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ELLE
Peter arrived one hour and fifty-seven minutes after my phone call. Both Brent and Lance had left again so the house was quiet and dark. Peter was a loyal employee to my parents but he’d always seemed to understand me; hiding smiles when they’d said something particularly annoying and I’d rolled my eyes to the point of discomfort. When I was a teenager and had started attending parties, sometimes without my parents knowing I’d even left my room, Peter knew. He’d saw me sneaking home in the early hours of the morning once and had hit me with a serious stare.
“Don’t tell my dad.” I’d winced when he found me with dirt up my bare legs, twigs in my hair, slightly tipsy, and carrying my Vivian Westwood heels in my hand.
“I saw nothing, I know nothing.” He’d responded with no inflection in his voice. “But, I will tell you this once and then we’ll never speak of it again unless necessary. If you ever find yourself in a situation that you don’t feel safe, if you ever have no ride home, or your only offer is from someone who has been drinking, you call me. I will come and get you, from anywhere, at any time. I won’t tell your parents. In the morning, I will pretend that nothing ever happened. You understand?”
I nodded, not really appreciating his support.
On the day my heart had truly been broken, Peter made good on his promise. He came to get me from the house that I could no longer see as home, and he didn’t say anything when he saw my puffy eyes. He worked quickly and efficiently collecting my bags and boxes, loading them in a van he’d brought; not the Maybach my parents preferred to be carted around in. He didn’t moan or grumble about how much stuff I had, or the labour involved in getting it in the back. He watched as I left my key on the kitchen counter and left without leaving a note. When I got into the cab of the van, there was a steaming travel mug of teamade, just how I liked, waiting for me. Peter said nothing when I began sobbing.
We drove through the evening until we were at my parents’ house, another that didn’t feel like home. Once again, Peter didn’t say a word as he unloaded all of my things and carried everything to my old room.
I crawled straight into bed, wrapping the covers around me to chase away the chill that had settled in my bones. I pulled my phone from my handbag along with the charger. I hadn’t looked at it since I’d called Peter this afternoon. I stared at the string of messages I’d missed, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Hayden (16:47): Can we talk? I can explain some things.
Hayden (16:59): I’m at work this evening. But when I get back, I’ll come straight up to see you.
Hayden (17:00): Elle, I know you’re probably upset and confused but there’s more to this.
Hayden (23:10): Where are you? I just got home and all your stuff has gone.
Hayden (23:13): Missed Call(s) x5
Hayden (23:13): Elle, answer your phone.
Hayden (23:14): Missed Call(s) x2
Hayden (23:21): Baby, please. Don’t leave it like this.
Hayden (23:22): I love you.
Part II
Now
18
PRESENT DAY
ELLE
Hayden:HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY! Thinking of you today, as always. I was in the Theatre District the other day and found myself checking all the posters and billboards to see if your name was up in lights. You know, if I actually saw you there, I’d drag my arse into a God forsaken musical if it meant I got to see your face again. I miss you, baby. I know you won’t respond to this message, you haven’t responded in three years, but know this, I will keep thinking of you and I will keep sending you birthday wishes. I hope you’re having a great day and that you have someone to spoil you. Until next year. X
Ilook at the message that came through this morning for what feels like the thousandth time today. I should respond, I want to respond, just as I have wanted to respond every year for the last three. But my fingers won’t cooperate. What can I possibly say? Thanks? Thumbs-up emoji? I left the house I shared with them three years ago and I haven’t seen Lance, Brent, or Hayden since. Hayden messaged me quite a bit in the first few months but I was too damaged to deal with him, so they were left unanswered. Soon it dwindled to two messages a year. One at Christmas, which was usually nothing more than a ‘Merry Christmas, baby,’ and one on my birthday. He never mentioned Lance or Brent, he never told me what he was doing with his life. He messaged me each year, speculating about where I might be and what I might be doing.
Maybe when I get home tonight I’ll formulate a response. My flatmate is a columnist for a national newspaper, so he is usually good at composing eloquent messages. I also plan on being atleast slightly tipsy by the time I get home, so I’ll probably need his editing skills. But right now, it is my birthday and I am off to celebrate. I’ve finished my set at the club, and I always feel buzzed after a good show. My boss, Mr Amiri, told me that he will look after me and my friends tonight. I am hoping that means drinks will be paid for because this club is hella expensive. Mr Amiri just asked that I meet with the guy he is hoping will be buying the club in the next few weeks before I start the celebrations.
I’m sad Mr Amiri is selling, he is such a good boss. He has enough money to not really have anything to do with the club and let it be run by managers, but he is ever present and looks after all of his staff with equal generosity and kindness. Okay, so maybe I am his favourite and I get a little bit of special treatment, like my friends getting in free and our drinks being taken care of for the night. But then again, it is fact that my headlining nights are the most profitable for the club, so he is probably just keeping me happy so I don’t leave. I hope the next guy runs the club with the same ethics. I hope he keeps it as a club and that our jobs are all safe.
One last glance at my message I smile, slipping my phone into my clutch, and head out into the club. The music is blaring as the DJ works through his set until the next performer graces the stage. A few people stop me as I make my way through the crowd, telling me how much they enjoyed the set and asking for selfies. It is odd really; in these walls, I am a star. I am a celebrity as far as the club is concerned but as soon as I step outside, I am just me. As I really don’t see my parents much anymore and they’ve given up forcing me to attend public events, I was even free of the expectations the city had of Byron Maxwell’s daughter. I lap up the attention when I’m here though, flirting with everyone who wants a piece, posing for photos, and dancing in the club after my sets, it all comes with the job.
Mr Amiri catches my eye and waves me over. He’s standing by the bar and I finally break from the revellers and reach him. His smile is bright and welcoming, I smile up at him as he puts an arm around my shoulder and kisses the top of my head.
“Fantastic performance as ever,” he says just to me, but loud enough to be heard over the crowds.
“Thanks, boss.”
