Just Like the Movies

by Natasha Preston

  “You’re such an old gossip, Arnold. What would your wife say?”

  He laughs. “She would ask the same thing. June will be grilling me tonight. She’s fascinated with the rich and famous.”

  “She’s not the only one. This life is crazy.”

  “This is your life now, Spencer.”

  I lay my head back in my seat and watch the lights of LA blur as we drive towards my apartment. “It’s extraordinary.”

  “You’re talented. Just don’t let it go to your head.”

  This makes Jared laugh but neither of I or Arnold react to him

  I send a message to Indie, telling her I’m going to call in ten with news.

  “I’m sure you guys will keep me grounded.”

  “Miss Croft will, too.”

  “She’s not going to be happy if you don’t call her Indie.”

  “She’s hot as fuck.” Jared again.

  Arnold smiles. “Perhaps you should hurry up and make it possible for me to call her Mrs Lowe.”

  His words should scare the shit out of me since we’ve only been together a matter of days. They don’t at all.

  Twenty-Seven

  Indie

  I laugh into the phone. It’s almost five in the morning, and I’m curled up in bed on a long call with Spencer.

  He landed the role in End of the Road, as I knew he would, which means he’s not going to be home until Christmas. At least I know now, so I can focus all of my energy on uni. Then when I break in mid-December, he’ll be here.

  “My character is a real arsehole in the movie,” he tells me.

  “There no Ella type to redeem him?”

  “Nope, he just an arsehole.”

  “At least you’ll be a hot one.”

  “Oh, really?” he says, his voice light and flirty.

  He’s in bed, too, and I’m picturing him with his shirt off; one arm thrown over his head on the pillow, and his legs crossed at the ankle.

  I can’t believe he’s mine.

  “I don’t sleep with unattractive people,” I tell him, grinning like a fool.

  “Not loving your use of plural there. No one else is ever going to be inside you.”

  I take a breath. “I have no desire to see anyone else.”

  The thought of going on a date with another person makes my stomach turn. I wouldn’t know how to even talk to another man.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “It’s me who should worry. You’re going to have beautiful women throwing themselves at you.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got this chick back home who I’m completely obsessed with.”

  “She sounds lovely. Obsessed, huh? You should see someone about that.”

  He laughs. “I’ll show the therapist a picture of you and those dark eyes. They’ll understand.”

  I’ve always thought my eyes were kind of boring. “You have many pictures of me?”

  “More than someone should have of a friend. At least now you’re my girlfriend, I won’t feel like such a creep.”

  Girlfriend. That’s about all I remember of what he just said. The world flashes in my mind. That’s that confirmed. We’re official. A couple.

  “I’m going to need to see those pictures.”

  “No way. You’ll delete some.”

  I groan, and he yawns.

  “You need to sleep, Spence.”

  “I don’t want to go yet.”

  “Call me when you get up. I’m working, and then I’m meeting Mila. You can call, though, I’ll pick up.”

  He chuckles. “Call me when you’re home from meeting Mila. We can text between.”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re doing more for my ego than all the love on social media.”

  Oh, I kind of like that.

  “Good night, Spence.”

  “Night, baby.”

  I plug my phone into the charger, and I turn off my lamp.

  Silence slices through my room, but only for a second. Downstairs, my parents are arguing. They’re rarely awake at this hour. What’s going on? I think they average about eight hours awake each day, and the rest of the time they sleep.

  Mum apparently feels tired all the time. I guess that’s what excessive drinking does to you.

  Their muffled voices are loud enough to be heard but the slur in their speech makes it impossible to hear what’s being said. One of them must have woken the other.

  I pull my cover up to my chin, and I’m seven again. Bile rises in the back of my throat, and I squeeze my eyes closed. Stop fighting.

  Dad roars, and in my mind, I see his face turn red. Saliva will be building up the corners of his mouth. I can’t even hear what they’re arguing about, but I know I’m not going down there to intervene.

  The last time I did that, Mum slapped me across the face. I was twelve. It was the first and last time she got physical. I never bothered trying to help again.

  My fingers curl around the edge of the quilt.

  Turning on my side, I face the wall and press my yellow cushion over my exposed ear.

  Please stop. Why can’t they just fall back asleep like they’re supposed to? I don’t know if it’s a good sign that they’re awake at five in the morning.

  Maybe they didn’t drink as much as they usually do.

  Maybe I’m still a fool.

  They would rather die than get sober and deal with the life they’ve been dealt.

  Neither of them cares that I’d be left behind. They’ve never thought for one second how I’m affected by their choices. They don’t care.

  I press my lips together to stifle the scream rising up my throat.

  I hate this. I hate them.

  I stay stock still until they go quiet. At some point, I drift off to sleep and wake at eight. I sit and stretch my head from side to side.

  Today, I have a full schedule between the library and lectures, and then I have a shift at The Waffle House. I get up and take a shower. It’s freezing out. Frost sits on the edge of the window like a frame. Once dry, I change into jeans and a chunky knit sweater.

  I head downstairs, a little lighter because I know they’re sleeping now. I’ll be at work after uni, and then with Mila. I can be out late and avoid them almost completely. Though I do need to catch up with my washing. But now the house, besides the living room, is tidy and clean again.

  Everything is somewhat back to normal. And I hate it.

  I make it to the kitchen and boil the kettle before I slowly step into the living room.

  The smell of vodka makes my nose sting. A large wet patch soaks the carpet, the bottle on the floor now on its side. For fuck’s sake.

  Mum is curled on her side under a blanket. She takes a deep breath in her sleep. How is it possible to love and hate someone so much? If anyone else treated me the way they did, I would have left.

  Dad, pale yellow and laying on his back, has his arm hanging off the sofa. His stomach is swollen, lips tinted blue.

  Tinted blue.

  He’s never been blue before.

  My face falls.

  “Dad,” I whisper. The back of my neck prickles, and my heart sinks. “Dad?”

  I take another step forward, and blood drains from my face.

  He’s not moving. His chest isn’t rising.

  I clench my fists over and over as my hands shake.

  Do something.

  “Dad,” I say again, pleading. Dropping to my knees, I reach out and place my hand on his chest.

  I take a sharp breath as my hand sits still. I know instantly. He feels different. His body is hard and cold, like it’s made from porcelain.

  “Dad, wake up!” I demand. “Dad! Daddy! Daddy!”

  I’m screaming. I can hear myself, but it sounds like I’m listening to someone else. Gripping his T-shirt, I shake. He doesn’t move. “Wake up!”

  Why aren’t you waking up?

  “I-Indie, what are you doing?” Mum’s raspy words rattle around in the back of my head, somewhere far off.


  I let go and leap back like he’s shocked me.

  No, no, no.

  “David!” Mum cries, finally looking at Dad. She rolls off the sofa and crawls to him.

  “He’s dead.”

  Only three hours ago, they were arguing. Is that why he woke up and they started fighting, because he felt pain?

  I back up to the wall, my eyes wide and body frozen. I need to call someone.

  Turning around, I brace my hand on the wall and follow it through to the kitchen. My phone is on the counter. I stagger into the room and reach for my phone. Mum’s deafening screams tear through me, and my legs give way. I hit the floor as the operator asks which service I require.

  “Um, ambulance, I think. I don’t know. My dad is dead.”

  Mum wails as I give our address and tell them that he’s cold. I’m not an idiot. I’ve studied death and bereavement. Rigor Mortis happens somewhere between one to six hours after death. My dad’s body is hard. He’s been dead for at least an hour already, but it could be up to three.

  “Thank you,” I say, hanging up the phone.

  “Indie, do something!” Mum screams when I get off the phone.

  The paramedics have been despatched.

  They’ll fix this.

  “Indie!”

  I rise to my feet, and through blurred vision, make my way back into the living room. It feels darker than before. I shuffle forwards, gripping my phone in my hand.

  “Stop crying and do something!” Mum screams, waving at me with one hand while gripping Dad with the other.

  Shaking my head, I stare at my dead father. “I can’t do anything,” I whisper.

  His body is frozen. I feel as cold as he is. Maybe if I’d checked on them after their argument…

  “Indie, he’s dying!”

  No, he was dying while I dozed in bed. Now, he’s dead.

  “He’s gone,” I whisper. “Paramedics are on their way. The police will come, too.”

  Why can’t I stop looking at him? He’s so pale; a colour somewhere between yellow and grey.

  I’ve never seen a dead body before. This one is my dad.

  Fuck.

  My stomach lurches as I sprint to the bathroom.

  Twenty-Eight

  Indie

  Dead.

  I knew that already.

  The paramedics and two police officers are here. They’ve been here for hours, it feels. I’m so glad they took over the second they got here because I was lost. I’m still lost. I can’t do anything for Mum. She’s either hysterical and threatening to sue them for not resuscitating Dad, or she’s crying. She’s also still drunk.

  I want them to bring him back, too. It’s just that I understand you can’t bring a human back after an hour or more of no oxygen. It’s basic biology.

  I watch in a trance from the corner of the room as the paramedics and a cop make the arrangements for my Dad’s body to be picked up. He will be taken for a post-mortem because he wasn’t terminally ill and hasn’t seen a doctor in years. I can tell them why he’s dead right now. He drank too much, for too long, and his liver couldn’t take it.

  In fact, I did tell them that. They can’t take my word for it, of course.

  The look of sympathy from the paramedic when I answered questions about Dad will haunt me. It was already obvious from the number of empty bottles, but I still had to go through the standard set of questions.

  Dad hasn’t been moved.

  The image of his lifeless body isn’t something I will ever forget.

  My worst fear has been realised like I always knew it would.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and hope this is a bad dream. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had nightmares about finding one of them dead. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. How do I stay in this house with Dad’s ghost?

  “Indie,” the paramedic says. She sounds like she’s right in front of me. I don’t even remember her name. “Indie. Hey, is there anyone I can call for you?”

  Do they usually ask that when the mother is present? No, I doubt it. She knows my mum is useless. She probably thinks I’m going to fall apart. This was always going to happen.

  I let go of my hair and look up. “No,” I whisper.

  She looks back at Mum. The evidence of my parents’ alcoholism is scattered all over the room. “Are you sure?”

  “There’s no one,” I lie.

  There are three people who would drop everything to be here.

  I would have a lot of explaining to do if I called them.

  She nods, the pity in her eyes kicks me in the stomach.

  “What happens now?” I ask.

  “The police have arranged with the coroner to take your dad to the hospital for a post-mortem. They will call you when that’s been completed. The car is now here to take him. You’ll need to call a funeral director who will help you to make all of the arrangements from there. I really think it would be a good idea to call a friend.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Do you have anyone to talk to?”

  “I have a counsellor.”

  She smiles gently. “Good. Will you reach out to your counsellor soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Is there anything else you need before we leave?”

  I bite my lip, glancing at Mum sobbing on the floor by Dad.

  “I’m worried about her,” I say.

  “Do they drink every day?”

  “Yes, they have done for years. He’s her life. What will she do now?”

  “There are programs that could help but that is ultimately her decision. Focus on yourself as much as you can. An alcoholic not wanting to get better can take all of your energy and leave you empty.”

  I watch her and her face pales. She’s speaking from experience.

  For a second, we look at each other, united by our shitty childhoods.

  “No one knows,” I whisper.

  “The secret will swallow you. Put yourself first. Please.” She pats my hand. “I’m very sorry about your father.”

  She rises to her feet.

  I don’t move, not when my dad is lifted onto the gurney, nor when he’s taken. Today there has been five extra people in the living room. I can’t remember when the last time there was more than my parents and me in there.

  I bow my head when Dad is wheeled past.

  Why am I not crying?

  “We’re going to leave now. Will you be okay?” the cop says. Good, they’ve been here for ages.

  I nod but don’t move. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  “We’re sorry for your loss. Take care of yourself.”

  That’s the second time I’ve heard that today. How much of a fraud do I feel for not falling apart? He’s my dad, and I can’t even shed a tear for him.

  Mum isn’t having the same problem. She’s curled up on the floor, her tiny frame shaking.

  “Mum,” I say, crawling towards her. “Mum, please.”

  Slowly, she raises her head. Her eyes are red and puffy, her skin tinged pink from crying so much. It’s the most colour I’ve seen in her cheeks for years.

  “You didn’t do anything,” she accuses, her voice venomous.

  A sharp stab of guilt rips through my stomach. “I couldn’t do anything. He was gone.”

  “What am I going to do now?”

  “We’re going to be okay,” I tell her. “We have each other.”

  God, I want that to be true. I want my mum.

  “I’ve never been able to do anything without David. My life is over.”

  “It’s not,” I say, my heart finally breaking. “I’m still here.”

  Her silence takes my breath, confirming what I already know.

  I’m not enough.

  Twenty-Nine

  Spencer

  I sit on my sofa with my legs up on the coffee table, reading my lines.

  The smile on my face hasn’t fallen since the script was dropped off this morning. This new movie
is incredible, Quarantine is getting a lot of love, and I have the girl.

  I glance at my phone and scowl. Indie hasn’t answered my call or my texts this morning. She’s probably busy being a genius, but it’s doing nothing for my concentration.

  Taking a sip of my coffee, I put down the script at the same time as my phone rings.

  “Hello, Mila.”

  “What’s up, movie star? Did you know that you’re trending on Twitter? I know someone who’s trending.”

  “Great. Is that why you called? Is Indie okay?”

  “I’m meeting up with her later, remember.”

  “Did you need something…?”

  “Reassurance.”

  “Why?” I sit straighter. “What are you planning on doing tonight? You said you were joking about the kidnapping thing.”

  “I’m going to let her tyre down so I have to drive her home.”

  “Mila!”

  Fucking hell, this girl is crazy.

  “Hear me out. I need to do something.”

  Hear me out. Is she for real? “We agreed on a more subtle plan.”

  “Yeah, I decided I don’t like subtle. What if she never opens up because we’re never asking her directly?”

  Hardly surprising. She has the subtly of a nuclear bomb. That’s the fastest way to make Indie hate us.

  “Mila,” I say, exasperated.

  “It’ll take too long, and every time I see her… Spencer, she looks like she’s in constant pain. Imagine living like that every day. Something is very wrong at home, and you know it.”

  I rub my hand over my face. “She’ll cut us out if we push.”

  “That’s why I’m not directly pushing. She won’t know that I’ve slashed her tyre.”

  My eyes widen. “You’ve already done it?”

  “I didn’t mean literally.”

  “I know you care about her, but why are you so desperate to do this right now?”

  “Because she’s my best friend. Now she’s not replying to my texts, which she would normally do if I message before her lectures. And… she’s family. When someone I love is hurting, I can’t function properly. I hate it, and I need Indie to be okay. Help me fix it.”