Chapter 64: Burnout Paradise

Chapter 64: Burnout Paradise

Bas’ Old Foster Home, Cardiff. May 2011.

Early adolescent psychological development was a constant tug of war between good and evil. As a den mother who had spent nigh on two decades raising a football team’s worth of children almost annually, Mrs. Stephens was well aware how pivotal a poor or positive influence was.

Children were impressionable. Stupid, too. 

Sound advice and common sense were merely noise that went in one ear and out the other, primarily to make room for any charlatan’s chatter.

The proverbial shoulder devil and angel made manifest. So, that’s why it was so important to monitor what media they consumed. 

Bing-boings of cartoons and other various sound effects featured in those outlandish Japanese animations weren’t out of place. As much as she might wish the opposite, current affairs wasn’t exactly regularly scheduled programming at the house. Yet, as she entered the common living area, Mrs Stephens heard the news, of all things, blaring out of the tele’s speakers. 

Walking in on typically hyperactive children glued silently to the screen was abnormal - unless the topic of conversation happened to be someone in particular. “What has that boy done now?” Mrs. Stephens bristled, and the circle of TV watchers gained another member.

“Following the successful launch of the latest instalment in the franchise, American fuzz were left furious at the Fast Five premiere when the after-party caused quite the aftermath. Which shouldn’t come as much of a surprise, since the donuts were already over by the time they got there.” The image of the entertainment correspondent shrunk, replaced by a small window of grainy footage in the corner, expanding to fill up the screen. 

And there he was, the role model of choice for her brood of brats desperate for a big brother figure, caught making a nuisance of himself. 

Bas’ international stage level mischief was in the round this time. 

A ring of cheering onlookers excitedly pumped their fists in the air, while using camera phones to film freehand. Interspersed headlights of fancy cars cast an inescapable (and flatteringly picturesque) spotlight on the central scene being made. 

Some sort of convertible SUV billowed smoke as it painted the public parking lot with burning rubber. Bas, half behind the steering wheel and half hanging out the driver’s side window, was cackling his head off while putting his rally lessons to the worst possible use. While his passengers - particularly the two strapped into the open air seats at the back of the car - held on for dear life.

Their block party DJ was doing an adorable job belting out tunes, but the screeching co-stars and squealing tyres were overwhelming. 

“When interviewed by curious partygoers after stumbling off their car seats, several of the participating stars had much to say about Bas Rhys’ driving skills not seen since Tokyo Drift. Sun Kang, the lead alongside Bas in that film, was positively and literally giddy. Quoted as saying: ‘the first time I met Bas he was being pulled out from under a flipped-over car that he’d crashed. So, you know, this is a major improvement!’ Others, such as Paul Walker, weren’t as effusive with their praise. ‘You ain’t never gonna catch me riding shotgun while some maniac guns it next to me again. I’ll promise you that right now, man!’ Bas Rhys himself was unavailable for comment.”

“Mrs. Stephens?” One of the young boys chimed in.

“Yes, dear?” 

“Can we go pick Bas up from the airport ourselves? Maybe he could drive the bus on the way back if we do.” There was far too much reverence in his tone, and many of the surrounding children’s faces lit up far too bright for her liking.

Just imagining Bas with free rein at the helm sent her head spinning.

That’s enough of that. Snapping her hand forward, she snatched the remote away and clicked the flat screen off. “No, that shan’t be happening. Bas doesn’t really drive like that - it’s for the movie.” Lying to her charges hurt, but far less than her back would from any ensuing clean up that inevitably proceeded them emulating Bas. Mrs. Stephens was still buffing the scuff marks post the table dancing debacle. “Now, come along. He’ll be here any minute, anyway. Let’s tidy up. We want to be presentable for him, don’t we?”

Right as she calmed collective nerves, a sudden, aggressive rapping at the manor door shattered their sense of serenity.

Speak of the devil, and he shall arrive. 

Ecstatic boarders raced out towards the main foyer. It took every fibre in her being to not elbow her way to the front of the line in her own anticipation. 

“Honey, I’m home!” Her boy had arrived, which meant she and the other matrons would have to work overtime to counterbalance him. At least if she wished to maintain any semblance of authority after he left again. 

Crossing the threshold and rounding the corner, Mrs. Stephens bore witness to a scene eerily reminiscent of the news report she’d suffered through. 

A hoop of hollering youngsters surrounded Bas. A select few hung off and swung off his limbs as he employed his own brand of helicopter parenting. As anxiously as Mrs. Stephens yearned to latch on to him herself, she stayed back, leaned on the wall, and imbibed the view with a tender smile. 

The bulk of residents who’d been raised alongside Bas (before he’d moved away) had long since aged out of the home. Only the current eldest were from his batch. She was proud to say the rest had secured placements between higher education and occupation without issue. Most of the newer additions were more familiar with his image as Harry Potter than Bas Rhys. 

Nevertheless, that didn’t stop him from treating each and everyone of them as if he’d known them since his own days beneath her skirts. 

Then the one who still hid behind them made herself known 

Ellie, nose in the air, imperiously marched ahead and halted the merriment. “Well, well, well. Look who’s graced us with his presence.” 

Dropping the other sprogs back on their feet, Bas advanced on Ellie. He palmed her forehead, rattled her brains a moment, then drew her gaze to the suitcase next to him. “Missed me, did you? Don’t worry, mum. Got my bags packed, and I’m ready to move into my old room - indefinitely.” 

Ellie wrapped her smaller hands around his wrist, but it was apparent to Mrs. Stephens that she wasn’t trying very hard to pry him away. “Yeah, right! Don’t think moving back here is gonna be so easy. Best we can offer you is a tent out back. You’ll have to pitch it yourself. Take it or leave it!” 

Indignation writ across his face, Bas finally turned to look at her with a gaping mouth and raised eyebrows. “Who does this sassy little girl think she is?”

Unbecoming, though it was, her facade cracked with a stiff snort when Ellie and Bas teasingly stuck their tongues out at each other. Repaying Ellie’s cheek, Bas tugged at the poor girl’s pig-tail. Who, in turn, retaliated with a swift kick to Bas’ shin. 

Clearly, Ellie wasn’t satisfied with Bas’ increasingly infrequent visits. Too embarrassed to confess that outright, she instead defaulted to sibling rivalry.

Their bickering quickly devolved from traded barbs to a playful chase. Peals of giggles and assorted war cries joined them in their mayhem straight out onto the front lawn. Worried matrons hurriedly hefted their frocks and followed in their wake.

“Don Stephania.” Fleeting as she was prone to make her presence, Mrs Stephens nearly missed that Federica remained part of Bas’ convoy. Hauling the overstuffed piece of luggage Bas had abandoned, she brought it forth and set it in front of Mrs. Stephen’s feet. “It is wonderful to see you again. Bas brings his humble offerings.” 

Any clothes Bas packed were likely lying in whichever hotel or BnB he was staying at. The suitcase he’d baited an argument with was presumably packed with toys, snacks, and whatever other paraphernalia he could think of. 

“Do dispense with the formalities, Federica. Come, I’ll put the kettle on, and you can regale me with Bas’ unpublicized misadventures.” Mrs Stephens needed an accurate accounting, so that she could gauge precisely how much of Bas’ stuffing she’d hug when her turn with him came ‘round.

–

If Bas had energy in spades, the rest of the children had all four suits worth combined.  

After tidying up, and tucking in the last nodding head into bed, Mrs. Stephens quietly tiptoed into her own personal suite to a chorus of soft snores.

Strewn sideways across the foot of her bed, Bas crumpled his clothes and her covers alike. 

Choosing not to wake him up immediately, she watched him sleep.

The rise and fall of his chest sent an affectionate pang coursing through her own. His face was slack, sans even a brush of makeup or an iota of pretence masking his true expression. She swept her finger across his bangs, his curls parted to reveal dark bags under his eyelids.

That pang in her bosom transformed rapidly to heartbreak.

He looked exhausted. 

She took a seat beside him, her weight shifting the mattress was enough to tousle him. It was only as he blearily blinked himself awake that it occurred to her how busy Bas had kept himself. “I’m up! I’m up!”

“And here I’d thought you’d forgotten me.”

A goofy smirk stole across his lips. He bumped his shoulders with hers, then unceremoniously tilted all the way down and plopped his head on her lap. “Never!”

“You proclaim that with such confidence, yet only avail yourself for a single, measly day. For a massive movie star, you don’t quite live it outside of a few performative incidents. Care to enlighten as to why you insist on running yourself so ragged?” Mrs. Stephens didn’t intend to harangue, but it was a difficult task to keep her frustrations from seeping out in her tone. 

“Can’t help it. I’m knackered. These last few months simultaneously filming and fending off failure from Limitless has been an ordeal.” He sighed. “I’ve also got to secure my next projects - at least the ones not being decided for me. The final Potter press junket is gonna be a doozy, too. And it won’t be long after that premiere that I’ll be back on the road promoting Limitless as well. And my dance card’s only gonna get fuller as time goes on. Not like I can doff any of it off - it’s my own bloody career.” His hand rose to rub at the bridge of his nose, but she was quick to swat it away. It was a bad habit to develop. 

Immediately, he shot her an exaggerated frown; she rolled her eyes and soothingly began massaging his temples. His smarmy, satisfied expression afterwards made it appear as if he’d won that argument - but she had the silly boy right where she wanted him. 

“There must be more to your life than mere work, Bas! Hand to God, I can’t remember a time since before you gave your GCSEs that you took a break. Between making movies and every adjacent activity entailed, your endorsements, extracurriculars-”

“Not to mention my supremely active romantic life.”

She boxed his ears for that. “Certain things even I need not be privy to.” Federica had been tactful in her communiqué, but it was sufficient enough for Mrs. Stephens to read between the stuck-page lines. Less said about filling in the blanks, the better. “My point is solely that it’s alright to take your foot off the accelerator, including those PR performances you’re putting on. At least for a time, Bas.” 

“How strange… I never fathomed that you’d be the one telling me to go bunking.”

“Have I ever sent you to school with a fever?” 

He chuckled at her quick riposte. “Fair enough. A breather can’t hurt, I guess. Probs other aspects of my life I’ve been neglecting.”

“Like saving yourself from homelessness, perhaps?” She asked pointedly questioned. “Don’t forget, you owe me a new key.”

“Oh, aye?” Ever the constant challenger when faced with his own vulnerability, her boy facetiously made to sit. “Better get right on that.”

“Don’t you render the entire point of our heart to heart moot - I didn’t mean right this second!” She pulled him back with a possessive rake of her nails through his locks. “But as it stands, young Ellie has the right of it. You can’t keep camping out on sofas and guest rooms.”

“Out of the mouth of babes…”

Yes, indeed. “Wisdom.” She nodded.

“No, actually. I was gonna say snark. That one’s got quite the bite to her, I tell you what!”

She reprimanded him with a bruising pinch of (and for) his cheek. “Where does she get it from, I wonder?”