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Part I
1
DECEMBER
LIAM
The picturesthat leaked on the internet hit the front page of the celebrity magazines, and I’m done. I don’t speak to her—I pack and leave.
Her. Honey. My fiancée, on the front page ofHellomagazine attached to another guy. Some minor Hollywood celeb, Mason Rogers. I think he’s in some new but shitty comedy show. I don’t care who he is but I fucking care he’s in pictures with Honey on cosy nights out.
When the pictures hit, Honey denied everything and I believed her. The tears were genuine, washing half her perfectly applied make-up to her neck. But what kind of tears? Guilt? Fear of losing me? Who knows? Mason denies there’s an affair, too. Cosy meals at exclusive restaurants and kisses in corners where they think nobody can see? Pretty damn incriminating. Affairs are hard enough for the ordinary person to hide—if you’re engaged to a member of Blue Phoenix, you’ll never get away with this shit.
At least I hid this from the other band members who’re too distracted by their own shit and definitely never follow celebrity news.
I can’t face more of the same tear-filled excuses, and if I hung around in the US my soft-hearted self would believe Honey.Again.This isn’t the first time. Honey needs to get a grip on her self-esteem and not accuse me of screwing around. Every time she’s suspicious of me, she pulls this shit—her fucked-up revenge for nothing. We’re supposed to be getting married in May. No way, not anymore.
So, I leave a note to inform Honey I’m going home for Christmas. St Davids, the tiny city in Wales, hasn’t technically been my home for a lot of years but always welcomes me. Honey wouldn’t want to come here anyway; this place falls far below her designer standards. She’d be an exotic animal, on display for people to stare at and wonder.
At the moment, I fucking wonder too. Wonder if I’m an idiot thinking someone as beautiful as Honey wants me, and not just the money and status I bring her.
* * *
I walkoff the plane at Heathrow and head towards the usual route out of the place, which stops the press catching famous arrivals. Although, I doubt the press are interested because Liam Oliver never gets the press attention Honey would like. This year, Dylan’s disappearing act and disastrous relationship with Sky, plus Jem dating an heiress, is way more interesting than the bass guitarist engaged to up and coming actress Honey Wilson. Suits me.
I slept on the flight after a few whiskeys so I don’t feel too jet lagged. I asked Dave to bring one of my cars up from London so I can drive myself to my parents. Home for Christmas and I’m leaving all the rock star shit behind; no chauffeurs now.
Mum and Dad’s house is in a housing estate which rests half way between the small town and the coast—their detached house has all the room we longed for when I was growing up. I bought the house for them, despite Dad’s protests. He’s old school, doesn’t think his son should be looking after him. I teased Dad and told him, now he’s an old fart, it’s my turn to look after him. The house I bought isn’t as exclusive or expensive as I’d like, but at least my parents are mortgage-free with an easier life.
My younger sister, Louise, still lives at home. She left school and works at a local bank, with no desire to get the hell out of St Davids. I offered to buy her a place of her own, but she refuses. Sure, Louise loves her rock star brother and his occasional expensive gift, but she won’t let me pay her way in life. I respect her for that.
The smell of winter, damp earth, and the cold air hits as I climb out of the car in my parents’ driveway. Memories of Christmases as a kid follow me up the pathway as the red and gold tinsel glints in the window, catching the late afternoon sun. I have a key but if I let myself in that would be too much of a surprise.
I ring the doorbell and the imaginatively named Goldie, the family spaniel, runs to the door barking. Through the frosted glass, a female figure approaches and my childish excitement grows.
The door opens and Mum stares at me as if I’m the ghost of Christmas past, as she holds the collar of a wriggling Goldie.
“Liam? You never said you were coming home,” she exclaims.
Mum never seems to age, or maybe that’s me not wanting time to pass. Dressed in black slacks and a brown jumper, she’s my mum and she’s my home. Mum lets go of the dog’s collar and wraps her arms around me, squeezing tight. The dog leaps around my feet, clawing at my legs, so I lean down and scoop up Goldie who half-jumps into my arms. Holding the licking, excited dog, I walk into the warmth of the house.
Christmas cards cover the magnolia painted wall, strung between photo frames holding mine and Louise’s years of school portraits.
“Louise! Liam’s here!” calls Mum as I follow her into the kitchen.
Sitting at the old oak table in the kitchen, a little girl looks up from her plate. She’s eating tinned spaghetti, the orange sauce covering her chin and cheeks. I don’t know who looks more surprised, me or her. I figure she’s around three years old, but what the hell do I know? And who is she? The girl’s dark brown hair touches her shoulders and she licks some of the sauce from her face.
“You’re the same colour as Goldie,” she says.
The dog is a golden spaniel, and I’m wearing denim and a leather jacket. I’m confused.
She points with the fork. “Your hair.”
“I’d say your hair was more the colour of the spaghetti,” says my sister from the hallway. Louise wasn’t blessed with my colouring; her hair is brown like Mum’s, although currently it’s almost blonde.
I drop the dog and my sister comes over, wrapping me in a huge hug. She smells of the same floral perfume that she wore as a teen, one that used to fill the air in the upstairs of our small house. Louise’s perfume, Mum’s cooking, and the smell of oil on Dad’s clothes when he came home from working at the car garage—these are the scents that pull me back in time. Mix in the Christmas scents, l and already I’m pulled away from the crazy shit in the States and back to a comfortable normality.
Louise grabs my face and squeezes my cheeks. “So, big brother, what’re you doing sneaking home? Where’s Barbie?” She looks past me and I give her a warning look.
