Love, Unscripted Page 6

“Sounds perfect.”

  “Although I should say it’s not really a Christmas movie as such, it just has some Christmassy moments.”

  Ellie screwed up her face. “Please don’t say Die Hard. I hate it when people—and by ‘people’ I specifically mean men—say Die Hard is their favorite Christmas film.”

  Nick put her mind at rest quickly. “It’s not Die Hard. Although would you hate me if I said I watch it every Christmas?”

  “No. I get it. It’s a good excuse to watch a great movie. I just hate that smug look people have when they say it. Like it actually sums up the time of year better than say Elf or Gremlins or It’s a Wonderful Life. Is it It’s a Wonderful Life?”

  “I’m not sure you need to see me crying that much so early in our relationship.”

  “It’s a bit late for that, remember? The cinema? That ad for cornflakes?”

  Nick blushed.

  “It was the present he always wanted! And anyway, the plight of George Bailey is a different affair. I cry at the opening. I cry when Mr. Gower hits his bad ear…”

  A sorrow took over Ellie’s face as Nick recited the bleaker moments of everyone’s favorite feel-good festive flick.

  “It is an astonishingly sad film,” she said. “Like, if it was actually real and not a film and so there was no angel to help him, George Bailey would have jumped to his death. On Christmas Eve. Leaving behind a wife and four kids.”

  Nick’s eyes grew cartoonishly wide at this devastating observation. If he was being completely honest, it was the line “if it was actually real and not a film” that disturbed him the most.

  “Anyway…” He pulled a DVD of The Apartment out from behind his back. “Here’s my pick.”

  Ellie read the name on the cover out loud and informed him that she’d never seen it. “What’s it about?”

  “This sad sack who works for an insurance firm. He’s in love with this woman who’s having an affair with his boss, and because he doesn’t want to step on anyone’s toes, he lets them use his apartment for their trysts.”

  “Good use of the word ‘trysts’ there.”

  He thanked her for the compliment and put the film on. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Ellie watching on as the story unfurled.

  * * *

  —

  SECONDS AFTER SHIRLEY MacLaine delivered one of the greatest closing lines in cinematic history, Ellie declared that she liked the movie very much indeed. Then, with a glint in her eye, she said, “Right, I’d best be off.”

  Nick called her bluff and they danced back and forth for a while, each playing it cool that she was definitely leaving until he couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” he repeated. “I forbid you to leave.”

  “That’s more like it. Although if you say ‘I haven’t given you your real present yet,’ I may kill you in your sleep.”

  “Seems more than fair.”

  That rare mixture of excitement and nervousness suddenly filled the room. That feeling of having been intimate with someone, that you knew them, and in a second realizing that the person you were staring at was suddenly unfamiliar. For a moment they were lost in each other and he could hear himself mouthing the words, “I love…”

  He stopped himself.

  “You can say it,” Ellie said, before she kissed him and finished his dialogue for him.

  “I love you too.”

  That Christmas, the Girl smiled as the Boy lay there sleeping. She smiled for the memories of the day. She smiled for where she was at that exact moment. But mostly, the smile was for herself. For all she had done to make this evening special. Her greatest gift, making him think it was mostly his doing.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—1:21 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 103

  MCCAIN 45

  270 NEEDED TO WIN

  Ellie had a real pace on to get back to hers.

  I couldn’t tell whether her quick adjustment of speed was due to the weather (hovering around zero degrees), the fact that we were missing the party, or worse, the sudden realization that she was walking in the dark at night with a relative stranger.

  I attacked the latter option head-on.

  “I’m definitely not a serial killer, by the way. I faint at the sight of blood.”

  “It’s okay. I made it very clear to a friend where I was going and who I was leaving with. Plus, Tom vouches for your character. You can relax. I feel at ease.”

  She looked me up and down.

  “And quite frankly, if push came to shove, I know I could take you. You have very weedy arms.”

  She was right. I did and still do.

  She continued, “Here’s an analogy you’ll like. I feel like there’s more of a Nora Ephron vibe about tonight than a John Carpenter one. And I’m usually good with vibes. Even if you did say that women are just supporting characters in the film of your life.”

  I stopped walking.

  “No!” I corrected her. “You said that about me.”

  She stopped too, looking up and to the right.

  “Oh yeah.” Another extended word, followed by a quick rat-a-tat-tat. “I take it back.”

  Then she started walking again.

  I thought there was something spectacularly great about how quickly she admitted to the mistake, instead of petulantly arguing about it. Just accept it and get on with life. A minor fault has been made, it’s been addressed, please move along.

  She didn’t even feel the need to start a new subject straightaway, the two of us just walking in a fairly comfortable silence for a few more minutes. But the comfort of silence only lasts as long as you don’t think about it. Once it rooted in my brain, I had to end it.

  “What are we, about ten minutes away?”

  “Five.”

  I knew I needed questions that couldn’t be answered monosyllabically.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “There’s always the Chicken Cottage?” she suggested.

  “That’s a disgustingly good idea.”

  She smiled.

  “Do you eat there all the time?” I goaded, trying to give as good as I got after the weedy-arms thing. “Like breakfast, lunch, and dinner?”

  She smiled again. My smile quota was high.

  “They call me Chicken Lady and have my picture on the wall.”

  “Really?”

  “No, Nick. Not really.”

  Silence again for a few hundred more meters.

  “Will your housemates be up?”

  “Housemate, singular. And no, Jamie’s away.”

  “Jamie, he’s—”

  “She’s…”

  I held in another phew.

  “…gone to visit her grandparents this week.”

  I also held in another reference to us being alone in her house and instead blurted out:

  “You look really nice.”

  She blushed and glanced away.

  “Sorry, that was weird. I said that like we were an old married couple and you’d just come down the stairs after getting dressed up for a night out. ‘You look really nice.’ I mean, you do, but I don’t know why I said that.”

  “It’s okay. Thank you. It’s nice to be told that you look nice.”

  I nodded and looked at her again. Just to check.

  “Well. You do.”

  The bright lights of the Chicken Cottage were in view.

  Breaking up with someone is expensive.

  I’d like, just once, for a married pair of lottery winners to hold court at their press conference and state firmly for the record, “What will we do with the money? We’re getting a divorce, of course.”

  The husband will stare happily at his soon-to-be-ex-wife and say, “We’ve been wanting to for years, but we could never afford it.”

  T
he wife will beam. “Without this win we’d have ground out our last years together for sure. But now. Now we can buy separate houses, go on separate holidays. What’s the point of staying together when we’re not financially dependent on one another?”

  They’ll laugh, callous, cynical laughter at the members of the open-jawed press, eager for a happy dreams-come-true fairy tale, now having to put up with this slice of real-life Lars von Trier bleakness.

  An idea so misanthropic wouldn’t have crossed my mind three weeks ago, but now it’s my one coping mechanism. Love has turned its back on me, so all love must die.

  Knowing I have to find a new place to live could not have come at a worse time. A week ago, two more digital projectors were installed, putting Humphrey and Katharine on the scrap heap of life, alongside Ingrid and Cary. Only James and Donna (named after the It’s a Wonderful Life pairing of Stewart and Reed) and Billy and Meg (for Crystal and Ryan) remain now.

  More digital projectors means fewer staff needed, and no one has seen Ronnie for weeks. As manager, Seb still does full-time hours, while Lizzie, Dave, and I are left fighting for the scraps.

  July is almost over and the mandatory meeting is in a week’s time, when I’m sure Seb will keep on insisting that I “diversify,” which is management speak for him wanting me to take some shifts downstairs, selling popcorn, ripping tickets, etc. The very idea of facing customers after a decade of hiding in the shadows fills me with unease. I envision old teachers and girls I liked from high school coming in with their families and seeing me wearing an apron covered in Ben and Jerry’s. They’ll smile and say “hey,” but inside they’ll be thinking, “Fuck, poor Nick. I always thought he might make something of his life, but here’s the proof that that prediction was complete horseshit.”

  The alternative to taking on downstairs shifts means losing a roof above my head. I can’t decide if the apron humiliation is worse than moving back in with my parents a week shy of my thirtieth birthday. I rationalize that friends and enemies are less likely to knock on my parents’ door than they are to want to watch the latest Harry Potter, meaning my shame will be much better hidden behind closed doors.

  * * *

  —

  I HAVEN’T SPOKEN to my parents since the day of Gabby’s announcement, successfully dodging the multiple calls from them, presumably wanting to ask how I am in the absence of Ellie.

  I’ve chosen a nice busy pub to meet them in. One with tables close to each other so they can’t make too much of a scene. Knowing the next-door diners might hear our conversation should keep them in line.

  They arrive ten minutes late and Mum starts in with the apologies.

  “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

  “Apologies lose their meaning with repetition,” I tell her, recycling a line she would often throw at me in my childhood.

  Dad huffs as he takes off his jacket.

  “Glad to see you’re in a good mood. Have you ordered?”

  “Not yet. I was politely waiting for you,” I say.

  “Pay as you order, is it?”

  I would have asked him what that was supposed to mean, but I know exactly what it was supposed to mean and calling him on it might mean having to open my wallet for my meal.

  He huffs again. “So, what do you want?”

  “The beef.”

  “Karen?”

  Mum always takes an inordinate amount of time to decide and then picks the healthiest option. It’s the same every single time. Take an age to order. Order the salad. Complain that she wishes she’d chosen whatever I’m eating, thus making every mouthful ridden with guilt.

  I sometimes think my parents feast off guilt. It gives them power.

  “Erm…”

  Here it comes.

  “I’ll have…”

  I roll my eyes and she sees it.

  “The cheeseburger, please, love, extra bacon. And a Coke.”

  Dad smiles and winks at her, then offers me a drink.

  “What’s that one you like, Blue Moon?”

  I nod, and he starts humming his version of Elvis’s version of the song, much to my irritation. Mum looks smug as she sees me visibly taken aback by her order, like she’s George Clooney and she’s just robbed a bunch of casinos. As opposed to being a middle-aged woman who’s finally ordered something she wants.

  Still, there’s something unnerving about both of them today. The sass from Dad about not paying, the pride in Mum’s eyes at the ordering of a burger. I keep quiet, hoping their evil scheme will reveal itself in time.

  We sit in silence as Dad makes his way to the bar to order.

  Mum smiles again and I retort with another roll of my eyes.

  “So,” I say, finally, “aren’t you going to ask me how I am?”

  “How are you, petal?”

  “Awful.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the matter?”

  Then it dawns on me.

  Fucking Gabby. She hasn’t told them.

  “Gabby didn’t tell you?”

  Dad returns from the bar with the drinks.

  “Tell us what?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

  He puts the glasses down in front of us and waits, looking at me for something I’m sure he’ll make clear any minute now.

  “I have a favor to ask,” I say.

  “Bloody typical,” he huffs.

  “What?!” I offer in what I will admit is a very testy way, but they’re totally at fault, bringing it out in me with his weird humming and her weird happiness.

  Mum chimes in. “Let’s hear him out.”

  “Please, proceed,” Dad says magnanimously.

  “I need a place to stay for a bit.”

  They offer each other a conspiratorial glance.

  “Shall I?” Mum asks Dad.

  He extends his hand to say “by all means.”

  “We were going to tell you the other day at Gabby’s, but, well, first she made her announcement and then you ran off without saying goodbye. We’ve tried calling you, but—”

  Dad butts in. “We’re going to New Zealand.”

  First the burger. Now this. What is with them?

  “Cool. I’m sure I’ll have found somewhere to live by the time you get back.”

  The conspiratorial glance returns.

  “We’re moving there,” Dad says.

  “To live,” Mum says.

  I put down my pint.

  “No, you’re not,” I say.

  Their smug grins are overbearing.

  “I think you’ll find we are,” Dad offers.

  “When? Why? You can’t. What about the baby? Your grandchild? You’re just going to leave it?”

  “Well, we’ll have more than enough from selling the house to return whenever we want,” Mum counters.

  “You’re selling the house?!”

  “Already have a buyer.”

  I am in shock, but with a surprising amount of awe. My parents rarely surprise me, and in this moment, I think I might be genuinely proud of them.

  “Why New Zealand?”

  “Well, we quite liked those films you used to watch, the ones with the little fellas and the men with the pointy ears. It looked really nice.”

  The pride evaporates.

  “Mum, New Zealand doesn’t actually look like Lord of the Rings. They use an amazing amount of digital effects. You can’t make life-altering plans to move to a country just because Peter Jackson and Weta made it look ‘really nice.’ ”

  She shakes her head, unsure of what either a Weta or a Peter Jackson is.

  My questions keep coming.

  “Why now?”

  Dad takes a big deep breath, illustrating that he’ll answer this one.

  “I hope one day you’ll
discover this, but raising children is exceptionally hard. To begin with, they cry. A lot. And sleep much less than they should. Then they cause you worry, every single day. This worry continues into prepuberty and gets ramped up when they become teenagers and they sleep much more than they should. Probably catching up on the sleep they decided they didn’t want when they were babies. It used to be that when your youngest got to eighteen, they were out on their own and you finally got to do what you liked as parents. Some silly sod seems to have upped that age to thirty. Well, now it’s our time. You’ve got an okay job, a lovely girl, and I’m sure the house thing will sort itself out soon enough. You’re thirty next week and that seems time enough to get your shit together. And you’re welcome for the drink and the meal.”

  “Speaking of…” Mum pulls a present from her bag. “Happy birthday, love.”

  It’s clearly a book, and my money’s on A Tourist’s Guide to New Zealand.

  “I hope you’re not too disappointed, petal. The house may be sold, but we have until the end of the month. You and Ellie are more than welcome to stay there next week. We’ll be off on a farewell UK tour seeing old—”

  “Mum.”

  She stops talking.

  “Me and Ellie broke up.”

  There isn’t enough time to say anything else before the food arrives.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—1:33 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 103

  MCCAIN 45

  270 NEEDED TO WIN

  While I was never a stranger to ordering food at half past one in the morning, there was something about devouring a bucket of fried chicken in front of a girl I didn’t know but was sure I liked that made me suddenly feel super-self-conscious.

  I scanned the menu for something that wouldn’t leave me dripping in chicken grease and salt, but found the option to be lacking. For some reason a nice fresh salad was not on the list of alternatives.

  Perhaps that was why the place was deserted. The lack of healthy options.

  “What are you getting?” Ellie asked as a dozen mangy-looking bird carcasses were thrown under a flickering heat lamp.

  “I’m not sure,” I whispered back. “I don’t feel that hungry anymore.”

  She nodded, adopting a hushed tone of her own.