But what could he do after this? Was it possible to go from being in a wildly successful band to… what? Serving pints back at Buck Shot?
Stan sighed and rolled over.
He had his own life to worry about too. He’d built a career in the past few years, a successful one that he loved very much. The thing with fashion was that Stan could bring his work with him, whether that was to Tokyo for six months or Johannesburg for six weeks, reporting while immersing himself in a different culture. Travel wasn’t an essential part of his work, but it forced him to consider other points of view in an industry that tended to inspire singular ways of thinking.
He’d always been drawn to the vibe of London, though; there was no point in denying it. Even now, with everything else going on, Stan was itching to get out into the bustle of it all and find some inspiring independent business making clothes or jewellery or shoes and write features about them. He knew, without a doubt, that he could find that here.
Maybe tomorrow he’d send an email to Parsons. He wasn’t signed on to teach next semester yet. Students would likely be anticipating his lectures, but he hadn’t committed to any. After almost two years of living in New York, it could be time to come back to London.
Chapter Four
Tone disappeared during the days to somewhere he didn’t deign to tell Ben about. Sometimes he was around in the evenings. Other times Ben didn’t see him from when he rolled out of bed in the mornings to when he crawled back in it.
Not that he spent much time out of bed.
With Stan now in charge, rather than the committee of his friends, Ben was allowed his laptop back. That meant he could lie in bed all day and watch Netflix or porn and wank himself silly, and Stan was content to let him.
Stan had gotten the test results back: Ben was clear of any infections. Ben studied his spunk, oddly grateful to know he didn’t have HIV. Then he wiped his hand off on the bed sheet.
Ben knew Stan was working hard on something. Whenever he went to the kitchen, Stan was hunched over his own laptop, typing away or frowning at the screen, or sometimes talking to someone on a video call. Ben didn’t ask him what he was doing. He didn’t care, and it was none of his business anyway.
They had been back in London for five days when Ben’s cabin fever suddenly snapped. Stan had been forcing him to wash every day, so Ben could just pull on clothes from the H&M bag, yanking off the labels as he went, and he was ready to go.
“I’m going out,” he announced over his shoulder as he headed for the door.
As he expected, that caused a reaction.
“Give me five minutes; I’ll be with you,” Stan said, rushing to his feet.
“I just want to take a walk. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Ben, you know I can’t let you out on your own.”
Ben stared him down, pure loathing throbbing through his body. It made his fingers shake.
“I’m not going to get drugs.”
He was definitely going to get drugs.
“Ben.”
Shit. In the time they’d been arguing, Stan had pulled on shoes and a jacket that were next to the door, ready to go in an emergency. Almost like Stan had planned it. Knowing Stan, he probably had.
“Look, I’ve been stuck here with nothing to do for the past week, and I’m going fucking crazy. I just need to get out and away from you people for five fucking minutes, okay? I can’t stand looking at you anymore.”
Stan blinked. A colour rose on his cheeks, and Ben thought Stan might slap him.
Then Stan slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“The number for the landline is programmed in,” he said. “Under ‘Camden Flat’. If you need anything, call me.”
Ben thought about refusing him. Then he snatched the phone out of Stan’s hand and stormed out.
For a while he did walk, his hood up and his head down, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he avoided eye contact. That worked here; no one wanted to look at anyone else anyway.
Ben knew there was no need to be rude to Stan. He’d been nothing but nice ever since he’d let himself into Ben’s room in LA. Ben definitely was not sick of looking at his face. Stan had a nice face. He’d missed it.
Despite the meandering route he took to get there, Ben knew exactly where he was going. By the time he arrived, he’d worked up a full head of steaming self-loathing.
Ben had bought the three-bedroom flat on Baker Street for about two million about a year after the first album came out. At the time it seemed like an obscene amount of money. It was an obscene amount of money, especially considering Ben had never really lived there. He’d been told to think of it as an investment property.
After living in some of the most mouldy, grotty accommodation London had to offer, the thought of an investment property whose only purpose was to sit empty and make money made Ben feel even worse. So he didn’t think about it much at all and made no effort to live there.
Marylebone was just on the other side of Regent’s Park, so he could walk through and pretend he was a normal person, like all the nice families that were out, walking their dogs or playing with their kids in the leafy shade. London had warmed up in the past couple of days so he stood out for wearing a hoodie, but still no one looked at him.
Out of everything London had to offer, Ben appreciated the anonymity the most. He wasn’t sure why he’d made such a fuss about not wanting to come back here. London was awesome.
Ben didn’t have a key to the flat. He wasn’t even really sure where the keys were. He did have his identification, though, and the pass code, and the building had a doorman who could let him have the spare key.
Despite being so close to the bustle of Baker Street, inside the building was eerily quiet. Ben glanced at the lift, remembered the mirrors that lined it, and decided to take the staircase. His flat was only on the second floor. His feet didn’t make any noise as he climbed, the carpet on the stairs was that thick. And no one ever used them. Why would they, when there was a perfectly serviceable lift?
Ben unlocked the apartment and didn’t bother to lock it again, just toed off his trainers and kicked them to the side and pulled off his hoodie.
He hadn’t bothered decorating when he’d moved in, so it still looked like a pristine show home. The whole thing was far too classy and modern chic for his liking, all white and cream and grey with the odd colour for “accent.”
Without bothering to look around, Ben headed back to the master bedroom. He’d slept here a few times, when he didn’t want to go back to the house, or if he needed some time away from the rest of the band. After he’d first bought the flat, he’d felt like he should at least stay in it a few times.
When everything kicked off, it was the flop he used to get high.
The bedroom had a huge built-in wardrobe, with no clothes hanging in it at all. Ben thought there might be some clothes in the chest of drawers but didn’t bother to look. He wasn’t here for clothes.
The built-in safe came with the flat, and Ben had programmed the code so no one else knew what it was. He punched in the numbers with trembling fingers, almost sobbing with relief when it beeped and clicked open.
He didn’t have quite as many pills as he’d thought, but there was plenty of coke and Mandy, some Vicodin he’d brought back from the States one time, and a whole fucking box of beautiful, beautiful lorazepam. These were actually prescribed too, his name printed on the side of the box.