Page 4

A large window looks out across the rolling fields, while floor-to-ceiling wooden bookcases line the walls, filled with well-loved novels. Slowly I trail my fingers along the spines, a smile spreading across my face, before turning around in a circle and breathing in the familiar warmth of old paper. The deep armchairs draped with blankets call to me, inviting me to disappear into them for hours. “I’ll be back soon,” I whisper, reluctantly leaving.

Seriously, where on earth is everyone? How is this any way to run a business for God’s sake?

Do not freak out Bri, just breathe.

Returning to the patio doors I retrieve my case, stepping back into the courtyard ready to admit defeat and sulk quietly in the morning sun. Movement catches my eye. Someone is standing near the firepit. Thank God. Finally, someone who can help.

Chapter 3

Jax

The sun in Scotland feels different. Less imposing somehow, and yet sharper than anywhere else in the world. Like it has something to prove. Which I suppose it does considering how little it visits this beautiful land.

It’s so quiet here I can actually hear myself think. No handlers. No assistants. No makeup artists asking if I can ‘just hold still for a quick touch-up.’

There are no fans pressed against barriers screaming my character’s name instead of mine. And more importantly there are no castmates, colleagues, hangers-on, drinking themselves into oblivion. Because that’s what you do when life is all about the fame, the camera, the Instagram image.

Ten years. Ten bloody years of fangs, fake blood, and people losing their minds over a version of me that doesn’t exist. And now it’s over.

Except it doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like something cracking open inside me.

A year ago, something shifted. Not gradually. Not gently. Just… Suddenly, like the ground underneath everything I thought I knew gave way and I only realised I was falling after it was too late to pretend I wasn’t. Since then, I’ve been trying to live differently. Trying being the operative word.

Running a hand through my hair, I sweep it out of my eyes as I step into the courtyard, taking it in for the first time since arriving. Large outdoor sofas are arranged in a loose square. The deep-cushions inviting enough that you could actually imagine sitting on them for hours reading a book. I can’t remember the last time I read a book, but I suddenly really want to. A firepit stands in the centre of it all, with fairy lights strung overhead, creating a cosy and relaxing atmosphere. Whilst along the edges, planters overflow with wild Scottish flowers in purples, whites, and the odd stubborn burst of yellow, as if they’ve been allowed to grow naturally, rather than being bullied into neatness.

To one side, under a large veranda with climbing ivy and more fairy lights, sits a long wooden dining table with mismatched chairs. And tucked further back, cleverly so, you can see the inside area that’s been reserved for a shared space. Spanning one side of the building it contains a small bar, kitchen, inside dining area and large lounge with sofas in front of an open fire.

You have to pass through it to enter the small complex, using a digital keypad at the front door, ensuring it remains accessible only to those staying here this weekend. A handful of people, since it only caters for six apartments, four of which were already booked when I came across it online the other day.

Naturally I booked it immediately. My agent tried to talk me out of it, of course. ‘You should stay with the others, it’s good for visibility,’ he’d said.

Visibility? I let out a quiet, humourless breath. As if I haven’t been visible enough already.

The whole space here feels welcoming and thoughtfully done. Private but not exclusive. A place that makes 'community' feel appealing without forcing it down your throat. And somehow, it works.

The air here is…. Clean, like properly clean, not that recycled, over-conditioned nonsense you get in hotels, but fresh, damp, green. It smells woodsy, warm, and soothing. Exhaling slowly, a sense of calm envelops me in a way I haven’t felt in years, which I immediately ruin by checking my phone out of habit.

Three missed calls from my agent. Two texts from one of my brothers, both featuring photos of his kids covered in something sticky, smiling like it’s the best day of their lives. A message from a number I didn’t bother saving, ‘I’m in your area this weekend if you fancy some fun?’ I delete that one.

I don’t live that way anymore. Not since I realised there are moments you don’t come back from the same way you went into them. Not since everything stopped being something I could laugh off. After that… I couldn’t go back to being him. The version everyone recognised. The one I’d been performing for years without really thinking about it.

The ‘party boy.’ The headline. The joke people consumed over breakfast. I was tired of him. Tired of waking up to photographs of a life I didn’t recognise anymore, pretending I didn’t see the hollow bits between the flashes. Tired of using noise and people and nights I couldn’t fully remember as a way of not sitting still long enough to think about anything real. And most of all, tired of realising I’d built a life that didn’t require me to be present in it.

I learned the hard way what it feels like when a single moment splits your life into before and after, and you realise you’re never quite sure which version of yourself is supposed to survive it.

I don’t think about it directly. I don’t let myself. But it’s there anyway, always just at the edge of things. In the way I hesitate before getting into cars and in the way silence sometimes feels too loud to sit inside.

Forty-five years old. And I’m not even sure who I am or what comes after the version of me I left behind.

“Excuse me!”

I stop short. Not oh my god, not my name or my character’s name screamed like a victory cry. Just excuse me.

She's standing by the veranda, wrestling with a suitcase that looks far too large and heavy. Mid-thirties, maybe. Or older, it’s hard to tell, but there is something unbothered about her, captivating even. Long red curls spill loose; half-fallen from whatever attempt she’s made to tie them back. Ripped dungarees, scuffed and real, like she actually lives in them. And her eyes, deep brown, steady, the kind you don’t just look at but fall into before you realise you have.

“Yes?”

“You work here, right?”