I have no words to reply; what can I do to make them believe me? The fact that the only reason they can think of for my ‘outburst’ is some arrogant drug-induced showcuts in a way that I can’t even describe. I give up. I am so exhausted that I can only sit in silence as he continues, ‘It’s our fault, mine and your mum’s. I know that. We wanted you to grow up not having all of the struggles we had when we were younger. Instead, we’ve got a son who has no ambition, no prospects, and far too much pride. What you did last night could have cost every one of us our livelihoods. What would you have done then? When you couldn’t rely on us?’
‘Dad, I’m sorry, I never—’
‘I’ve been speaking to some old acquaintances of mine and I’ve managed to pull in a favour, and I can assure you it will be the last favour I do for you. From next week you’re going to New York, and that is where you’ll stay until all of this has blown over and you realise how much it means to be a Cavendish.’
New York. A city so dense that no one will stop to care who my father is. A city so far away that I can be whoever I like and not have to live in his shadow. A city where I can have my own dreams and a whole new beginning.
‘Eddie, come on, that’s a bit harsh on the boy, isn’t it?’ Mum finally perks up, brows furrowed as if two minutes ago she wasn’t talking about either beating me or sending me to rehab for an addiction I don’t have.
‘He’s a grown man, Helena. He needs to finally know what hard work is, even if it is years too late. It’s a taster of real life. I’m not sending him off to war, love.’
‘Still here, by the way.’ I grumble. ‘I’ll go.’
They both look at me, shocked, as though they were expecting me to put up a fight. Why would I? It’s theperfect plan: they get me out from under their feet, and I get to stop pretending.
At the final ring, she finally answers the phone.
‘Hello?’ Despite my name presumably flashing across the screen, she answers as though she has no idea who I am.
‘Lizzie, it’s me, Art.’ I smile though she can’t see me and I picture her smiling too on the other end.
‘Art who?’ she mumbles into her receiver.
‘Your brother.’ My grin droops slightly but I try to keep my tone happy. She harrumphs so I continue, ‘I just wanted to tell you that I won’t get to visit for a couple of weeks but I’ll come and see you the minute I’m home.’
‘Artie,’ she says softly. My smile returns in full. ‘You’re coming to see me?’
‘When I’m home that’ll be the first thing I do. I’ve just got to go away for a while.’
‘Where are you going? Can I come?’ she asks, childlike hope in her tone.
‘I’m going to New York, Lizzie, you know, the concrete jungle.’
‘Oooo get you,’ she squawks, and I picture her raising her eyebrows and wiggling them in jest like she used to when I’d tell her I had a new girlfriend at school. ‘When are you picking me up?’
‘I can’t take you this time—’ an uncomfortable tingle spreads through my chest as I think about her sat alone, disappointed ‘—but I’ll make sure to bring you a present. How about a Big Apple keyring? Or an Empire State Building fridge magnet?’
‘An “I heart New York” mug?’ I hear the smile in her voice as if she’s remembering the one she used to have on a shelf in her bedroom when it was purple and full of Groovy Chick memorabilia. Mum had bought it for her after working over there for a little while and I got a kilogram bag of M&Ms with all of the colours in that they weren’t allowed to sell back home. I ate every last one before the weekend had ended. Lizzie never even had a tea from that mug; she filled it with pencils that she used to sketch with. She was always the better kid, my older sister.
‘Deal.’ I sigh. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘Artie?’
I hum in reply.
‘When are you coming to see me?’
‘Soon Lizzie, I promise.’ And with a short goodbye, I hang the phone up and return my attention to packing.
With both Mum and Dad away back to work, there’s no one to see me off at home. The house is silent and I hear my own footsteps echo through the high ceilings. We haven’t lived in this house long. It’s still like a show home: white walls, white skirting, no photographs, no life. Our first house was the opposite; the whole place looked like it could sink with the weight of bric-a-brac dotted around. It wasn’t like any of the houses of the people we would visit – those I’ve come to call aunties and uncles. Their houses were like this one: hardly lived in. This house is an investment. It’s a place for Mum and Dad to keep their money instead of a bank and to sleep in on the odd occasion they’re in this city and not living out of a hotel.
We haven’t had a home since Lizzie left.
I have been travelling from here to there for my entire life, following Mum around film sets, across different countries. But long flights and drives never get easier. Sitting there, feeling sick after looking at my phone for too long, unable to read a book from all of the bumps in the road, the whole thing just feels like one great waste of time.
It’s never a good idea for me to sit for hours with only my own thoughts and the cats’ eyes at the side of the road for entertainment. So, exactly five days since the BAFTAs, as I slide myself and my suitcase into the back seat of the car my parents have sent to wait for me, I pop one of my sleeping pills and hope it’s enough to knock me out completely. One will do for now, for the drive to the airport, and I make sure to slide another into my hand luggage ready for the plane.
‘We’re here, sir.’ The driver nudges me awake.
