Chapter Four
The bathroom incident was still replaying in Raven's head like a cursed gif.
Honestly, who the hell did things like that? Who just walked into someone else’s house? She’d checked that the front door was locked about three separate times since then, and she still felt… wrong about it.
She should have been more careful, she knew that. It wasn’t like she needed journos and groupies and crazy fans seeing her naked at random points during her day. She’d had enough bad press as it was. But still. Who just walked into someone else’s house?
The more she thought about it, the angrier she got about it.
So she tried to write through it. Sat down with her guitar, opened a fresh notebook, poured herself a generous whiskey. The usual ritual. But instead of lyrics, she'd produced exactly three lines:
Some people can't take a hint
Barging through doors like they're fucking mint
Get the hell out before I…
"Christ," she muttered, crossing it out so violently she tore the page.
This was what she'd been reduced to. Angry doggerel about her boundary-challenged neighbor.
Maybe coming to the country had been a terrible idea.
What was she supposed to write about down here?
Neighbors who opened doors and bulls in the road?
She took a breath and tried again. This time, something about Alissa came out. Of course it did. Everything always circled back to Alissa.
The words fell from her mouth, but they just didn’t work.
They were… better. Still bitter as burnt coffee, but at least the thing had a rhythm. She played a few chords, trying to find a melody that fit. It sounded angry. Good. She was angry.
Angry at Alissa for marrying someone else.
Angry at herself for not seeing it coming.
Angry at her neighbor for existing in general and specifically for walking in on her naked.
She slammed the notebook shut and checked her phone. Half past seven. The pub would be open. This village had to have a saving grace, and she suspected it was going to be the pub.
THE VILLAGE PUB was exactly what Raven had expected.
Dark wood, brass fixtures, a smell of old beer and furniture polish.
A dartboard on one wall, a fireplace on another.
The kind of place that probably hadn't changed in forty years.
And empty so far tonight, other than the barman and an old woman wearing a hat that looked suspiciously like a stuffed badger.
Perfect. Anonymous. Quiet.
She ordered a beer and claimed a corner booth, pulling her hood up despite the warmth of the room.
"You look like curdled milk," said a friendly voice.
She looked up sharply. The man standing beside her table was in his fifties, tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of easy smile that immediately made her suspicious. Too friendly. Everyone in this bloody village was too friendly.
"You look like your last haircut was four years ago."
"Don’t have to talk if you don’t want to," said the man, taking out a cloth and wiping up the stains on her table.
"I don’t."
"Got it," he said, sticking the cloth in the pocket of his apron. "Let me know when you need another beer." He moved to go back to the bar.
Raven frowned. She wasn’t used to being… left alone. No, wait, it wasn’t quite that. She wasn’t used to being… not recognized. It stung a little, despite the fact that she’d really rather disappear into the woodwork. She cleared her throat.
The man turned around, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Raven, yeah?"
"No," she said flatly. Now why would she say that? She’d just been cross that she hadn’t been recognized and now she was denying who she was.
He raised an eyebrow. "Right. My mistake. Must've been thinking of some other Grammy-winning rockstar hiding in a corner booth in Bankton."
"I'm not… " She stopped. What was the point? "How'd you know?"
"Used to be a journalist. In London." He extended a hand. "Arty Foster. I own this place."
She didn't shake it. "If you used to be a journalist, you know why I'd rather be left alone."
To his credit, he withdrew the hand without offense and slid into the seat across from her anyway. "Used to be," he emphasized. "Key words there. Left all that behind years ago. Haven't written a word since."
"Lucky you."
"Not luck. Choice." He signaled to the bar. "Another one for my friend here, and the usual for me."
"We're not friends."
"Not yet." His drink arrived, a small beer, and he raised it in a mock toast. "Welcome to Bankton. Village of approximately two hundred nosy bastards who'll definitely recognize you eventually, so you might as well get it over with now."
Despite herself, Raven felt the corner of her mouth twitch. "That's your sales pitch?"
"I find honesty works better than bullshit. You're Raven, formerly of Krimson Kisses. Your ex-girlfriend and bandmate Alissa just married some sound bloke in Vegas. You've come here to escape and write a solo album in peace." He took a sip. "How'm I doing?"
"Like a creepy stalker."
"Like someone who reads the news and puts two and two together." He leaned back. "Look, I recognized you the second you walked in. Been waiting to see if you'd mention it first. Seemed polite."
"And now?"
"Now I'm telling you that nobody here gives a toss about your fame. Well, Gloria Cunningham will but will pretend that she doesn’t, and Daisy Green will probably ask for your autograph seventeen times, but the rest of us?
" He shrugged. "We're more interested in whose dog dug up whose garden and whether the village fête will have a tombola this year. You’ll probably see Lilah Paxton around at some point, don’t know if you’ve met her. "
"Seen her at a few awards shows, saw her meltdown, figured if this place was good enough for her, it was good enough for me." Raven studied him. He seemed genuine, which in her experience meant he was either the real deal or a fantastic liar. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you look like you could use a friend. And because Bankton's a friendly place, whether you like it or not."
"I don't."
"Like it, or want to be here?"
"Both."
"Shame. It's a good place. Quiet. Safe. The kind of place where people look out for each other.
Also, not to put too fine a point on it, you decided to come here, you just said.
" He swirled his drink thoughtfully. "It’s also the kind of place where your neighbor will absolutely bring you another welcome basket even if you’ve told her to sod off. Just warning you."
Raven groaned. "You know about that?"
"Everyone knows everyone and everything here. That's the point." He grinned. "Annabelle Swift. Primary school teacher. Heart of gold. Bakes like an angel. And yes, before you ask, completely oblivious to social cues."
"She practically walked into my bathroom."
Arty choked on his whiskey. "She what?"
"This afternoon. Knocked on my door, music was playing, and she knocked again apparently, and then… well… the point is, she walked straight in while I was getting out of the shower."
"Christ." Arty was shaking with suppressed laughter. "What did you do?"
"Told her to get the hell out of my house."
"Tactful."
"I was naked!"
"Fair point." He wiped his eyes. "I'm guessing she was mortified?"
"She kept apologizing. In this relentlessly cheerful voice, like we'd just had a minor misunderstanding instead of…" Raven gestured helplessly. "It was the worst thing that's happened to me in weeks."
"Worse than your ex getting married?"
"Different category of worst."
Arty was quiet for a moment, his smile fading into something more thoughtful.
"Look, I know you came here to be left alone.
I get it. I really do. But Bankton doesn't work like that.
People here care about their neighbors. They check in.
They bring round casseroles when you're ill and biscuits when you're new.
It's suffocating if you're not used to it, but it comes from a good place. "
"I didn't come here for good places. I came here to work."
"On an album?"
She nodded curtly.
"How's that going?"
"None of your business."
"That well, huh?" He finished his drink. "Bit of advice, from one ex-Londoner to another. Don't fight it too hard. You'll only make yourself miserable. The village grows on you, if you let it."
"I'm not here to make friends, Arty."
"No," he agreed, standing up. "You're here to hide. But maybe that's not what you need."
SHE STAYED AT the pub until she was done with her beers, steadfastly ignoring the curious glances from other patrons. By the time she walked back to the cottage, it was past nine and the village was dark except for streetlamps and the occasional lit window.
Her own cottage was exactly as she'd left it, guitar on the sofa, notebook on the floor, general atmosphere of creative failure. She picked up the guitar automatically, settled into the corner of the sofa, and started playing.
No particular song. Just chords, progressions, the muscle memory of two decades of practice. It usually helped her think, cleared her head, sometimes led to something usable.
Tonight it led nowhere. She was too wound up, too aware of the silence pressing in around her. In London, there was always noise, traffic, sirens, neighbors shouting, music from other flats. Here, there was nothing. Just her and the guitar and the weight of everything she couldn't write.
Fuck it.
She turned up her amp and played louder.
It felt good. Felt like herself again, like the Raven who'd sold out the O2, who'd had three albums go platinum, who didn't care what anyone thought because she had the talent and the attitude to back it up.
She played an old Krimson Kisses song, one of the early ones, before everything got complicated. Before Alissa became more than a bandmate. Before the on-again-off-again bullshit that had defined the last five years of her life.
The song sounded different without Alissa's vocals weaving through it. Empty. But maybe that was the point. Maybe she needed to figure out what her music sounded like on its own.
She played another song. Then another. Lost herself in the familiar rhythms, the way her fingers knew exactly where to go even when her brain didn't.
It was only when she finally stopped, fingers aching, throat dry from singing, that she checked her phone.
2:17 AM.
"Shit."
She looked out the window and saw a light on in the cottage next door. Annabelle's cottage.
A small, petty satisfaction curled in Raven's chest.
Good. Now the teacher would know what it felt like to be interrupted. Maybe next time she'd think twice before barging into someone else's space with her welcome baskets and her cheerful bloody smile.
That woman next door won't be interfering again, she thought.