Parks took Vanna better than I thought she would.
Don’t know whether that’s a good sign or a bad one, but I was happy that she asked me to come up with her to suss out a new hotel for the leisure edit.
Somewhere new I’ve never heard of—Farnham House? Off St Ives Bay, I think. She just turned up on my doorstep. It’s why I don’t have girls stay over after. She has a key, but she never uses it. I think she’s scared to in case something’s happening on the other side of the door that she doesn’t want to see. Fair enough. Probably safer for her to knock anyway.
I pulled open the door and I know that face like the back of my hand; she’s nervous about something. I don’t know what, don’t know why. But I was glad that she came to me.
“Oy,” I grinned down at her as I stepped out of the doorway to let her in.
“Are you free?” she asked. “For the next few days?”
The answer: No, actually. I had a shoot that afternoon and was supposed to take an American model out on a date tomorrow, but that face in front of me and I’m as free as a fucking bird. I nodded. “I can be.”
“Do you feel like taking me to Cornwall?” she offered. “For work.”
I tilted my head, curious. “You don’t want Tom to take you?”
“No.” She shook her head a tiny bit. “I don’t.” Our eyes caught and I felt like she was reaching out for me, like she thought I was far away, but I wasn’t. That pulled at a weird thread in my head actually, because her being like that, her feeling a distance between us that wasn’t coming from me, meant it was coming from her.
“Me drive or you drive?”
“I took the Mullsane,” she told me, “but you drive it. I like it better when you drive.”
I pulled her inside my apartment.
“Give me five, I’ll pack a bag.”
She lets me drive and I love driving down the M3 with her. I’ve driven her down this motorway a billion times and it always feels like we’re driving back to what we used to be.
Her family has a place up in Dartmouth that’s a thing for us. We go there sometimes. Not often. Sometimes though.
These roads remind me of her, of that night, of everything that happened. I sigh louder than I mean to, trying to breathe out the memory. She looks over at me and I know she knows. She picks up my phone from my lap and changes the song to “I’ll Be Seeing You” and looks out the window. She knows. She always knows me, and I always know her, and it’s probably unhealthy and it’s probably fucked up because it’s not just that I can’t move past her, it’s that even if I could figure out how to do it—I wouldn’t anyway.
Because her eyes right now, all raw and weighed down the same way mine are, they anchor us to the seabed of whatever the fuck we are and were and will be. And I wonder what love is like for other people… Is love for everyone wordless exchanges and a million memories that fuck you up to the bone?
She perks up a bit by the time we’re driving through Plymouth. From there it’s about an hour and a half’s drive to Toms Holidays and I’m just happy to have the time with her.
No one else, no prying eyes, no weird eavesdropping, no boyfriends—just me and her and grazing hands and wandering eyes recalibrating us back into the good old days.
“I’m an ideas gal,” she tells me.
I give her a look. “Are you though?”
She frowns, indignant. “Obviously.”
“Alright then, hit us with your best shot—”
She turns in towards me, her brown legs tucked up under her, clears her throat. Dramatic pause. “Titanic: The Waterpark”
I shake my head. “Absolutely never.”
“What?” She frowns, miffed as anything. “Why?”
I peer over at her out of the corner of my eye, and shrug as though I’m making a light suggestion. “It’s maybe a bit insensitive?”
“To whom?” She blinks. “James Cameron? Don’t worry about that, he’s a friend—”
“No—”
“Okay, fine,” she concedes. “We were seated next to one another at a state banquet ’til he asked to move, but I don’t think that was about me I think it was because he was right under an air duct. Imagine seating James Cameron under a fucking air duct. Someone lost their job that night!”
I’m doing my best to rein it in, not to laugh. She doesn’t like it when I laugh at her. It’s a skill that’s taken years to hone and has probably shaved days off the span of my life. I leave it a few seconds before I carefully ask, “Did you tell him about your water park idea?”
She’s frowning again. “Yes?”
My mouth twitches. “He moved because of you.”
Parks pauses, thinking on this. “Do you think he’s going to steal my idea?”
“I really don’t.” I shake my head.
Her eyes go to slits. “Are you sure?” I nod once. “Why?”
I let out a laugh that sounds like a sigh and it doesn’t match up with how happy I am to just be shooting the shit with her. “Because it’d be like someone making an Apollo 11-themed space ride. Or an Amelia Earhart aviation ride.”
She stares at me for a long few seconds and I think she finally gets it. “Shit! Beej, that’s brilliant! Inspired! A disaster theme park! We’ll be rich!”
I’m laughing now. “We are rich.”
“….er,” she offers.
We pull into the grounds of Farnham House.
The building looks a bit like a French chateau. Old stones, maybe sandstone? Slate roof, massive windows.
“It’s nice.” I look over at her as I toss the valet the keys with a wink. Then I nod at a car. Looks familiar. “That looks like your dad’s car.”
She looks over at the black Quattroporte GTS GranSport.
“HP1977?” She looks at me, confused. “That is his car.”
I frown a bit.
“Do you know what? A couple of months back he asked for a hotel recommendation that was quiet for an upcoming work trip. I think it was with Post Malone.”
“Your dad’s inside with Post Malone?” I blink, then I nod towards the door. “Let’s go find them.”
I want to pause here for a second and say this: Parks and I had very different childhood experiences.
My mum is the best mum: five kids, not Catholic.
Five kids because she loves kids—the fucking weirdo. She cried when she sent us to boarding school, but it was just really what families like ours do. And Dad, we have a bit more of a complicated relationship because I think he thinks I’m disappointing—wasting my life away, and probably he’s right—I don’t know—but I’ve never thought he didn’t love me. Parks though, her and Bridget’s childhood was completely dotted by these weird occurrences where they were made to feel like they were the impositions.
Like her parents had them because they felt like they were meant to have them, not because they wanted them. And I don’t think that they don’t love them. They do. I’ve seen her mum fight for her once—just once—but it was once that mattered. And her dad—when Parks and I first started sleeping together, my dad was furious, drove to her house, stormed in, I hid under her bed, Marsaili covered for us, lied—said I’d gone to Jonah’s—Parks’ dad didn’t say anything to her, but he did pull me aside later that night. “I’d kill you if I had to,” he told me.
But they’re hands off. She could have been dealing cocaine for all they knew. Both of them were off with the fairies. Did a lot of shit like forgot birthdays, would go away for Christmas without the girls, would piss off for a few weeks at a time, wouldn’t answer their phones—all that shit-parent shit. You could ask Parks and she’d tell you for sure that the only reason she’s a vaguely functional person (and depending on the day I think we can all agree that there are varying degrees to her functionality) is because of Marsaili.
So, we walk into the lobby and over to the front desk—Parks does the talking, and I fight the urge to shove the check-in chav who’s behind the desk because he’s looking at her like I’m not fucking standing right here, but she doesn’t notice. She never notices. I hover behind her closer than I would if we were in London. She doesn’t move away from me—she never does when people can’t see us.
It’s why we love quiet English towns. No one gives a shit about who we are, and I can touch her on the waist without a photo ending up in The Sun, and I can rest my chin on top of her head while the fuckwit behind the check-in desk avoids my eyes for flirting with my girl.
“We have a suite with two double beds, or one with a king. Which is your preference?”
I pinch my eyes at Check-In. “What do you think, mate?”
His mouth pulls tight and he starts typing.
They’re still sorting out the rooms, says they’ll be probably another hour—pretty sure it’s some sort of power move Check-In’s pulling, trying to delay us from having all the sex we won’t be having anyway.
We go to the bar while we wait.
I’ve got both my hands on her shoulders and I’m walking her through the door frame, and she’s laughing and smiling and then she stops dead in her tracks.
I follow her gaze over to the far back corner of the bar.
Her dad…and Marsaili?
She frowns. “That’s strange.”
And it doesn’t compute to her, because it wouldn’t, because Parks isn’t like that, she’s not wired to think about the underbellies of emotion and because she’s put Marsaili up on a pedestal all her life as the only adult who hasn’t disappointed her, and I get this feeling like I need to get her the fuck out of here, like I need to keep her from seeing what she’s about to see—
“Come on—” I grab her hand, pulling her backwards. “We should check on the room.”
“No.” She snatches her hand back. “What are they doing here?”
And as soon as she asks that, she gets her answer as they lean across the table and kiss in that fucking gross tender way old people kiss.
Her jaw hits the floor.
“Parks”—I grab her wrist—“come on.”
She turns to look at me, and her eyes are wide with surprise and something else—something I can’t pick. A bit like hurt but worse.
I squeeze her hand. “I think we should just go.”
“Absolutely not.” She shakes her head, spins on her heel and marches right on over.
“Well!” Parks claps her hands together. “What do we have here?”
“Shit,” says her dad, standing reluctantly.
“Magnolia!” Marsaili jumps up, the colour draining from her face.
Parks looks between the two of them for a few seconds. “I mean—wow.”
“Darling—” Harley starts.
She holds up a hand to silence him. “I mean, really—wow.”
“Magnolia,” Marsaili starts, glancing from her to me, like I might toss her a line. “I can explain—”
“Can you?” Magnolia blinks, pleasantly. “By all means, have at it.”
Harley shakes his head, stepping forward. “Darling, listen—”
She looks at him, gesturing. “You, doing this—fine. Whatever. You’ve been fucking girls from rap videos for years.” He pulls his head back, indignant. He’s a big enough guy her dad, six feet, two inches, probably. Maybe a half an inch or so shorter than me. But rock solid. Gladiator status. I’ve seen him train with Dwayne Johnson and keep up. She—Parks, is like five feet, eight inches, Bambi legs, big mouth and fighting eyes and she is incapable of backing down from a conflict with this man.
I’ve always wondered if I’d have to fight him one day. I wonder if today will be the day.
“Excuse me?” he growls at her.
“Do you think I didn’t know what you were doing with that girl you were with at Britannia Row when I walked into the sound booth? I was thirteen.” She shakes her head. “I expect this shit from you, Harley, but you?” She eyes Marsaili. And I low-key love that my Parks has turned into a little dragon. “On your high horse, looking down at the rest of us—spouting all self-righteous about him”—she thumbs in my direction—“and his misgivings, and how unforgivable his behaviour is, and all the while you’re screwing my married father?”
Marsaili’s face falls. I press my lips together.
“Magnolia—” Harley steps between them. “That’s enough.”
“How long for?” Parks asks, ignoring him.
Her dad glares at her a bit and I clench my fists.
“Six years,” Marsaili says, quickly.
At that, even my jaw goes lax.
“Six years,” Magnolia repeats slowly.
Something about the air between them shifts…. Shifts from shock and maybe a bit of betrayal to—I don’t know… I’m watching Parks’ eyes and I know all their colours and tells and my best bet here is… they’re sporting some kind of grief?
Parks looks too pained for the feeling to just be anger.
Mars and Parks stare at each other and there’s this exchange happening between their eyes, Mars’ are pleading and Parks’ are just gutted, and they don’t look away, they’re locked on. And I wish I could tune into whatever they’re saying because I feel like it’s maybe about me?
Magnolia points a weak finger at the woman who’s loved her all her life, says nothing for a heavy few seconds.
“Don’t you ever speak to me again,” she tells her.
And then she grabs my hand and pulls me back to the car.
