Chapter Two

Tristan drove like I imagine a blind guy with a death wish and only a vague understanding of the art of motoring would drive. He spent only a small fraction of the journey actually looking at the road, keeping up a steady stream of conversation with Anabelle – who got to sit in the front, by the way, while I was in the back seat with my duffle bag, even though I’m sure it’s illegal in England for kids to sit in the passenger seat under the age of ten – and at one point, I’m pretty sure, taking both hands off the wheel to rummage around under his seat. I craned my neck to try and see but his hands were back in plain view before I could get a good look.

Still, even though he dodged traffic like he was on a motorcycle rather than a car (and driving on the wrong side of the road I might add) we didn’t even come close to having an accident. It was like the car knew what to do without any prompting from him, and we arrived in Notting Hill safe and sound, unless you count my heart palpitations from fear.

I’ll die in this country.

The house, of course, was huge. I already knew from their fancy car, their names, their accent, and the fact that they needed an au pair that these people had to be wealthy, and I wasn’t wrong. While the house wasn’t a sprawling mansion with miles and miles of land in every direction, it wasn’t your typical two-storey semi-detached either. It was Victorian, about four floors high, with a whimsical garden full off weeping willows and pretty flowers and trickling natural-looking water features, and climbing ivy stretched across one half of the front exterior.

I had to admit, in the beauty stakes it pretty much surpassed any modern tourist apartment I might have lived in in France.

‘You’re upstairs,’ Tristan said shortly when we got inside. I wasn’t sure what that meant, seeing as there were so many floors, but he continued, ‘Right at the top. Anabelle will show you.’ And with that he disappeared further into the house. I got the feeling he didn’t like me very much. But then, Tristan seemed like the kind of boy who didn’t really like anybody very much. I thought that if I hadn’t seen him with Anabelle, I would have figured him for a complete asshat.

‘Come with me,’ Anabelle said, with all the solemnity of a six year old given a great responsibility, and I followed her up the stairs, listening as she pointed out what was where. ‘There’s a bathroom in your room,’ she explained, ‘so except for looking after me and eating you don’t really have to leave it. If you don’t want to.’

I thought this was a weird thing to say. Did she not like me either? Did they want me to stay in my room when I wasn’t working? Maybe I should have tried harder not to seem so grumpy when they met me at the airport. I cringed inwardly. This was where my childishness had gotten me.

‘That’s my room,’ she said, and I looked at the door she was pointing at, expecting to see it covered with posters and stickers like the sign she’d made with my name on it, like the doors of my friends’ little brothers and sisters, but there was nothing. It was just a door, like all the other doors in the house so far.

‘And that’s Tristan’s room,’ she continued, when we were on the third floor. The door was half-open, and I peered inside as surreptitiously as I could. It was dark, like I’d expected it to be, the walls painted black, with a black and white bedspread. He didn’t have any posters or pictures that I could see, but I only had a few seconds to be nosy before Anabelle led me up the last flight of stairs.

At the top there was only one door, and I realised that my room was the only room on the top floor. She opened it, and I was surprised when I went in to see it was an attic room. The beams holding up the roof were displayed and the floor uncarpeted, but it was clean and airy. There was a porthole window over my bed and a large window on the other wall, looking out into the back garden, which was just as pretty and fairytale-like as the one in the front.

‘My parents will be home soon, they had to work, but then we’ll all go out to dinner,’ Anabelle said after a couple of seconds. I dumped my bags on the bed and did my best to smile. She paused before leaving, then came up and hugged me around the waist.

Surprised, and maybe a bit uncomfortable, I patted the top of her head.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Cody James,’ she said, when she pulled away. ‘I don’t like being on my own.’ And then she left.

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After I’d unpacked I sat awkwardly and boredly on my bed, wondering what to do until Tristan and Anabelle’s parents came home. After a few moments of furious debate, I decided that I didn’t give a crap if they liked me or not, and strolled confidently out of my room and back down to the ground floor, noticing as I passed that Tristan’s bedroom door was now closed. I wondered if he was inside, and if so what he was doing, and if he was really as unfriendly as he seemed or maybe he was just tired or having a bad day.

The house seemed pretty much empty; Anabelle had disappeared along with her brother, and there was no sign of these chefs and maids and whatever else Tristan had mentioned earlier. I found myself in the living room, where there were a bunch of photos displayed on a set of shelves. They were all in identical frames and seemed to chronicle the lives of the Darlington family, from early wedded bliss to a photo that could have been taken yesterday of Tristan and Anabelle.

There were two things that surprised me about these photos. Firstly, the one of the wedding – it was definitely wedding, there was confetti still floating in the air and the two subjects were looking at each other like they were crazy in love – contained two guys. One man, your stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome, was smiling slightly as he looked down at the shorter dude, gazing into his eyes. Gazing right back, the other guy was blonde and beaming broadly. Their hands were clasped and both wore a wedding band on their ring fingers.

I guess I shouldn’t have been shocked, being gay myself, that same sex families existed in England and that I might have been placed with one, but when nobody tells you anything I guess you expect the most obvious outcome. I’d been expecting a harried man and woman with a bunch of screaming brats, all ugly with bad teeth, and what I’d gotten was two married guys with a hot son and an adorable, quiet daughter.

But as I gazed over the other photos, I noticed something else a little off. In the early photos of the family, Anabelle was missing (obviously not having been born yet) but another little girl who looked kind of like her was beaming at the camera, alongside a miniature Tristan. She was older than him and they were obviously related – same colour eyes and hair – but she only appeared in three of the pictures, and then it was like she’d never existed. Around the age of ten she dropped out of the photos altogether and didn’t appear in any of the more recent ones, not at Anabelle’s school play or Tristan’s sports events. Was she a cousin or something? I leaned closer and peered and I swear the smile on her face widened, her eyes blinked.

Shocked, I stumbled backwards at the same time as a voice demanded, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Uh,’ I said dumbly, whipping around to see Tristan staring at me dispassionately. I looked back at the photo but it wasn’t moving; of course it wasn’t, it had been a trick of my imagination. ‘Nothing. Just looking around,’ I said shakily to Tristan. Should I ask him about her? He already didn’t like, it wasn’t like I could piss him off any more.

‘Don’t touch those,’ he muttered, but he didn’t sound unfriendly. ‘Maya never remembers to clean them.’ He came and stood beside me, gazing at the photos silently.

‘Who’s that girl?’ I chanced asking softly, pointing at one of them together. ‘She looks like you.’

He continued to look quietly at the photos for a few seconds, then glanced down at me. I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes, but I knew it wasn’t happiness. ‘Don’t worry about her,’ he said monotonously, then added quietly, ‘she’s gone.’

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I spent dinner in a haze of confusion, trying to figure out how I could figure out who the little girl was. I don’t know why it was so important to me – I didn’t even know these people, and if they found out I was snooping in their business it would make for a very awkward summer – but I wanted to know and this little jaunt to England aside, I am not used to not getting what I want.

The Darlingtons were as their name suggested; sweet and quite lovely. They introduced themselves to me as Gregory and Edwin, which, I’m not going to lie, struck me as charmingly quaint and British of them. How lovely of them to oblige me by being so quintessentially English.

Gregory was the taller, darker of the two and seemed quite reserved but friendly, while Edwin was surprisingly camp and very enthusiastic to know everything about me.

I said my name was Cody and I was sixteen and after that I couldn’t really think of anything to say because let’s face it, I’ve never done anything or been anywhere that could make for an interesting anecdote. I’ve never even left my home town.

The restaurant we ate at was quiet and dignified if not outright fancy, and since they were paying and I felt awkward I just got a salad and some soup, then watched enviously as the others all dove into steaks and casseroles and pasta dishes.

Conversation flowed pretty smoothly with little to no input from me; as suspected Tristan is kind of silent, and seemed to be the kind of guy who can say in one sentence what other people (me included) need several paragraphs to convey. I guess he’s like Gregory, while Anabelle is more like Edwin; they’re both more open.

These observations led me to question about their mother, but only to myself. They had to have the same mother, since they looked so alike (not to mention to mystery girl from the photos) and probably the same father as well, but whether that was Gregory or Edwin or either of them I had no idea.

When we got back it was late and Anabelle had to be carried to bed by Gregory, as she had fallen asleep in the car. I was pretty wrecked myself, the jet lag really setting in now, and I saw Tristan smiling slightly at me before nodding to the stairs, dismissing me from any duties I might be expected to perform any other night.

I trudged the three flights of stairs to my attic room and collapsed on the bed without even taking off my shoes or clothes, falling promptly asleep. In the moments before I lost consciousness though, I had to admit to myself that this was shaping up to be a more interesting summer than I’d originally thought. An arrogant hottie, a married gay couple, a mystery little girl, and all in the heart of England, a country so removed my usual little world that it made these facts all the more fascinating.

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A/N: It's surprisingly difficult keeping cody American haha, I keep accidentally giving him Irish and British phrases and slang before I re-read what I've written and remember haha XD

Vote and comment please my lovely muffins ^.^