Just Like the Movies

by Natasha Preston

  It was the wrong thing to ask. I knew that before I said anything. There’s no reaction—none at all. She walks beside me, hand still clutching mine. I feel the shutters go up. Gone is the playful Indie. Now she has to be on edge in case I probe.

  “Back next week,” she says finally.

  I won’t hold my breath for an invite over to meet them. “Do you think we would get along?”

  “We’re not close, Spence. It’s not like it is with your family.”

  “All right,” I say, shrugging. “You and me are all we need, anyway.”

  The look she gives me, like I quite literally am all she will ever need, floors me. I will do anything she wants if it makes her look at me like that.

  “You and me against the world,” she breathes. “No one else.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Indie

  By December nineteenth, I have perfected my routine. I spend my days studying, I’ve worked one evening to cover sickness, and the rest of the time I’ve been attached to Spencer. It means I’m not spending as much time in an empty house.

  We’re making the most of the time we have, and I love it.

  I’m living in a bubble that will soon pop. Right now, though, it’s the perfect sphere.

  I’ve not been alone without something to do. There’s no time to think or stress. I pushed back my sessions with Anya that should have been two and four weeks ago because I didn’t want to go back over anything then. I could allow myself a few weeks to do things my way and enjoy a slither of happiness.

  I’m still not ready, but it all ends today. I’m about to get out of my car and finally see Anya. She confirmed the appointment three times this week. She’s been gentle but pushy. After therapy, I have a visit with Mum, and then I’m going out with Spence, Wren, Brody, and Mila.

  It’s going to be an emotional day with lots of highs and lows. At least the good is at the end. Spence will put my heart back together the minute he looks at me.

  Besides a few short conversations with Mum about the funeral, I haven’t spoken about Dad’s death at all.

  Spencer thinks I’m at uni all day, locked away in the library. I’m sure he pictures me in the attic room there, sitting beneath cobwebs. It’s been a struggle catching up on missed work, but I’m there now. It’s one less thing I have to stress about.

  I get out of my car and go to meet Anya. She’s standing in the little waiting room with her hair in a long plait.

  “Indie, it’s wonderful to see you. It’s been a long time.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Never be sorry to me. Come on through.”

  I sit in Anya’s office, breathe in vanilla, and debate whether or not I should just run back out of the door. This morning, I skipped applying make-up because I knew I would have to speak about Dad. I’ll have to go over it, how I found him, how frozen I was when I realised his chest wasn’t moving. How cold and stiff he felt.

  “How was your holiday?” I ask as she takes her seat.

  “Great, thank you.”

  Anya grabs her notebook. I’m sitting upright with my lips pressed together like they’re glued that way.

  I twist my hands in my lap.

  Tilting her head, she asks, “Do you want to discuss something in particular? We haven’t met in a long time. Is there a reason for that?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Start wherever you want. In your own time.”

  I nod. What if I don’t want to start at all? “Spencer and I went to his premiere in LA.”

  “That sounds incredible.”

  “It was. He was amazing, and the movie is great. We’re trying to figure out how to make a relationship work with him having to be out there for months at a time.”

  She smiles warmly. She always was rooting for me and Spence. “I’m sure you’ll find your groove if you both put in the effort. Is he keeping in touch? I know that was an issue before.”

  “He was calling and texting more than me while he was in LA. Now he’s back for Christmas. He’s honestly the best boyfriend.”

  “But…?” she prompts, clearly reading between the lines.

  “His life is so different to mine. There were reporters outside his parents’ house, and he gets stopped in the street for selfies and autographs. He’s all over social media and has about ten thousand messages to respond to every day… and he handles it perfectly. Eventually, I’ll have to deal with some of that stuff, too. You know, having people taking pictures and digging into my life. They’re always curious about the girlfriend. Is she good enough, pretty enough, perfect enough?”

  “The only thing that should matter is how Spencer feels about you… and how you feel about yourself.”

  Yeah, well she knows exactly how I feel about myself. We’ve spent hours over the years discussing that one.

  “Are you worried information about your parents will be leaked?”

  You need to tell her now.

  I nod. “I don’t know how I would handle that. When I think about Spence, Wren, and Mila knowing, it makes my heart race way too fast. That’s only three people, and they’re the people I’m closest to. Imagine what it would be like to have the whole world knowing what you went through as a kid.”

  “Indie, there are so many people who have histories similar to yours. Celebrities aren’t perfect people from perfect families. They’re a mixed bunch, just like the rest of us. Many of them will identify with you, as will others in the public. Your childhood isn’t something you should feel ashamed about. None of it was your doing, and no one would ever think less of you because of it.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know, and that’s okay. But don’t let fear keep you away from happiness. If Spencer is who you want, if he makes you happy, then you’ll have to be brave at some point.”

  I clear my clogged throat. What she’s saying is that if I stay with Spencer, eventually everyone will know my past. This isn’t breaking news but it’s always unwelcome.

  At some point. I love that clause; I’ve been clinging to it my whole life. At some point, I should tell someone. At some point, I should face it head on. That point doesn’t have to be anywhere near this point. Shouldn’t I get to decide when my life is turned upside down again? I want Spence and I to be stronger before that happens—for me to have got through uni so everyone on campus isn’t looking at the girl with the broken childhood.

  “Do you think you can speak to Spencer about your parents? Did you give it much thought after our last session?”

  I dip my chin and clench my teeth.

  “Indie?” she prompts, leaning forwards.

  Come on, just say the words.

  “Indie, please will you talk to me.”

  “My dad is dead,” I whisper.

  Anya gasps and gets up. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  I watch her out of my peripheral as she crosses the room to kneel in front of me.

  “Um…” I scratch my jaw and raise my eyes. “It was last month. He…”

  Anya passes me a box of tissues before she sits on a high-back chair next to me. “It’s okay. Take a breath and talk when you’re ready.”

  I wipe my eyes and try to ignore the growing ache in my chest. “I came down in the morning, put the kettle on, and then I went to check on them. Mum was breathing deeply, so then I turned to Dad. He was… still. His skin was soft, but his body was hard and cold,” I say.

  “Indie.”

  “Mum was a total mess. She blamed me.”

  “It was not your fault.”

  “If I’d checked one more time, maybe…”

  “Don’t do that. No child should ever have to check to see if their alcoholic parent is alive. Your mum doesn’t blame you. Not really.”

  “She’s in rehab.”

  Anya’s brows rise at the news. “She is?”

  “After Dad was taken away, I found Mum on the floor by his sofa, drinking. I went mad, threw it at the wall, and told her it was enough. She tried go
ing cold turkey at home, but it wasn’t working. She agreed to get help. Maybe she’s scared of dying after all.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to leave you.”

  I shrug. “I want to believe that. I’m visiting her this afternoon.”

  “Is she responding well to treatment?”

  “Seems to be. Her therapist is happy with her progress.”

  “How are you?”

  What a question. “Depends on the moment. Dad hadn’t been a father for a very long time, but losing a parent is like being lost. The house is quiet, I miss them both, and I’m terrified of rehab not working. Then when I’m with Spencer, which is almost all of the time, I feel happy. And that makes me feel guilty.”

  “That’s a lot to process. I wish you would have called me.”

  “I didn’t want to talk. Still unsure if I do now, to be honest.”

  She smiles. “It’s important that you do.”

  “So you keep telling me.” I sit back in the chair. “I don’t know how to have the life I want.”

  “It starts by talking to those you love.”

  My stomach drops.

  Thirty-Nine

  Indie

  Anya wants me to talk to Spencer about everything. Or she wants me to consider it, which basically is her way of telling me that I need to do something without actually telling me to do it.

  Spence already wants to take care of me, buy me houses, and treat me like a princess. What happens when he finds out I’m only this perfect person he’s created in his mind?

  I pull into the car park at rehab and head inside. The building is lovely, with clean lines and lots of glass allowing light in. It looks more like a posh library. I’m emotionally raw after telling Anya about Dad, and now I have to see my sober mum.

  “Hi, how can I help you?” a petite lady with prematurely greying hair asks.

  I lean on the desk. “I’m here to see my mum, Jessica Croft.”

  “Of course,” she replies. “I’ll just sign you in and print your pass.”

  She takes my name and car registration then prints a visitor sticker for me to wear.

  “If you want to take a seat, I’ll let Elliott know you’re here.”

  “Thanks.”

  I look around the lobby. There are a few large fern plants in the corners, blue chairs along one wall, and a water dispenser by the door.

  “Indie Croft?” Mum’s therapist calls.

  I swing around and nod at Elliott. “Yes.”

  “Your mum is waiting in the conservatory.”

  “Okay.” I nod again but my legs don’t move.

  He smiles. “If you’d like to follow me?”

  Move! I take a step towards him. “How is she doing?”

  “Very well. It’s been tough, but she’s determined.”

  “What about with my dad’s death?”

  He smiles sympathetically. “Her counselling sessions are going well. She’s very brave for being here while grieving. It’s hard enough battling addiction, let alone when your husband has just passed. She speaks very highly of you.”

  I almost trip. “Does she?”

  “You mean a lot to her.”

  He leads me through a large space that looks like a massive living room with sofas, TV, bookcases, and board games. We pass through it to go into a glass conservatory. The heating is blowing so it’s not at all cold.

  Mum is sitting on an armchair, staring out into the frosty garden area. She looks quite good, considering. There is a little colour in her cheeks, and her hair is freshly blow dried.

  “Hi, Mum,” I say as Elliott leaves us to it.

  She looks up, startled, as if she wasn’t expecting me to actually be there. Lying in bed this morning, I did consider calling to cancel. I wouldn’t have done it, but I was tempted.

  “Indie.”

  Mum gets to her feet, and I think she’s going to hug me until she hesitates.

  The only physical contact we’ve had in about ten years is me rolling her onto her side after a long session. Besides the hug when Dad died.

  She’s your mum. Go to her.

  I take another step closer, and I hug her.

  She whimpers when she wraps her arms around me. Her grip is tighter than necessary. It feels kind of alien. It’s not natural. Her hair smells of strawberries; her favourite fruit that I’m sure she hasn’t eaten in years.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she says. I let go first so we can sit down. “How are you doing? Do you have support, Indie?”

  I squirm in my seat. She doesn’t know about my therapy. “I’m doing okay, I suppose. I have people.”

  “A boy?”

  A boy? I’m twenty. “There’s someone, yes.”

  “Good, I’m glad you’re not going through this alone.”

  No need to tell her the whole truth. It might just make her feel worse. She’ll blame herself, and that could affect her progress here. We’ll need to have a very open and honest conversation someday, but now isn’t the time.

  “Tell me how you’re doing? Is everyone nice here?” I ask.

  “The people are lovely. They understand and don’t judge. It’s very difficult discussing what I’ve done—especially what I’ve done to you. Hearing your own failings is… heartbreaking. But I know it’s something I have to do. I have to get better so I can make it up to you.”

  “I’m all right.”

  She shakes her head. Her hair looks healthier than it has in a long time. It still needs a good cut but it’s clean. It even has a bit of a shine to it.

  “You’re not all right, Indie. You deserved better than what Dad and I gave you. We should have dealt with his accident and depression in the right way. I should have been stronger and given him an ultimatum; he stops drinking or leaves. Instead, I drank with him until neither of us could stop. I’m sorry for that. I’m so sorry.”

  Her eyes well with tears, and so do mine.

  I clear my throat. “I forgive you.”

  She sobs, one hand flying to cover her heart while the other wipes her eyes. “Gosh, I said I wouldn’t cry. That means the world to me. I don’t want to make promises. I know I have a long road ahead of me, but I will try my hardest to make this right for you.”

  “You can do it, Mum.”

  “Have you thought about the house yet?”

  “What about it?”

  She glances out of the window. “About selling it?”

  “Um, no. Why would we sell?”

  I know why I want to leave but that’s her home. It has been since she was my age.

  “It still looks like the place your dad died.”

  “I thought I’d decorate. Once I’m done, it won’t look anything like it did. You could come home to a new house. It’ll be a fresh start.”

  “Do you have time to do that?”

  “No, but I have time to hire decorators. In fact, the painting and new flooring is booked in. I’ve found new furniture, a bed for you, new splashback, and paint for the kitchen cabinet doors. I just wanted to see you and run it by you first.”

  “You sure get stuck in.”

  “I can cancel it all if you want me to.”

  “No, don’t do that. I trust your judgement. I want a fresh start in my home with my daughter. There’s so much I need to put right.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m allowed home for one night over Christmas.”

  “I thought you might be home for good by then.”

  “Christmas and New Year are bad times to leave rehab. My therapist and I agree that I should wait until January. I can come home in the afternoon on Christmas Eve and spend Christmas morning with you.”

  “You’re coming back here on Christmas day?”

  “Well, I thought you might have plans. A taxi will pick me up midday to bring me back. Now that I know there definitely is a boy, I’m glad I organised it that way.”

  I’m not sure if this half Christmas day is more about her not wanting to be tempted by alcohol, or if she
really is thinking of me. I’ll take it either way.

  She doesn’t know anything about Spencer. I don’t fancy telling her that Mr Hollywood is mine. Not that she keeps up with celebrities these days.

  “I was planning on going to his in the afternoon. It will be… nice for us to spend the morning together.”

  Nice. It could be.

  “That works out well.”

  “Will you cancel the taxi? I’d like to bring you back. We can have our Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve. I’ll bring you back here after we’ve spent the morning watching Christmas movies and eating tins of chocolate.”

  Her eyes sparkle. “That sounds perfect. And next year, I’ll be cooking you dinner on Christmas day.”

  God, I love the sound of that. “You’re looking much better, Mum.”

  “I feel it. It’s taken a few weeks for that to happen. The detox was hard, and it’s not completely over, but the doctor thinks that if I stay away from alcohol, I shouldn’t have any long-term medical conditions.”

  The yellowing skin is almost gone, the dark circles around her eyes have lightened, and her stomach is no longer swollen. She probably has a way to go yet—she put a lot of strain on her body—but things are definitely looking up. It’s amazing the repair work your body can do when it’s no longer being abused. I can’t wait to see her in another few weeks. Will she look like the woman I remember, pre-alcohol?

  “I’m glad, Mum.”

  “I just wish I could have had this wakeup call without losing David.” She blinks rapidly to stop herself from crying. “What will I do without him?”

  “You have a future; please look towards it. Dad would want that. When you’re better, you can do anything.”

  “Maybe I’ll retrain and do something to help others in similar situations.”

  I laugh. “Join the club.”

  “Uni,” she says. “Your course. It’s counselling, right?”

  “Yes.”

  She sits straighter as soon as she realises why. “You want to help people who have grown up with alcoholic parents?”

  “Not just addict parents. Any kind of trauma. I want to predominantly work with young adults. There are so many who could go either way. There are lots of programs for people who are in their early twenties, getting them help and into work so they don’t turn to crime. I want to be one of the people helping to straighten their life before it gets too bent up.”