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I adjusted my neck pillow and closed my eyes, trying to empty my mind of worrying thoughts. The vibration of the airplane’s engines was oddly soothing and soon I surrendered myself to sleep.We landed at Heathrow in the late morning and, through the airport grapevine, word had spread about our arrival. Paps snapped pics of us as we came through the doors, shouting their stupid questions. “Is it true you were in a street gang, Foxy?”
“No comment,” he growled.
“Like your new hair style, Pierce…”
He growled again.
“What’s it like to be engaged to an ex-juvenile delinquent, Hayley?”
I kept my head down and rolled my suitcase, ignoring the cameras and shouted interrogation. This is what I’d signed up for when I’d agreed to marry my rock god. I was grateful we had Joe to shield us and place himself in front of the press. I wouldn’t have liked to have faced the ruckus without him. He was built like a tank with a neck like a massive tree trunk…no one would have dared mess with him.
Our pre-arranged driver, Seb, was waiting for us, and we walked with him to the parking lot to find our SUV. Rain sheeted down, and the Fall air was chilly. I hugged my parka around my body and shivered.
Last time I was in London with ChiMera, we stayed at the Langham in the West End, but Pierce’s family lived in the East End—he’d described them as Cockneys through and through—so we’d opted for a four star hotel in Canary Wharf, a modern development built on the original docklands, which was now a major financial and retail center. Pierce and I thought we’d find it easier to blend into the background of trendy young people who hung out in the area. Especially with his cleaned-up image…not that it had fooled the paparazzi.
The drive from the airport took over an hour and, once we’d checked in and taken our luggage to a double room overlooking the dock below, we left the hotel and grabbed a bite to eat in an ‘olde worlde’ pub with oak-beamed ceilings and a roaring log fire. Pierce kept his shades on and I twisted my hair up under a beanie so no one would recognize us. And no one did…thankfully. Joe sat at a nearby table, playing games on his phone. The aroma of beer wafted around us, and I caught Pierce staring longingly at the bar. “You’re doing great, honey,” I whispered. “But maybe we shouldn’t have come in here?”
He shook himself and wiped a hand over his face. “It’s okay. I’ve been sober for nearly three months. I can handle it.”
We ate a traditional meal of steak and ale pie, served with mashed potatoes and peas. It was kind of heavy and I hoped I wouldn’t get indigestion. I took a sip of my sparkling mineral water and asked, “What time is Bethany expecting us?”
“Not until teatime. The boys will be home from school then. I’ll show you around my neighborhood, some of the places where I used to hang out when I was a kid, first, if you like.”
Teatime was what he liked to call our supper time. I guessed it was an English thing. “Sounds like a plan.”
Pierce settled the check and we walked back to the hotel with Joe to meet Seb with our car. The London Borough of Tower Hamlets flanked the east side of the City and the north bank of the River Thames. Its ethnic diversity was obvious from the people I saw thronging the sidewalks and from the multi-cultural stores and restaurants. Pierce told me the district boasted the highest rate of poverty, unemployment, and pay inequality of any London borough. It was a startling contrast to the evident wealth of Canary Wharf.
We headed for the social housing estate where he’d been raised. “I moved my parents and sister out of here as soon as I could afford to buy them their own places,” he explained when we’d gotten there. We stayed in the car and I stared at the tall apartment block and the graffiti-covered walls. Groups of teens were hanging about, probably looking for their next vandalization project, and I gave an involuntary shudder. “Don’t unwind the window,” Pierce warned. “You’ll catch a whiff of stale piss.”
Pierce had bought his parents an apartment overlooking a nearby park, apparently, but we weren’t heading there. Instead we’d agreed to have tea—really an early supper—with them at Bethany’s.
Pierce gripped my hand hard as we pulled up in front of a tall, terraced house on a quiet street. “Breathe,” I said, and he did, puffing out a long slow breath and inhaling again.
“I’ll wait in the car with Seb, boss,” Joe said, after he’d done a risk assessment and opened our doors for us.
“Thanks,” Pierce smiled. He pressed the bell and we burrowed into our coats while we waited for it to be answered.
