How Good It Was, page 7
5
“I need a beer,” Luke said, slamming the door after the tenth and final trip from the van to the apartment. His hands were full of bags containing cushions and throws. “And I told you to put those paint cans down.”
Willow rolled her eyes. “I’m only moving them behind the table so they are out of the way.”
“They’re heavy. And you shouldn’t be lifting in your condition.”
In pure defiance, she picked up two cans of paint, one in each hand and moved them. “I’m pregnant, not incapable. I lift heavier weights than this at the gym. And it’s perfectly safe.”
The bottles in the fridge door rattled as he opened it. Luke grabbed a beer, popped the top, and drank half of it before putting it down on the counter.
“We’ve already walked a hundred miles today; not sure you need any more exercise.”
They’d gone to the hardware store for paint, where Luke had been way more involved than she’d anticipated. Being a painter and decorator before the band took off, he had strong opinions about primers and finishes and colour saturation.
She’d taken photographs. Luke facing the wall of colour samples. A video of the paint mixing. When she’d asked Luke to pose, he’d refused, but when he’d caught her secretly filming him, he’d winked.
Winked.
And she’d found it hard not to melt. Okay, so maybe she’d melted a little bit, because, let’s face it, Luke and his wink and his broad shoulders and his charming smile was the reason she was stuck in Manchester with a baby inside her.
Making her melt wasn’t the problem. It was the wondering if he’d done it for effect.
Willow could hear the huff of Luke’s exasperated breath. “I’m not saying you aren’t capable of lifting shit, flower. Just telling you that you don’t need to. Can I get you anything?”
“A signature on this,” she said, offering him a pen. “Make yourself useful. The contracts are there on the table for you to sign them.”
Luke looked over at them. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you to not sign anything without reading it first?”
Willow sat down at the table. “No, because if they had, they wouldn’t have been able to steal my money.”
Luke reached for his beer and pulled out the chair opposite her, spun it around, then sat down on it. “You mentioned they’d screwed you over. How bad is it? How did you find out?”
“The most innocuous of meetings, to be honest. By the time I was nine, I was already on my third season of a TV show that was highly rated at the network. And I’d already done three movies the years before, but I remember filming a particular movie on my ninth birthday. The director, Calvin Waterstone, got nominated for an Oscar for it. And he was always so kind to me. Made sure they enforced all the rules about my working hours and tutoring and stuff. I remember feeling like it was a fun experience, even though it was this weird, cult-novel-type movie about the end of the world. I mean, the world literally ended. Everyone died, even me.”
“Sounds fucking depressing, but I’d like to watch it to see little you.”
Willow laughed. “Definitely not. Anyway, two weeks after you and I . . . met, I saw Calvin in a queue at Starbucks. We drank our coffee together; fun walk down memory lane and all that. But then, he said it had been a tough negotiation on my salary because he’d never paid a child actor three million dollars before.”
“Fucking hell. Three million at nine years old. No wonder you are loaded.”
Willow huffed. “Here’s the thing. I’m not. Well, I mean, I am. In regular terms. But three million is all there was in my Coogan account when I turned eighteen.”
“That’s the account you told me about. The one where the studio puts fifteen percent of their salary straight into an account in kids’ names. The parents are never supposed to get their hands on it, then?”
“No.”
“That’s still a lot of dough, though.”
“It is, but I’m piecing together how much I earned. How much money there should be. Calvin has helped. It looks like I made over eleven million in movies alone. I know some of it had to go to expenses and taxes and shit, but also, none of this includes any interest that it should have gained in all the years since. I haven’t made a movie in a decade. I think I could be owed as much as twenty million. I did a bit of research, and the house—which is in my dad’s name—was about a million when he bought it nearly fifteen years ago, and it’s now roughly worth twenty-two million. He bought it when I signed the first movie deal. I think he used my earnings to pay for it. Then, there are so many endorsements I did as a kid, I don’t even know how to begin to quantify those.”
“Jesus Christ, Will. That’s a lot to sort out. Can you get any of it back?”
“I hope so. I’ve spent the last month, since I found out I was pregnant, collecting information from his office. I live in the Malibu property guest house. It didn’t occur to me that the whole house should be mine. I thought it was amazing I had my own mini-place at fifteen. So, every time my parents went out, I began systematically collecting evidence from Dad’s office. He’s a slob, so it’s been a mess, but I’ve managed to copy the files on his laptop and scan paper files onto mine. He definitely doesn’t know that I know. And I’ll admit, the idea of facing him to talk about it is terrifying. I wanted to pull it all together before I approached him.”
Luke finished his beer. “If you don’t mind me asking, if you were good at acting and made good money from it, why do you care about this social media shit? Why not go back to it?”
“I’m a persona non grata. A nobody. I was slow to develop, so I played younger than I was for a while, which is a director’s dream because working with young kids is actually hard. Having a twelve-year-old who can pass for ten is great.”
“What’s the problem, then?”
Something deep inside told her she could trust him. “My last director’s dream also involved playing with young kids. Girls, specifically. I told the teacher on set that . . . well, shit.” She blew out a deep breath. “It would be classified as grooming today. He didn’t rape me. But he touched me in a way that was inappropriate for an older man and young girl. And he was asking me to touch him. The teacher reported it to the studio, who were allowed to handle it quietly by my dad. The assistant director took over the last few scenes I was in. Dad accepted a payoff and signed an iron-clad NDA on my behalf. But, somehow, people knew. And I wasn’t hired for another acting role again. Plus, puberty wasn’t kind. I told you the line that hurt me most that evening in Detroit.”
“Fuck, Willow. That’s awful. You’re a strong woman, now. Why not try again?”
“I don’t want to put myself in that position again. The Me Too movement shows how much it still happens. Plus, I enjoyed being normal. Dad tried to push me to act more. He’d send me to audition after audition, but gawky teens who report their abusers aren’t high in demand. I got to go to school and hang out with my best friend, Riley. It almost felt normal, hanging at her house after school each day.”
“If you wanted normal, why did you choose to put your life on social media?”
“I want to creatively tell stories. It started as photographs and videos. And then, my following built. I went to school with the creators of Shamaze, and they asked if I wanted to be involved in the launch. I thought it would be cool. More flexible than being on a movie set. The kicker is, all the sponsorship deals were set up through the business Dad ran. Payments go into a company bank account, and my dad pays me sporadically. He takes a fee for management. I never thought it was weird because he’s always been my manager and business advisor. I let him negotiate everything, never asked to see paperwork. There has always been a business in place for this. It didn’t occur to me that he wasn’t working in my best interest.”
“What a completely shit run of luck. It’s fucking wrong that your dad ripped you off, and you deserve the money back. But I’m sure plenty of people would wonder how tough your life has really been because of it. I mean, you still have three million. I’d kill for that kind of cash.”
Willow picked up the pen again and pushed it across the table. “Now you understand why I can’t leave myself open to trusting someone with my business affairs. I need formal enforceable agreements. I trusted my director, he let me down. I trusted my dad, he let me down. I trusted our family lawyer, he let me down. I trusted the business’s accountant, but he let me down. Nobody starts out wanting to let me down, Luke. Somehow, they do though. I want to make sure you get properly compensated, that we have an NDA, and make sure our lines are completely clear.”
Luke picked up the contract, scanned the first page and looked at the second before tossing it back down onto the table. “Not signing anything without a lawyer looking at it.”
“When will you get a lawyer to look at it?”
He shrugged. “Not sure this is the kind of contract a local lawyer would look at. I need to find someone who knows a bit more about this stuff.”
“Please, can you get it done? It’s stressing me out. I’ve worked hard for my position as an influencer and content creator. It’s how I intend to support me and the baby and save for our future. I know you probably think I have so many other choices, but I love what I do. I don’t want to lose it.”
“It’s probably the only thing we agree on, Willow. I don’t want to lose what I had, either.”
Willow placed her hand on her stomach, which, while still pretty flat, had a firmness to it. Her book said it would be a few more weeks at least before she popped.
Luke sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t say that to upset you, Will.”
Hormonal tears stung and threatened to fall. She bit down on her tongue. Hard. “I know.”
“But it did, right?” Luke’s blue eyes studied her carefully. Like he had that night. When he’d been concerned about the way her father had spoken to her. She’d assumed that caring good nature extended a lot further into his life than it appeared to.
“Yeah. It did. It’s weird that online, a place that doesn’t really exist, is the only place I feel like I actually belong or where people actually want me. Anyway,” she said with a sigh as she stood, “I’m going to make some dinner. What do you fancy? There’s some chicken and salmon and I could—”
“People want you, Will. You belong.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“Your mum?”
Willow scoffed. “The one who knew my dad spent my money to provide their house and lifestyle.”
“Siblings?”
“Don’t have any.”
“Best friend.”
“One. Riley. But she isn’t here, and we keep missing each other’s texts and calls because of the eight-hour time difference.”
“Other friends?”
“The ones who want screen time and collaborations and me to share their profiles for likes. Yeah, they really want me.”
“Willow . . .”
Under his scrutiny, she could feel the walls she’d worked hard to build begin to crack. “So, salmon or chicken. I think I’ll make salmon. Quicker, then I can get on with some work.”
Luke didn’t say another word.
Luke quietly pulled the sofa into the middle of the living room and draped a large drop cloth over everything he’d assembled in the centre. When he’d gone to bed the previous evening, Willow was in her bedroom, light flooding from beneath the door. She’d disappeared into it after she’d cooked dinner, telling him she had work to do, editing the footage from their painting trips and thinking through the announcement of their relationship.
But he’d seen the hurt in her eyes when he’d knocked on the door to say good night.
She was alone. While a part of him cried out to fix it, he wasn’t sure where to begin.
And as he’d lain in bed, he’d thought about the baby. If the baby stayed in Manchester, it would have aunts and uncles and grandparents who would love it. Even Matt and Jase’s nan, or Ben and Alex’s mum, Pat.
Who did Willow and the baby have when they returned to Malibu twelve months from now?
Her hurt-filled answers about the people who wanted her echoed through him.
He’d slept, fitfully, with all the pieces colliding. He’d been unable to follow his own advice, to not worry about the future. To not borrow trouble, as Matt’s nan would say. Twelve months was a really long time. Plus, he’d gone thirty-six hours without any coke, and the fact that he knew that in hours and minutes illustrated just how out of hand his use had become.
Which was why he’d conceded defeat to sleeping in, decided on a distraction, and pulled on an old pair of jeans and a polo shirt from his old job at Matt’s Uncle Allan’s decorating firm. Then, he’d driven over to Allan’s house to catch him before he headed out on jobs for the day and to borrow two paint roller extension poles, a couple of paint trays and brushes, a ladder, and a stack of drop cloths.
The plastic tarp he’d laid down on the wooden living area floor crinkled beneath his work boots. He’d already pulled all the LED lights out of the ceiling and cut in around the walls and windows.
With the roller loaded with paint, he created a large W shape on the ceiling before going back over to fill the spaces in between. The crisp white paint made the old ceiling look a dirty yellow. Guessed that’s what two years of smoking in a place would do.
Not that he could do that anymore, either. And he was already sick of popping outside every time he needed a nicotine hit. He wouldn’t tell Willow how he’d stuck his head out of his bedroom window, blowing the smoke into the wind, before wafting it away like a fourteen-year-old hiding it from his mum. There was no way he could give up coke, booze, and cigs all at the same time.
Mindlessly, he rolled all the way across the ceiling in front of the windows.
Occasionally, he glanced over to Willow’s room, looking for signs of life. He hadn’t exactly rolled out the red carpet. He’d left every single detail of her living here to her. Was she entitled to healthcare on the NHS? Did she have the right visa? How would she make friends? He’d not even introduced her to his sister, as if Willow were some dirty secret.
Not that Willow had seemed to be in any rush to leave the apartment.
He was a shit.
He put the roller down and fired off a text message to the band.
“You’ve been busy.” Willow appeared bundled up in an oversized hoodie, her eyes heavy with sleep, her lips irresistibly soft. “Want a coffee?”
“Would love one. No sickness?”
Willow sighed and smiled as she started making their drinks. “None. It’s a wonderful thing.”
“I’ve invited the band over. It’s time they knew. I don’t want to keep lying, and I don’t want you to feel like a dirty secret, because you’re not. They know it wouldn’t be my first choice, so to suddenly seem that I’m madly in love and happy about this would be just too weird. It’ll mean we can be ourselves around them, and you can get to know them, so it won’t be quite so isolating for you being here. Matt’s bringing Izabel, Iz, my sister. Jase is bringing Cerys. And Ben is bringing Chaya.”
She handed him his coffee. “I think that’s a good idea. Are the women their girlfriends?”
“Thanks. Cerys and Iz, yes. Ben and Chaya are complicated. Either way, she hangs out with us as much as the others. And she’s a doctor. I figured she could help you figure your questions out. They’ll be here in an hour.”
“Thank you.”
“Sorry it’s taken me so long to pull my finger out. I just . . . I didn’t know how to explain this.”
Willow placed her hand on his arm. “I wish it was all under different circumstances too. I’ll need to shower.”
Luke took her hand and squeezed it. “Then go get started. I’ll keep going on the ceiling.”
“It looks so much better already.”
They both looked up. Side by side. Their arms barely touching each other. And he felt the pull he always felt around her. “Yeah. It does.”
An hour later, Luke saw the worry in Willow’s eyes. Makeup hid the circles he’d seen earlier.
Shit, he felt a tightening in his own stomach. Because when it had just been the two of them in his apartment, he could compartmentalise. There was a world where Willow was here and pregnant, and a world where he was still a drummer with his mates in a band and had the freedom to do whatever the fuck he wanted.
A knock at the door burst through the apartment. “They’ll roll with whatever we tell them,” Luke said.
He opened the door and let Matt and Izabel in. His sister threw her arms around him in a quick hug. “I just heard you’d had a guest hidden in here for five days. Five days, Luke. What the hell?”
Matt followed behind and winced. “I tried to tell her to not get mad and listen, but she wasn’t having any of it. Everything okay?”
“Not even remotely.” Luke watched Iz head down the hall.
“You want to give me a clue as to what she’s doing here? Because it dawned on me this morning when I got your text that it might not just be because she missed you. Is she . . .?”
Luke turned to his best friend. The man who had stood with him through thick and thin, except for the one time he’d let him down in the biggest way possible, when he’d fallen for his sister. “Yeah.”
“Shit. Fake it. Doesn’t matter how you feel,” Matt whispered. “She’s in your life forever. Fake it until you’ve found your feet, mate.”
Luke followed his sister into the living room, trying to fix a reassuring smile on his face. He’d been holding on until he’d spoken to Matt. Reality was smacking him about the face harder than he hit his snares during their song, “Truth and Anger”. “Izabel, this is Willow. Willow, my sister Iz.”
“Hey, Willow,” Izabel said, looking around the decorating in progress. “Is he really making you paint his hovel?”
