That One Moment (Lost in London #2)(3)
“We asked Gareth but the bastard wouldn’t—” Camden starts but is cut off.
“Oi, I’m not that small anymore! I’ve been doing two-a-days.” Booker frowns and rubs his tricep defensively while maintaining his proud posture.
Truthfully, not one of them is small. They are all over six foot and athletically built. Gareth, Camden, and Tanner are more heavily muscled than Booker, but none of them have an ounce of fat on them.
I grin and rustle Booker’s brown hair affectionately. “You need a cut again.”
“Come home and give me one.” He grins sheepishly and my heart lurches at the tenderness in his eyes. I’ve only lived in my new flat for a year now, and Booker makes it no secret that he misses me living at home. I miss him too. The adorable, cheeky bugger.
“So what are you guys doing here, shouting up my neighbourhood?” I ask, placing my hands on my hips in a motherly, scolding type of way that is all too natural for me when I’m around them.
“You think you can get away with celebrating your birthday without us?” Camden replies, strolling over to me with a devilish smile. He’s such a man-whore that I can hardly look at him without rolling my eyes. He has twinkling blue eyes set in the darkest of lashes that have a way of sucking you right into his games. And of course he wears his blond hair like all the other slutty footballers, having just enough length on top to sweep off to the side. And the prat knows the women can’t resist him. I quit moaning at him about his conquests a long time ago. He’ll never change.
He throws his huge arm around my narrow shoulders and musses my hair. “C’mon, Vi. Off we go.”
I had planned on spending the afternoon on my balcony, soaking up some sun with Bruce, but it’s useless to say no to my brothers. The five of us walk through the top end of Brick Lane Market toward Welly’s Pub—the spot my brothers quickly dubbed their hangout in my neighbourhood.
It’s just finally starting to feel like my home area at last. A few years ago I got a proper job as a designer for Nikon working on high fashion camera bags. Their headquarters is located in a big converted warehouse in Shoreditch, east London, not far from my dad’s home in Chigwell. I turned into a commuter bee every day, until last year when I saw a brilliant penthouse flat open up within walking distance from work. Living in proper east London feels like a fun adventure compared to Chigwell. This part of the city has that gritty, urban edge to it that I find thrilling. It’s chock full of eclectic independent shops, street vendors, and shabby chic pubs. The graffiti-covered warehouses have that quintessential east London vibe that can’t be replicated.
“How’s Doggie Bruce?” Gareth asks, pulling a cap out of his trousers and securing it down low on his head to conceal his face from on-lookers. He suddenly turns to walk backwards so he can eye a pretty brunette we just passed. She shoots him shamelessly obvious bedroom eyes.
“A monster as usual,” I say.
“As long as he’s protecting you, that’s all I care about.”
Several more heads turn as we walk, many people likely recognising Gareth since he’s a defender in the Manchester United Football Club. He was signed at twenty-one and became a starter straight away. He gets recognised everywhere—as do my other brothers—on this side of town.
We stroll into the dimly lit pub and, as it’s not even four o’clock yet, it’s practically empty aside from the few day drunks holding the bar up. Gareth heads to the bar to get us our drinks while the rest of us grab the large, round corner booth that always feels as if it is here just for us. I slide in and eventually end up sandwiched between Booker and Tanner. Camden strides over to help Gareth carry the round of Guinnesses.
One extra Guinness sits ominously in the centre of the table. Gareth looks down and yanks his hat off, smoothing his hand over his dark hair in preparation. With a quick exhale, he raises his glass. “To Vilma on her birthday,” he begins, his hazel eyes glossing over as he looks at me. “You share a lot more than just a name and a birthday with our mum…but you’ll always be Our Vi to us.”
My chin wobbles as the others murmur, “Happy birthday, Vi. Happy birthday, Mum.” We clink our glasses with the spare drink in the centre and tip the dark liquid into our mouths, remaining silent for a moment.
This is the first birthday I’ve spent away from home and, if I’m being honest, I’ve felt a bit emotional about it all day. I’m just newly twenty-five, but I fully admit that I lived at home for longer than I should have. However, when you grow up as the only female in a house full of men, you can’t help but become attached to the feeling of being needed.
Our mother, Vilma Harris, died of cancer when Booker was only one year old. Tanner and Camden had just turned three, and I was four. Gareth was eight, so he remembers a lot more about her than the rest of us, but he rarely speaks of her.
What I do know is that in only a few short months, our father, Vaughn Harris, went from being a professional footballer with a large, happy family, to a single parent of five kids…four of which were under the age of five. It was certainly a game changer for all of us. Dad was a star striker for Manchester United and one of the best they’d ever seen. He was in the prime of his career in the 80s when they won the FA Cup in ‘83 and ‘85. About ten years later, he was still a starter when our mother got the diagnosis of stage four ovarian cancer. It had spread to other organs before she even had a chance to start treatment.