12. “Demons” - Imagine Dragons
“Demons” - Imagine Dragons
There are a number of ways one can organize one’s ties: by color (the obvious choice), by texture, by fabric. Or, if someone happens to be particularly evil-hearted, they can avoid organization entirely and simply hang them up with no semblance of order whatsoever.
I may not be able to rectify much else right now, but I can certainly do something about this situation.
I dump all of Henry’s ties into the middle of the closet floor. He must have over fifty of them. I briefly consider taking a Sharpie to each one as revenge for the lies he told last night but decide it’s beneath me.
I settle down next to the pile and press play on the latest episode of my favorite history podcast. They’re doing a deep dive into the first settlements in Wesbourne back in 1274. I rummage through the ties for all the reds. I’ve decided to go the color route.
I knew one time with you would ruin all other women for me.
Bloody hell. Is that line going to haunt me for all eternity?
I roll up a maroon tie and shove it into the organizer with extra vehemence. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve wanted to stab Henry, I’d have enough money to keep the royal household afloat.
What possessed him to say that? It must give him some kind of sick pleasure to know he can still mess with my heart. And mess with it he did.
Even after retreating to my bedroom last night, my screwed-up heart could only wish what he said was true. But I established a long time ago that Henry isn’t capable of telling the truth, so I simply kept circling the issue again and again. I didn’t fall asleep for hours.
I tuck a crimson tie into a small cubby and scream when someone touches my shoulder. I whip around to find the man of the hour standing over me. Yanking my headphones down to dangle around my neck, I stand up. “What are you doing, scaring me like that?”
Henry has the audacity to look bemused. “What are you doing playing with my ties?”
“I’m not playing, I’m organizing,” I say before thinking better of engaging him. “Why would you just barge in?”
“I knocked.” He gestures to the door, then my headphones.
“What do you want?”
“Um, something to wear?” He glances at his clothes hanging along the wall.
My cheeks must be as red as the ties. I step back so he can get inside.
What I thought was a spacious closet yesterday has now become the size of a locker.
I cross my arms over the flimsy nightgown covering my still braless chest. Even though it’s nearly nine in the morning, I’d prefer to stay locked in here than venture into the rest of the flat in the hopes of avoiding the man currently browsing through his shirts.
He finally settles on a pale blue one that will look amazing against his skin tone.
As a matter of principle, I ignore the way his back muscles ripple through his T-shirt.
He looks down at the tangle of ties on the floor again and clears his throat. “Any chance you could choose one for me?”
I quickly bend over and grab a navy tweed one. I hold it out, and his eyes flit down toward my perky chest.
I knew after just one time with you . . .
If he meant that, he went without sex for three months.
If he meant that, I’m a circus monkey. I should strangle him with the tie instead.
He takes it from my hand, his eyes lingering on mine, probably trying to get a read on how deep his words cut last night. I cover a yawn with my hand.
“Tired?”
“Insomnia.”
Henry frowns. “Nightmares?”
“Awful bed.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “The worst.”
He’s likely remembering the same thing I am: me gushing about his incredible mattress post coitus. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. Surely this must be the apex of my life’s humiliation.
He rests his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll move my clothes to the guest room so this doesn’t happen again.”
Before I can say anything, he’s gone, leaving me with a feeling akin to homesickness.
Late morning brings several inches of snow, a weird feeling in my stomach, and my mother.
“You didn’t think you could keep her all to yourself, did you?” she asks as she sweeps inside the penthouse. She floats over to where Bea is still finishing her egg white omelet and plants a quick kiss on her cheek. “Hello, dear. How was London?”
“You know she’s at Cambridge, right?” I swallow the rest of my coffee. Maisie brought it nearly two hours ago, and I regret the decision as soon as the lukewarm liquid hits the back of my throat.
Rosalind waves her hand and unwinds the cashmere scarf from her neck. “Technicalities, Celia.”
“Morning,” Bea mutters, still half-asleep.
“Good lord, child. It’s nearly eleven. The least you can do is greet me properly.”
Bea murmurs an apology before taking a long sip of her own hot coffee. “I’m so tired.”
“I can see that. How many times have I told you it’s better for your face if you get at least eight hours of sleep?”
“About a thousand more than necessary,” she says into her mug.
“Evidently not.” Mum settles herself onto the stool next to her. It’s a little like watching a cat trying to drive a car. “I assume a boy played a hand in this sleep deprivation.” She is a pro at questions without question marks.
All too quickly, my mind flashes back to last night, when I left Henry and Bea alone to finish the movie. He must have come to the kitchen to sabotage the fragile state of my heart before returning to ravish my sister. I cover my mouth and will the vomit to stay down.
“We were just talking,” she says, as if in answer to my thoughts. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”
“A woman must put her own self-care above men. That’s why the three of us are going to the spa today.”
I cough into my hand. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I already arranged everything. They’ll only have a minimal staff, everyone has signed an NDA, and we’ll have the whole place to ourselves.”
“I get to leave?” I don’t care if my mother planned a trip to Snake Island if it means I can see the outside of this flat.
“I’ve already spoken to Roberts about it. He helped me arrange everything.”
Bea stands and throws her arms around Mum’s neck, late-night exhaustion forgotten. “You’re the best, Mummy. I was starting to decay in here.”
“You’ve been here twenty-six hours,” I deadpan.
“And that was twenty-four too many.” She tosses a wink over her shoulder and heads to her room. “I’ll be out in a few minutes!”
My mother sneezes into a tissue she managed to grab just in time. “Bless you,” I say, just as Tundra rounds the corner from the hallway. “Oh, boy.” I stick him in my bedroom and shut the door before he can send her into hives.
We head to the spa at the Atlantis, which is every bit as glamorous as Bea wanted—and as private as I hoped. If I can prove to Henry that there’s no threat in my leaving the penthouse, he might let me out more often, even if it’s only to come here.
Bea signs us up to be “pampered to within an inch of our lives,” and we follow the tiny receptionist down a hall to the sauna.
“I still don’t understand why I’m paying to do something I normally actively avoid,” I say, taking a seat on one of the wooden benches along the wall. I tuck the fold of my towel in more tightly and shudder. “Sweating.”
“You’re not paying for it,” Mum says. “I am.”
“For which we are both eternally grateful.” Bea sprawls her towel-clad body out on the bench opposite me. Her sigh is no less dramatic than my shudder.
A tinny rendition of “Jingle Bells” wafts through unseen speakers. Steam begins to cloud the room, and I remind myself it’s a detox, not the road to death. “Whoever thought getting wet without water was a good idea should be hung.”
“You take hot showers all the time,” Bea says.
“Yeah, there’s water.”
“Girls, quit bickering.” Mum sighs and settles into her seat. “This is supposed to be relaxing.”
“This is going to be the best holiday ever,” Bea says. “I still cannot believe I’m staying at the Atlantis! It’s a million times better than the palace. No offense, sis.”
I cock a brow while the rest of my face remains frozen. “None taken.”
“The only thing that would make it better is if Rhett could come visit. I’m going to see if he can fly over for a few days.”
I may have just imagined the tensing of my mother’s jaw, because her voice is perfectly calm when she says, “Who is this Rhett boy you’ve become so obsessed with?”
Last time I checked, neither of the Danish princes were named Rhett. In fact, the only time I’ve encountered that name was within the pages of Gone With the Wind. Rosalind’s blood pressure has likely spiked ten points.
“Rhett Cole. He’s a musician. I thought I told you.”
“Define musician,” I say.
“He writes his own songs.” She says this like he has cured cancer in dogs. “He’s not famous yet, but he thinks he’ll get a record deal soon. He’s had a few songs go viral.”
“He’s British?” Rosalind is trying her damnedest to look interested, but I catch the twitch in her eye.
“He’s from here. And he told me last night he’s coming home next week.” Bea squeals and clasps her hands together.
“That’s who you were talking to last night?” I ask.
“Yeah, obviously. He calls me every night.”
I sink further into the bench. Not Henry then. Wiping away the sweat already beading on my upper lip, I tell myself my relief is because I don’t want to see Bea get hurt.
“Does Mr. Cole have any family I might know?” Mum asks.
“Actually,” Bea says, “his dad was in a band when he was younger.”
I hardly think those are the kind of connections Rosalind is fishing for, but she smiles. “Well, which band was it?”
Bea waves her hand. “You probably didn’t know them. They were a rock band.”
“Not the Cole Brothers?”
Bea and I both stare at the woman we thought was our mother but who may have been replaced by a doppelganger. “You listened to rock music?” we both say at the same time.
“Girls, please.” She laughs. “I have a life outside of motherhood.”
“One that consists of electric guitars and drumbeats?” I use the corner of my towel to wipe my face. Are saunas always this hot?
“You listened to the Cole Brothers?” Bea says. “Randy Cole is Rhett’s dad.”
Mum’s smile is foreign, one I’ve never seen on her face before. It looks young, lighter. “Even better, I saw them in concert once.”
“You saw the Cole Brothers in concert?” Bea sounds skeptical.
Rosalind nods, her smile still lighting up her face. “They were incredible.”
“I can’t believe Dad took you to a rock concert,” I say.
I’m watching her closely, and I don’t miss the tiny slip of her smile before she drags it back into place. “I didn’t go with your father. He would’ve never endured it. Said it gave him a headache.” She waves her hand casually before tucking a strand of damp hair back into her chignon.
“So who’d you go with?” Bea says.
“Oh, just a friend.”
There’s something fishy about the way she says it. Bea must pick up on it too, because she says, “A friend? Which of your friends listens to rock?”
Mum laughs, her head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed. “Okay, he was more than a friend.”
Bea’s eyes meet mine across the small room. Never once has Rosalind shared any of her romantic history with us, no matter how many times we’ve tried to pry it out of her. Turns out, the secret was good old-fashioned sweat all along.
Several beats pass, then Bea says quietly, almost timidly, “Mum? The Cole Brothers didn’t start touring until 2002.”
Rosalind’s eyes fly open and settle on Bea.
For a long moment, none of us say anything.
I think of all the secrets we each carry, the lengths we go to to keep them hidden, to make sure they are buried with us in the grave.
But sometimes, despite our best efforts, one manages to find its way to the light.
“Mum, did you have an affair?” Bea finally asks.
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The truth is written in her eyes, which drop Bea’s and land in her lap, where her fingers are twisting together in a knot.
“So it’s true?” I say. “You cheated on Dad?” Bea’s voice had a soft inquisitiveness to it. Mine is all sharp edges.
Rosalind gives a tiny nod. A singular tear runs through the sweat on her face. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” She wipes her face. “I know everyone says that, but it’s true. It only lasted a few weeks, and I felt awful for betraying your father, especially when he forgave me.”
“Wait, Dad knew?” I don’t even try to hide my surprise.
Rosalind nods again. “He knew and chose to forgive me. Later that year, we got pregnant with Beatrice.”
We sit in stunned silence for a few minutes. Some things you’re just better off not knowing. And thinking about my mum with anyone but my dad—
“How could you do that?” I say. I don’t mean it to sound harsh, but it comes out as a hiss anyway.
She looks at me for the first time since slipping up. “I didn’t plan it. Sometimes things just . . . happen.”
How dare she make me reconsider my stance on accidental sex. My situation is completely different from hers.
“No offense, Mum, but how could Dad trust you again after that?” Bea asks.
“I know I wouldn’t,” I say under my breath.
My mother lifts her chin the way I’ve seen her do many times when faced with an obstacle. “Knowing he trusted me was more motivating than any sense of right or wrong. I think he knew that. I haven’t so much as flirted with a man since, not even after he died.”
This much, at least, I’m pretty sure is true, because the thought of Rosalind flirting with anyone is akin to picturing a robot attempting to dance. But that doesn’t change the fact that she cheated on my father, and she cheated on us. Being good afterward doesn’t excuse the sin.
Bea scoots over beside her and lays her head on Mum’s shoulder. “Well, if Dad forgave you, that’s enough for me.”
Rosalind smiles and kisses the top of my sister’s blonde head, which somehow doesn’t manage to look any worse for wear after sitting in this bloody steam room. They both look over at me as though expecting me to echo the sentiment.
I stand and readjust my towel. “I need to get out. It’s too hot in here.”
I don’t wait for them. I don’t even bother changing back into my clothes before taking the private lift to the top floor. The spa should add an additional warning to their already lengthy list of the dangers of saunas: Mothers may rearrange your life while under the influence of detoxifying steam.
God, will the bombs ever stop falling? I’m tempted to hire a private detective to uncover my parents’ entire past just so I can have all of the facts. Apparently, nothing is sacred anymore.