I’ve had not much to be happy about, I see her there and I know that at least one thing has been right. She’s a light in the darkness, love, and you must trust me on that.

Her mind may turn to me, from time to time. Seems unavoidable, however much I told her not to be fussed over me. I’m only a shadow and a memory, something that’ll pass over her and then be gone. Sometimes she may want to tell a funny story about me, and it would be kind of you to listen. Please don’t think of me as a threat, even if it makes her a bit sad. My mate has told me I may be aiming quite high, and that the shadow of me is a touch intimidating. But I’m not writing you as Tracer, aviatrix, and Overwatch command, and whatever else I might have been on the record.

This letter comes from Lena Oxton, who was married to, for a short time, and dearly loved, Emily Oxton.

I need you to know that I’m writing this to you because I want you to find her. I want you to love her and be loved by her, and I want you to have fifty or more happy years together. I am out of time to give her every gift she deserved, and so the only thing I can give her if the gift of you, wherever you are. My greatest hope, at the end of my life, is that you are out there, the right person, waiting for the right widow to reenter the dating sphere, maybe not even knowing that yet.

Emily will be cross at me, when this is first published, but she’ll also clip it from the paper. Maybe she’ll read it over on your wedding day, and she’ll cry a bit, knowing she found you, and so gave me the only last thing I ever asked of her: Not to put her heart on a shelf.

You have my blessing, and my hope. To my wife’s next wife, I love you as well, and I thank you.

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