Hello, everyone :). This will just be a short fic - maybe five or six chapters, just to see how many of you are still willing to read Liarla fics before I post some new ideas I've had. I love Liarla as a pairing (we'll ignore the cousin situation for the meantime, haha), and I love writing about them. I'd really appreciate your responses as to whether you still love them, too, or whether you'd prefer me to incorporate Peter into my new fics instead of Liam (I'm eventually hoping to convert to Narla fics, but I'm not too confident writing Nick as a character yet. Plus, I feel disloyal to Carter :P).
The other thing I'd like to know, for all of my stories, is whether you'd prefer longer but less frequent updates (1,500 - 2,000+ words) or shorter but more frequent updates (I always try to update with at least 1,000 words). This upsates is just over 1,600, not including the Author's Note. As I said, I would really appreciate your feedback, and it will be taken into consideration.
I came up with this idea tonight, after reading a completely unrelated fic about two former lovers meeting again. This is also inspired by Adele, hence the title.
On the night of the Stag and Hen parties, 16th October 2008, to be precise, Carla disappears. Instead of telling Liam that she doesn't love him, going back to her party and crumbling by the roadside as she watches him die in Maria's arms later that night, she jumps in a taxi and goes far enough away that no one will be able to get to her, ultimately saving Liam's life, unbeknownst to her. And then-... Well, I think I'll let Carla tell her own story...
Hope you like it and thank you so much for reading,
Chloe xoxo
When We Were Young
Tony just could not tear his narrowed eyes from him. He hated him with every cell of his body, in fact, he had never loathed a man more. And Tony was an extremely vengeful human being. Yet, a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he watched him take a melancholy swig of his beer. For Liam Connor was going to die tonight. Everything was planned and set in place, and finally, Tony would have his Carla all to himself. Never again would he have to experience the agony that he felt whenever he knew that they were together, or the contorting in his stomach when he caught them glimpse at each other across the bar in the pub. Liam would be dead, and he and Carla would be happy. Finally.
Liam had been disappearing all night. Taking the opportunity for some stolen moments with Carla, no doubt. During their own Stag and Hen parties. They had no shame. The last time he'd re-entered the jolly bar that 'Tony's Tartan Terrors' had found themselves in, the lovestruck expression on his faced had been wiped clean and replaced by an overcast shadow; something had changed him, something had made him feel pain. Tony scoffed bitterly. Trust Liam to ruin his pleasure. He'd been looking forward to watching him die while he was at the happiest peak in his life. Still, he thought to himself, shrugging away the negativity. Liam Connor would soon be nothing but an unpleasant memory.
Tony was jolted from his thoughts by the shrill ringing of a mobile phone, and his acquaintance, Steve McDonald, scrambling to answer it.
"'Chelle?" he practically yelled over the heavy thudding of the bar. Tony watched him in curiosity. Michelle, Steve's girlfriend, Liam's sister and Carla's best friend, had been so insistent on keeping the Stags and the Hens separate that night that he was surprised she was calling. "What do you mean she's not there?" Confused, a tipsy Steve covered the bottom of his phone with his hand and glanced over at Tony. "Tony, have you heard from Carla?"
Eyes growing wide with panic, Tony shook his head. "No, why? What's wrong?"
"Michelle says she's missing. She's been gone from the party for well over an hour now." Tony quickly looked over at Liam, who appeared to be as shocked and concerned as he was. Carla obviously wasn't with him. Where on Earth was she? The Stags all rose to their feet and filed out of the bar to join the search party that the girls of Weatherfield had already begun. Little did they know that Carla was nowhere to be found. Tony sighed. His plan for Liam would have to wait for another occasion.
It had been almost ten years since I'd left Weatherfield. Well, not merely Weatherfield; Manchester, and the UK. Ten years since I'd rocked up on my best friend Suzie's doorstep in Los Angeles in floods of tears with a broken heart. Ten whole years since I'd last spoken to Liam. I'd kept in frequent contact with Michelle, of course. I'd let everybody know that I was okay as soon as my plane had landed in the States, once it was too late for anyone to stop me from leaving. I didn't feel guilty. I'd left for good reason.
I'd just found out that Liam's wife was pregnant with another baby after losing their first so tragically. He and I had been planning to run away together, but her unexpected news had stopped me in my tracks. I couldn't do it; to him, to her, or to their baby. But, equally, there was no way in hell that I'd have been able to live and work on the same street as them, watching them raise their beautiful baby together without being able to scream. So I had disappeared.
I know that there had been an incident between Tony, my ex-fiancé, and Liam, my secret lover, after I'd left. Tony had nearly killed him, he'd mowed him down and left him for dead. But Liam had lived, and Tony had been sentenced to life imprisonment. In all honesty, the incident had almost triggered me to return to Weatherfield, but only days later, Michelle had text me a photograph of Maria's ever-growing baby bump, blissfully unaware of how far I'd fallen in love with her older brother, and the sight had driven a knife through my stomach. So I'd stayed put, in the all-year-round sunshine, with the beaches and the tanned, muscular men with six-packs and gorgeous accents. The lifestyle really suited me.
I'd been surprised to see the message from Michelle, just a couple of weeks before her 42nd birthday, coaxing me home to attend her fancy party. She had chosen not to do anything for her big 40th, what with her son Ryan being away and her husband Steve playing the fool, as per usual. Then, the following year, she'd tragically lost a baby, and that had brought any celebratory proceedings skidding to a halt. This party was supposed to be a belated-40th birthday party, as she had referred to it. And apparently, it would mean the world to her if I could be there. We hadn't seen each other in the flesh for almost ten years, and although we'd texted and spoken on the phone and Skyped each other half to death, it wasn't the same. So, bizarrely, I agreed.
The flight back to the UK was hell. Thoughts of him plagued my mind, and I chose to convince myself that he wouldn't be there. That I wouldn't have to see him. That, for some reason or another, he'd be out of town, choosing to skip his little sister's big birthday party and take his beloved wife and son on a surprise weekend away. Other than a photograph of his tiny newborn baby, which Michelle had sent to me the day after his birth, I hadn't heard a word about Liam Connor since. I didn't even know if he was still living local. He could be living in Cyprus with his wife's family for all I knew – and hoped. And if he had a high-flying, well-paid job, which he was more than capable of, then it would be completely understandable if he were to swerve the party. After all, he'd celebrated the last nine birthdays of Michelle's with her; where had I been? Hidden away more than 5,000 miles from them all, desperately trying to get over him. I sighed, adjusting my eye mask to shield my eyes from the cabin lighting, reclining my first-class chair, and attempting to sleep, or at least to escape from my thoughts of Liam just for a few hours.
I wasn't staying anywhere near the street, even though Michelle had insisted that they had a spare room over at the Rovers Return, the pub where she and Steve lived with his mother. I couldn't face it. Instead, I'd booked myself into a hotel a few miles away, intending on grabbing a taxi after the big party tomorrow night. Much to Steve's dismay, Michelle had booked a large private function room in town for her party, insisting that she didn't want the affair to be 'just another gathering of regulars with some balloons at the Rovers'. I didn't really blame her, and I was relieved. At least I didn't have to go back to that street, to where they presumably lived together, a happy little family.
I didn't bother to unpack once I reached the luxurious hotel room, merely dumping my suitcase in the corner of the room, but making sure to take my dress for the following evening out and hooking it on the door of the spacious wardrobe. Absentmindedly, I fingered the delicate lace detail of the elegant little navy blue number. I'd toyed with the idea of wearing a red dress – he'd always loved me in red – but I thought that that'd be a poor reflection of the woman I'd become. I was older now, and although I was not doubting that I could pull it off, I didn't want to stand out too much when I'd been hiding away for so long. Besides, I wasn't trying to seduce him. If he was even there at all. He was married, and he had a child, and he was happy.
And living in Cyprus with his in-laws and a swanky job, I tried to convince myself, perching on the edge of the bed and drawing in a deep breath, before slowly releasing it. I tried to envision myself wearing the dress, which would cling to my curves and would show just the right amount of cleavage without being too trashy and, of course, would show off my gold tan, standing with faces of the past, just like nothing had ever happened. Like I'd never left. Honestly, the thought sent a shudder down my spine. So much had changed since I'd left Weatherfield. I had no idea who still lived local or who'd moved away, who had married and had children, who had moved to town or who had died. I didn't know who owned the factory now. It had been me and Tony, but I'd got Michelle to hastily organise a transfer of my shares to him after I'd left. An apology for deserting him, in a way. More's the pity. Obviously, he wasn't the sole owner anymore, being in prison and having no other close relatives to take over, other than a brother, who lived in his native Scotland as far as I was aware. I wondered if any of my machinists still remained – probably, knowing them. I couldn't imagine the likes of Sean Tully, Sally Webster and Fiz Brown working anywhere else. If those were even their names now. Maybe they had married. I sighed. Overthinking was getting me nowhere. Slowly, distractedly, I changed into my nightdress – Los Angeles was far too hot for pyjamas – and climbed into bed, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. I would find out my answers soon enough – in less than 24 hours, I'd be immersed in a crowd of the shadows of my past once more.
