Chapter 27
GUY
We’re in Lyra’s car, pulling into the car park of the pub where my sister is having her quarter-century birthday bash in Newcastle.
I look across to her from the passenger seat.
She looks incredible in a tight-fitting pair of jeans and a pair of heels I’d really like her to keep on later.
In truth, my superficial brain being partially distracted might be the reason we’ve managed to get as far as the venue.
Lyra’s driving because she told me she’s intimidated by the eyelashes on my Barbie car.
But what I’m coming to realise about the woman to my right is that she has a sixth sense when it comes to looking out for people.
In this case, she made the right call, because I’m sitting on my hands to stop myself fidgeting.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ I ask her, again, staring at the few smokers standing outside the back of the pub.
She pulls into a parking spot and kills the engine. It’s early September and though it’s only 8 p.m., I can sense that summer is fading.
She unbuckles and twists to face me, one knee bent up on her seat, letting me know that we aren’t getting out of the car, not yet.
‘You don’t need to see where I came from, Lyra.’
It’s a partial truth because she doesn’t need to see just how working class my roots go – working class is being generous.
I know Lyra won’t care. I know that later tonight, when I make excuses and apologise for my family, she’ll tell me something like, It doesn’t matter where we come from, it’s about the people we are that matters.
The rest of the truth is, I don’t want to be reminded about where I came from.
‘Would it freak you out if I said I do?’ she asks, leaning her temple against the headrest. ‘I want to know everything about you that nobody else gets to see.’
I mirror her position, relaxing into my seat, thinking, so long as she comes, I can just about stomach an hour here. Honestly, if she hadn’t offered to come when I told her my sister had invited her, I still wouldn’t be here.
And if she hadn’t whispered to me, as I lay on her lap on my sofa, that my family love me, no matter what has happened in the past, because that’s what being family means, I wouldn’t have even found the will to reply to Bex’s voice note.
Because Lyra is smarter, funnier and kinder than any other person I know. I trust her. I believe her. Despite knowing that on some level, that’s because I want to believe her words.
I let my family down when I failed Scott. But they’ve begged me to come tonight. Bex has pleaded with me to be here. So maybe Lyra is right. It’s possible that they love me in spite of everything.
I watch her breathe, listening to her inhalations and exhalations in the quiet of her car, not pressuring me at all. Eventually, I ask her, ‘Would it freak you out if I told you I think I dreamed you into existence?’
Her response is a lazy tilt of her lips that gives me the strength I need.
Outside the car, I take her hand in mine and squeeze it as if I’m reassuring her, and I wonder if she can see straight through my fa?ade.
We walk through a plume of cigarette smoke that actually doesn’t make me want in on it at all.
In fact, it irritates me that Lyra has to walk through it.
The carpet in the pub is an old nineties-style pattern.
It’s worn and sticky. The smell of beer – yeast barrels – hits me at the same time Blondie’s ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ assaults my ears.
I’m sixteen again, sneaking into the local boozer on Christmas Eve.
All the oldies rocking out like they’ve been unleashed for one night of the year.
The underage teens hiding out of view with their acne and alcopops so that the bouncers will turn a blind eye until the place is at capacity, or a fight breaks out and threatens to bring in the coppers.
I give Lyra a tight smile, still holding her hand, fingers entwined, as she follows behind me.
In my free hand, I’m holding a gift bag of beauty products and a spa voucher. Lyra insisted she contribute to the gift, so I let her pick everything out and got Dave to give me an advance on next week’s paycheque to buy them.
I stare at the bottles of hard liquor on the shelf behind the long oak bar, disappointed to think, for the first time in months, that I wouldn’t mind sinking a few shots of Dutch courage. Lyra’s hand comes up to my bicep as I hold my next blink and I know she’s reading my mind.
‘Alreet, lad?’ Dave and Kylie are two of the first people we bump into as we reach the back room that’s been hired for Bex.
I doubt it’s coincidence that they’re hanging near the doorway and I’m grateful to them both for it.
We chat to them for a few minutes before going in search of my sister, who’s tucked into an alcove at the far side of the large room, next to a table full of presents and two large foil balloons – 2 and 5.
En route, we pass the buffet that has everything I’d expect – sausage rolls, dips and bread sticks, fried chicken, fried fish goujons, fried chips, fried scotch eggs, pork pies, salted nuts and crinkle-cut crisps in bowls.
I try not to make eye contact with my sister’s guests, who make no effort to pretend they aren’t talking about me, shouting ‘Guy Walker’ to one another above the music.
I do check that Lyra’s okay but still she seems to be taking it all in her stride.
Remarkable, really, because all this party is demonstrating is that she and I are worlds apart.
She should be walking into places like Earl’s Castle, on the arm of a doctor or a lawyer, not a deadbeat who has to check in with his addictions every time he gets anxious.
‘Guy! You came!’
Bex charges at me, near bowling me over and making me lose Lyra’s hand in the process. I spot Lyra across my sister’s shoulder, laughing, and her reaction makes me settle into my kid sister’s hug.
‘Happy birthday,’ I tell her, pulling strands of her long blonde hair from my mouth and holding out the gift bag. ‘This is for you.’
‘Aww, Guy, ya didn’t have to get me anything,’ she says, already untying the bag on top of her gift table and rifling through the contents.
‘Well, Lyra picked everything out,’ I tell her, which is a neat segue into an introduction.
‘Hiya, babe,’ Bex says, thrusting her arms around Lyra. ‘It’s lush to finally meet ya.’
If Lyra’s uncomfortable by my sister’s over-familiarity, she doesn’t show it, and I’m grateful that they drop into conversation about beauty stuff whilst I come round.
My heart rate eventually starts to calm, as my anxiety slowly begins to recede.
This isn’t so bad. Bex is happy to see me.
Maybe, now that I’ve crossed the line, we could start seeing each other again.
Get a coffee. Be half sister and brother, like we were once.
Lyra could be right. Families love each other, no matter what shit has passed between them.
* * *
The party isn’t my scene and though Lyra is trying, I can tell it isn’t hers either. We mostly chat to Dave and Kylie and it transpires that Bex invited Trev and Tally too, but Tally is having twinges that she thinks might be early labour.
I bet she is
I message Trev, who sends a laughing emoji back. He would want to be here as much as I do.
Checking my phone tells me we’ve been here for a whooping twenty-seven minutes and I haven’t yet seen my…
‘Mam.’
She’s walking towards our group of four. Unsteady. Eyes already glossed. As if she started drinking long before the party started. Her arms are outstretched, though, and as much as they’re unexpected, they’re welcome, too.
Her hold is only as familiar as it used to be – we weren’t a physical family, at least not in a caring sort of way – but it’s better than what I’ve been expecting, which was something much darker. Hate. Spite. I don’t know for sure but dark enough that I’ve avoided it since Scott’s funeral.
‘Is this Lyra? Our Bex was just telling me about ya.’
‘Hi, yes, I am. It’s lovely to meet you, Tracy.’
‘That’s me, love. This one’s mam, for me sins.’ She cracks up but Lyra, usually so affable, doesn’t match it. Instead, she watches me across my mam’s shoulder, asking me in a look if I’m okay.
I’m annoyed by the insinuation. Why wouldn’t I be okay?
I’m also annoyed that there’s some kind of unspoken stand-off happening between my mam and my girlfriend, which is completely unlike Lyra.
‘Guy, love, get yer mam a wine, would ya?’ Mam asks. ‘A pink one, love.’
Lyra gives me a stiff smile as I head to the bar. I order my mam’s drink, two more of the same for Dave and Kylie, and a soft drink each for Lyra and me, then lean back on the bar to keep an eye on what’s happening between my mam and Lyra.
They’re just talking. I can’t hear what’s being said but it seems okay. Mam is overly touchy and staggering as she speaks but Lyra seems fine.
‘It’s Guy, isn’t it?’ a lad asks me, sloshing lager from his pint glass as he moves closer to me.
‘Ah, yeah, Bex’s brother,’ I tell him, already knowing that’s not why he’s asking.
‘Bet it’s a comedown walking in here after playing at Wembley, eh?’
Then his mate joins us and I check how my order has advanced – sadly, it’s not ready, because I’d really like to walk away now.
‘Ha way then, give us a tune, mate,’ the drunk friend says.
‘Another time, lads,’ I reply, turning my back on them and facing the server.
‘Ahhh, ha way. You’re billy big time, aren’t ya? Too good for this lot?’
He chortles into his beer in a way that’s more sinister than friendly, and I can feel every sinew in my body tightening, getting ready for what I know will come.
‘Lads, he said no.’ Dave. ‘He’s just here to have a good time with his sister, alreet?’
‘Who’re yey like, his security?’
Dave grins threateningly. Equally as sinister as I’m anticipating the lads’ next move to be. ‘Fuck off or you’ll find out,’ he tells them, baring teeth.
Now I turn, braced. I wasn’t in the market for it but if shit’s going down, I’m not leaving Dave to fight my battles for me.
Wisely, thankfully, the lads move on, but that was my warning. One more drink and I’m taking Lyra home. Getting myself out of this shithole.
I’m on edge again. I don’t want to be here and I don’t want Lyra to be here or seeing this or thinking that I’m like this. Maybe I was. I know I was. But I’m not the kind of man who’s going to pick a fight over nothing because I’ve had too much beer. Not any more.
Back in our group by the door, Mam is slurring her way through recounting childhood memories of me, though I don’t remember most of what she’s talking about – trips to parks, swings, beach ice creams. It sounds nice, loving, but I have no recollection of it.
Every time she mentions Scott, I want to curl in on myself. When her glazed eyes fill with unshed tears, she kills me, because we both know I should have been better. And she lets me hug her – an apology that’s long overdue.
It feels like a moment, something special, an invisible barrier that we’ve needed to cross. It leaves me hopeful that we could salvage a relationship. Have lunch together. Go somewhere or do something nice.
I’m buying into it. More than believing it, I’m wanting it. Wanting her time.
* * *
The nostalgia lasted for minutes. Until Mam pulls me aside and says, ‘Bex wouldn’t want me to ask, love, but she’s having her kitchen done and she’s had a right time with the builders. They’ve kept adding costs on and…’
I zone out, knowing the punchline in any event, understanding why I’m really here. And the fucking thing is, the joke’s on me, because when they hugged me, I thought they really hugged me. And when Lyra said families love each other no matter what, I wanted to have faith in her.
‘How much does she need?’ I ask, not knowing how I can help but knowing I’ll try.