Darling (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

2: her name, a small town, a sister with conviction

 My manager, Shorty, told me I should stay off social media until things calmed down, so I literally threw my phone out the window of his moving SUV.  It felt sort of freeing, and liberating, disconnecting to that whole world.  Shorty started cursing, and then turned the car around to get the crushed phone.  He said we didn’t want anything else leaking.  What if someone found my phone?!  As if I cared.  The damage was already done.  The next morning, there was a new phone waiting for me.  All the numbers of people I don’t know already pre-programmed into it.  I deleted the dozen or so social media apps off of it as soon as I could.  If I had to have a phone, then it would only be used to make phonecalls.  Strangely enough, people don’t like to call.  That’s too personal.  So that solved that problem.  I cease to exist in this world if I’m not tweeting or texting to posting photos of my bare skin.

My career started out innocent enough.  I was discovered early, by music producer John "Shorty" Masters.  He promised he'd make me a star, and he was right about that.  At the time, I was the perfect combination—young, blond, and completely naive.  I was fresh from a small east coast town and my ignorance was about as deep and untouched as the Mariana Trench.  It was where the nickname "Baby" came from.  I was 16, but I looked 14.  They all said "Billie" was too old for me.  Though I'd always liked my name.  I was named after Billie Holiday, or so my sister told me.  But Shorty coined the name "Baby", and paired with my given last name "Darling", I was already a media sensation.  

Sadly, for the last few weeks I’ve felt my name, my career and my pride being drug through the mud and worse, the public opinion.

****

I walk through the house, trying not to bump into anyone.  People talk to me and I don’t respond.  I make my way up the large, curved staircase, toward my room.  I hesitate at the big double doors that lead to my room, and then open them quickly, having to throw my shoulder against one of them as it sticks.  There’s a flash of naked limbs, and I watch two people fumble in the semi-darkness.  Whoops.  Interrupted something.

“Get out.” I grumble, and two…three bodies rush past me in the dark.  Fuck. Even my room is contaminated by these leeches.  I turn on a lamp, and stare at my bed, which is still made up, but the pillows are knocked off and the comforter is askew.  I roll my eyes, and go into the bathroom.

It’s a room big enough to be a small bedroom.  There’s a huge soaking tub, a giant glass enclosed shower.  The vanity table is big enough for three people to sit at, and there’s a soft, plush chaise lounge in the far corner.  One of my platinum albums hangs framed over the toilet.  How appropriate.  I close the door behind me, lock it, and curl up in the chaise.

Silence.  Nearly.  I can feel the thump of the bass, but the noise is nearly gone.  I pull my knees up to my chest, tucking the vodka bottle tightly in the space, and I hold my breath.  Someone bangs on the bathroom door, but I ignore it.  It doesn’t matter who it is.  I don’t have any friends here.

I think back to my first trip to Los Angeles.  It feels like forever ago and maybe it was.  Nearly ten years ago.  Awards, albums, recording contracts later, and here I am.  Alone in a house full of people.  A stranger in my own home.  I feel as if I am a shell of myself.  Am I Baby darling? Or is Billie still there? Somewhere? Under the makeup, and the bleached white teeth, and the smile that has gotten more and more fake as the people yelling my name has gotten louder and louder.  I barely hear my own voice anymore.

I know I shouldn't complain. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? I asked for this.  To sing, and play music, and do it for a living—a damn good living too.  But I never knew the cost of it.  I never thought I'd lose myself to it.  And now, sometimes, when I'm singing "my" songs, I feel like my voice isn't even my own.  Baby Darling has taken over. Billie just wants to go home.  To her real home.  Where the ocean rolls in sea foam green and big white caps, endlessly rolling, always there.  Ceaseless motion.  Where the air smells clean like seaweed and gulls and fish, and not car exhaust and pollution.               

The last month has been anguish.  Hell.  My soul feels empty.  When I wake up in the mornings, I stare at the ceiling, feeling tears burn down the sides of my face.  I don't care about singing anymore.  I don't care about music. 

 I care that people I trusted stabbed me in the back.  I care that my private moments were sent spiraling, brash and real through the harsh world.  I care that people say it's what I deserve, and what I should expect, being a pop star and all.  I care that I've let people I love down—made them ashamed to know me. I care that I am all alone, in a big expensive house, in a world that I no longer feel a part of.

So, I think it's time to go home.  I don't know if they'll accept me back there, but it's worth a try.  And if I can't be Billie Darling in Small Town, Delaware, then I will say goodbye to her once and for all, sell my soul and let Baby take over completely.

 ****

“Are you okay?” Rachel’s voice sounds far away. 

“I don’t know.” I look down and can see my hands shaking.  Maybe from all the drinking the past week, but I know it’s not normal.  I also can’t quite remember the last time I slept.  I think I slept last night, curled up in the chaise in the bathroom, but it was the weird inbetween sleep.  The music from the party kept me from getting any real rest.

“You sound terrible, Bee.” Her voice softens and I instantly start crying.  I can’t help it.  It’s silent tears, but I can’t stop them.

“I feel terrible.”

“Okay, well come home then.” She says simply.  I feel even worse.  I know my older sister has been going through a lot.  Not the kind of public drama I’ve had, but she’s had her own very real struggles.  On the outside, her life seems pretty sterling.  She’s got an excellent following as a local potter and artist—a job I know she absolutely thrives on.  She’s married to Sam, who is probably the nicest, coolest person in the world.  He’s laid back in a calming way, funny in a down to earth way, and quite possibly the easiest person to talk to in the world.  He also cries as easily as I do, so we often have that in common.  We cry at the same times.  And they have a gorgeous, cozy little beach cottage which sadly, I haven’t been to in nearly six years.  Too busy with my life ruining music career and all that jazz.

But I also know that Rach is 32.  And she’s never had kids.  And though it’s all she used to talk about, she doesn’t talk about it much anymore.  Sam still does if you get him drunk enough, ever the optimist.  I’ve never asked her the specifics, not wanting to pry.  But as Rachel invites me so easily back to her home, without resentment or rancor, I suddenly feel a heaviness on my heart. I haven’t been there for her.  I know I haven’t.  I’ve been too absorbed in my own life. 

And now she is, without hesitation, telling me I can come home.   It’s more her home now than my own, but my heart swells and I don’t know if ‘grateful’ even comes close to how I feel.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Don’t be dumb.  We have the extra room you can stay in.  I’ve been working night and day on a huge order, and Sam’s been swamped at the college, but I think the fresh air will do you good.  There’s no cameras here either.” She pokes, but it’s gently, and I smile through my tears.  She wouldn’t be my sister if she didn’t put salt on the wound, just a teensy bit.

“Thank you.  You’ve no idea…” I fade off, my breath hitching in my throat.

“I worry about you, Bee.  All the time.  Even more so now...” Her voice is so gentle, and I feel my heart nearly give out with a desire to be there, on her couch, wrapped in a blanket and talking until all hours of the morning.

“I’m worried too, Rach.  I’m just…lost.” I admit.  I look around, at my trashed house.  The party has been over for some time, but I haven’t bothered to clean up.  Trash is everywhere, and it’s beginning to smell.  My cleaning service, Sunnyside, is scheduled to come within the next day or so, and I have a feeling I am going to owe them my first born child. 

“Alright, well come home and when you get here, we can fix things.  And find your path again.” She says.  Rachel always has a way of stating things so simply, it’s hard not to believe them.  She says things with conviction.  I would follow her blindly. I do follow her blindly.  It may have something to do with losing both of our parents when we were young.  She helped raise me, the best that she could, until music stole me away.

“I’ll catch the next flight.” I say, and for the first time in awhile, I feel hopeful.