by Anna Todd
You were interrupted by a knock on the door, and when your sister opened it, Charlie held out the thoroughly mediocre cake to her, leaving her as shocked as you were when you first recognized him.
“Your cake,” he said with a sly smile.
“Oh my God, you’re . . . but you’re . . .” your sister stammered.
“I’m Charlie, your sister’s date.” Charlie turned to you and winked as he stepped into the apartment.
You could have been under the sun, getting your tan on, and drinking colorful, fruity drinks. Instead, you spent your birthday and the Eve of Christmas with your long-lost sister and the man of your dreams.
Maybe your luck hadn’t run out after all.
Out of the Blue
Tango Walker
Imagine . . .
You’re a journalist, older, cynical, and yet . . .
There’s something exciting about a film-set tour; sure, you’ve done a few over the years, but still, the magic of the movie business never ceases to amaze, to excite you, to make you feel younger than your forty-five years.
This set tour is particularly exciting: lunch with the international cast and crew, then a one-on-one with a few of the stars. You didn’t do these things often anymore; hard news was more your style these days, but the movies were your first love, and anytime you could get back to the magic of it, you were there with bells on. And you certainly had bells on today (well, not really; in actuality, you were wearing red Cons, a gypsy skirt, a sensible top, and a long string of beads that matched your glasses), but still. Yes, you were a hard-news journalist, but you still dressed like an entertainment editor, and let’s face it, this beat sitting in a courtroom trying not to fall asleep.
The movie was billed as the next big thing—a blockbuster in the making. You were a big fan of the director’s and knew of a couple of the cast members—well, one in particular, your teenaged daughter’s current crush. Rani had squealed when you told her where you were going; today you were the cool mum (it didn’t happen often now that she was seventeen—careening headlong toward being an adult—so you relished it). Her younger sister, Hazel, thirteen and full of attitude, was a little nonplussed, though she did give you a thumbs-up when you dropped them at school on the way north to the job. You kind of wished you could bring them with you, but this wasn’t “take your kid to work day”—this was a feature story for your paper, part of the weekend supplement, a big deal!
Really, though, it was mainly a favor to your friend who was the PR and had arranged this whole press junket.
Still it was fun, and you’d promised your girls a few pictures. You’d jokingly told Rani you’d bring home a Nicholas-shaped doggie bag.
That was his name, Nicholas Hoult, the current flavor of the month. He was the star of the newer X-Men movies and Mad Max—though Rani preferred him all “zombied up” in Warm Bodies. His inner monologue gets her every time—that and the eyeliner. You’ve got to love a boy in eyeliner apparently.
He’s also incredibly tall, appealing to a teen Amazon who was five feet eleven inches in her stocking feet.
You knew he was above-average height going in, but catching him filming on set, you were struck by just how tall he was. You’re only in the mid-fives, but this guy, this guy would look a Hemsworth in the eye, and given you came eye to pecs with Chris Hemsworth a few months ago during an interview, you’re glad you’ll be sitting down when you talk to him. You’re nervous enough; these things always make you nervous.
At lunch you sit with your friend and the director and a couple of the crew members. Casey started in newspapers but was now the PR for the studio. You’d known her for a while—she’d been a cadet at your paper; you’d trained her. Now she was hobnobbing with celebs.
The other journalists in today’s scrum were honing in on the “movie stars,” ensuring they were all “on” when they should have been taking a breather. You felt sorry for them. Nic had two young women sitting either side of him and another across from him. Your partner in crime for today, photographer James, was sitting across from Nic too, though you didn’t know if he’d been attracted by the movie star, with whom he apparently shared a love of cars, which he’d explained in great detail on your rather hair-raising journey to the studio—first rule of journalism: don’t let the photographer drive! Or maybe he was attracted to the nubile things around Nic.
Nic was smiling and animated, giving the trio of young “journalists” his full attention, and they were hanging on his every word. None of them looked much older than Rani, but that was the way of things these days: papers, radio stations, and online media were employing younger and younger journalists, barely out of university (barely out of nappies). You were the T. rex of the journalism world. A dinosaur from the time when newspapers were king and first-year cadets spent more time making coffee than writing stories. Now they were writing the front pages and throwing themselves at young actors. Apparently.
“So what did you think?” Paul, the director, said, grabbing your attention just as you were about to shovel the catering company’s vegetarian lasagna into your mouth.
“It looks fantastic!” you enthuse. “Thanks for opening your doors to the media. It’s great to see where the taxpayers’ money is going and how many Queenslanders and Australians are being employed on this project.”
“It’s great that we could film here. Everyone has been welcoming; it was the least we could do. But of course you can’t print the entire story—there are things you’ll have to wait a few months to print, obviously—the movie’s details, etc.”
You nod sagely. “Mmmm, but I’d better write it now—a week is a long time in journalism, let alone a year,” you quip. You both laugh, though you both know with the way your industry is changing, you’re only half joking.
“Yes, both our industries are pretty transient these days. We’ve only got two more weeks here, and then it’s off to Africa for three weeks, and then I go into production and the cast scatter around the world,” Paul said. “I feel sorry for young Nic in particular—he’s done three movies on the trot all around the world, and he has a fourth one now, and then some promotional stuff. He hasn’t been home in a very long time.”
You look across to where Nic and James and their media harem are sitting, but this time you have more than a “dad look” as your daughters would say. Even from this distance (thank God you have your glasses on) you can see how tired he looks; you can see that though he is flirting, the smiles that cross his face don’t reach his eyes. Acting can be glamorous on the outside, but up close it was a lot of hard work and time away from your family. You look and you don’t see a glamorous celebrity, a sexy man in his midtwenties; you see a boy a long way from home, and your heart goes out to him.
And you know right now you’re going to mother the crap out of him—you’re famous for it. Out of the corner of your eye you see Casey smile to herself. That devious little cow—she planned this. She knows you can’t resist a stray; you have a dog and two rescue cats and your house is often full of your daughters’ teenaged friends. And now you’re set to adopt a Hollywood heartthrob. Well, this is a first!
It comes as little surprise to Casey or you that after your one-on-one with Nic, you’ve invited him to dinner.
It was his own fault. He (a) said he’d lost fifteen kilos doing this movie and (b) mentioned how much he missed his mother’s home cooking and roast dinners, even once expressing that you “look a bit like her.” You were hooked and he was doomed to an evening of roast lamb and family—not his own, admittedly, but family nonetheless.
You ring your man to tell him there will be one more for dinner, and you can almost hear him roll his eyes—he’s used to your strays. You wonder briefly if you should warn your kids. But they’ll be at school, and while Hazel is in her first year at high school, Rani is in her last and is distracted enough. No, this can be your little surprise.
Casey takes you aside and thanks you. While Nic has been happy enough, been partying an
d enjoying his surroundings, he’s talked about his family a lot. He needs a bit of family life, a bit of perking up—and as your nickname is Perky, she believes you’re the woman for the job.
Plus, if you get something in your mind, it’s hard to move it—you’re a terrier and he’s a bone, and even though he’s started to play tough guys, they always have an edge of vulnerability. After a few short hours around him you start to see that these guys aren’t quite the act they would like the world to think.
You file your story quickly—it’s only the preliminary about the shoot—and an hour and a half later you are back to pick him up.
You ring Casey and she brings him out to your waiting car.
He’s incognito—as well disguised as six feet four inches’ worth of frankly stunning-looking brown-haired, blue-eyed man-boy can be. Out of his space-suit costume and poured into a tight white T-shirt, brown leather jacket and tight blue jeans, aviators and a baseball cap, he’s breathtaking, much more man now than boy, and you briefly fantasize about not going home at all. But it’s only brief as you see a bemused look in his eye when he clocks your tiny, beat-up blue hatchback complete with Tinker Bell seat covers and Tinker Bell flying from the rearview mirror. The back is full of shoes, clothes, textbooks, and a trombone.
Sexy it ain’t.
And he’s a car man.
He advertises Jaguars and probably drives one.
“Wow, this looks like my aunt’s car.” He laughs as he squeezes himself in next to you.
You sigh.
The fantasy bubble pops; reality slaps you in the face.
The car has a lot of legroom for someone who is five feet four inches, but Rani always looks like a fold-up ruler in the front seat, and Nic looks like a concertina or that one big sardine invariably packed into the tin next to its small friends.
It’s comical, and you both laugh as you try not to go over too many bumps and smack his head into the roof of your car.
The journey south is pleasant. You live half an hour down the road, far enough for the pair of you to chat about his life and growing up with two sisters who are actresses and his brother, the movies he’s made, and a little about you.
“Thank you,” he says as you chat.
You look at him, surprised.
He laughs. “This feels normal and ordinary and just what I needed.”
You shake your head in mock disappointment before smiling. You’re not used to being called “ordinary”—“that crazy woman” maybe, but “ordinary” is new. “If you think this is ordinary, then wait until we go grocery shopping.”
His laugh is loud, long, and heartening. Already the stress on his face is starting to dissipate, and you can’t help laughing with him—not your usual reaction to grocery shopping.
But his enthusiasm for “real life” is infectious, and by the time you park outside your small local shopping center, he is positively bubbling.
You wonder if it’s going to be like a kid in the candy store.
You don’t need much, a leg of lamb, pumpkin, potatoes, sweet potatoes, and something for dessert.
Okay, you need everything.
You text Rani to put the oven on and you leave the car, an invisible list writing itself in your head.
You’re no stranger to the center. You’re on first-name terms with most of the checkout chicks—some of them are Rani’s schoolmates. If they recognize your companion, it will be all over school tomorrow. Rani hates a fuss, and you know now you’re probably going to be in trouble.
Their mouths open and close like goldfish floundering outside their tanks.
Yeah, this can’t be good.
In fact people are staring as you and Nic shop. He insisted on coming in with you.
It’s absurd. Here you are with Tony from Skins, Nux from Mad Max, R from Warm Bodies, the Beast from X-Men.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the Beast is wheeling a trolley for you through your local supermarket.
Nothing surreal about this day then.
No one approaches for an autograph, but everyone is doing a double take like “Isn’t that . . . ?” They’re just too polite to say anything.
So you shop in relative peace. No one comes to you with a “great story idea” or to tell you they didn’t like your last front page.
You’ve found the perfect way to silence them; who knew it just took a world-famous actor.
And his height comes in handy for the items on the top shelves—no jumping up and down trying to reach the top.
You laugh. “I might have to employ you to help me with the shopping more often.”
“Anytime—this is fun—I’ve been eating out for months or dealing with catering.”
Soon you have more things than you need and you’re ready to leave, but Nic insists on paying despite your objections, and he adds a couple of bunches of flowers as a thank-you and a box of chocolates, and you’re off to your house with your daughter’s heartthrob.
Oh, heck.
Maybe you should warn her?
But it’s too late.
The house is two blocks away, and you think Nic would notice if you pull up suddenly and whip out your phone.
Anyway, knowing Rani, she’ll be locked up in her room practicing homework avoidance.
You pull into your driveway and Nic says nice things about your house. It’s modern and yet with a retro style with ocean views for miles. It’s your sanctuary.
He breathes out.
Maybe it can be his sanctuary too for a few hours.
You open the garage, and immediately you’re greeted by a flash of fur as your dog lunges for his mother, excited to see you. But his attention diverts and suddenly thirty kilos of spaniel is hurtling headlong for Nic, who is bringing up the rear, carrying most of the groceries. You’re suddenly glad you didn’t buy eggs as two paws connect with your guest’s chest, knocking him onto his butt on the grass.
“I’m so sorry.” You try not to laugh, but it’s to no avail. It’s pretty funny. “Welcome to suburbia!” you giggle.
Nic laughs too. It’s a deep, rumbling laugh—not a normal sound around your female-dominated house, and it attracts attention.
The curtain in the window above you flickers.
It’s Rani’s room.
Oh, God, she’ll never come out now.
But the face you see is younger, and although the eyes are wide with amazement, Hazel is cracking up—let’s face it, it’s not every day you see someone from the movies sprawled out on the front lawn.
There is a snigger and you see mischief in her eyes—hazel like her name.
This is never good.
You offer Nic your hand, and together you retrieve the now-scattered groceries and bring the wayward culprit to heel—well, as much as you can—and start again for the house.
Leading the way, you walk up the stairs to the kitchen, but you’re stopped in your tracks.
Rani is making herself an afternoon snack, stirring what looks like pasta. “Oh, finally!” she says casually, not turning to face you. “I wondered when you’d make it back. So did you bring me home my future husband?”
She finally turns round, just as Nic walks up the stairs behind you.
Hazel saunters in from the lounge room, cheeky grin on her face. “Hey, Rani, would you like to say that again a little louder this time. I don’t think our plus-one could quite hear what you said!”
Red is the color of beetroot, roses, raspberries, and blood, and at that moment it was the color of Rani’s face.
Her eyes were huge and her mouth opened wide like a tunnel.
You don’t blame her. Standing in the middle of her kitchen is the man she has on her walls, the man she writes fanfiction about—live and in person.
She can’t move. She doesn’t say anything, but then she doesn’t have to—that’s what she has a younger sister for.
As quick as a sly fox, Hazel introduces herself and hands Nic a Sharpie and a poster hastily ripped off Rani’s wall.
“Hi, welcome to our house. Could you sign this for my sister while Mum picks her up off the floor and wipes the drool off her face!?”
To her credit Rani starts to recover her senses quickly. You notice her pinch herself and try not to smile. You’ve dumped her in it, well and truly. She shoots Hazel a glare that could melt paint, but turns and smiles elegantly at your guest. She is all poise and grace, unless you look at her closely. Her legs are shaking and her eyes narrow on you. Realization dawns: both you and Hazel are in for a tongue-lashing later. One you both richly deserve.
“Hi, I’m Rani, but perhaps my mother has already told you that.” You’re proud of her. Her hand shakes a little as she holds it out to her crush, but Nic doesn’t seem to notice or he’s choosing to ignore it. He smiles at her widely and her green eyes sparkle.
“I’m sorry to land on you like this. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in a while and your mother offered.” He hands her one of the bunches of roses he bought at the grocery store.
She looks out shyly through her fringe and thanks him. She’s never received flowers from a boy before; despite being unconventionally beautiful with green eyes, high cheekbones, and dark brown hair, she tends to be shy around people. If you’d thought about this, you probably wouldn’t have done it, brought a man she obviously idolized into her world.
But she surprises you. “Don’t worry, I’m used to my mother.” She sighs. You can tell she wants to escape and fangirl, but instead she shows maturity beyond her years and sticks it out, treating it like it’s a normal occurrence to have Nicholas Hoult in the kitchen when she comes home from school. You wonder when she started to grow up, and suddenly you feel better about her finishing school and moving away to university, but it also feels closer and you bite your lip.
She offers him a drink, and together the three of you show him around—careful to make sure that Hazel doesn’t give either Nic or Rani too much crap.
Your intention is to leave him with the girls in the lounge room while you prepare dinner, but instead he offers to help, and suddenly your usually housework-shy teens are there with bells on, and the three of them are peeling potatoes like demons, racing each other to see who can finish first and laughing. So as well as being useful for shopping, Nic is obviously the answer to getting your kids to do the housework—who knew.