Chapter Eight: A Long and Happy Life

Alexander Finnegan Robertson

“So, what dance form are you performing, chocolate boy?”

  Stella’s irritating voice crackled through the car speakers. I had absolutely no idea why I’d answered her call. I should’ve blocked her number permanently by now.

“I’ve told you about a thousand times not to call me that.”

“But why? Didn’t your fans call you exactly that back in your early days? Hollywood’s chocolate boy?” she teased.

  Apparently, I’d never been fond of the nickname. I was more than happy when people finally stopped using it. Unfortunately, my cousin had never received the memo.

“Look, Stella, I’m not performing like some circus act in the middle of a crowd. So you can forget about it.”

  As expected, her voice took on that dangerously mischievous edge.

“Fine. Then prepare yourself for your embarrassing childhood photos to mysteriously appear online tomorrow morning. Especially the one where you wet the bed after a nightmare.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  The curse was already loaded on my tongue, but I couldn’t risk provoking my scheming cousin when she had photographic ammunition.

  Max snickered beside me, earning a glare. I’d assumed he was absorbed in his game, but apparently the bastard had been listening to every word.

  I groaned. “Oh, come on. The runway walk is fine. But dancing? That’s taking the piss. You know I’m not a dancer.”

“But you absolutely nailed ballroom dancing in your last film. Your fans went completely feral over it.” Her tone was unbearably smug. “I’m only helping you stay on the radar and giving your fans another reason to worship you. You should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you, my arse! You just want to humiliate me in front of an audience.”

“Sometimes humiliation is the price of fame.”

  Max laughed again.

  Honestly, I was about three seconds away from murdering both of them.

“And where the hell am I supposed to find a partner with this little time?”

“Why? There are loads of dance troupes in New York. Ask anyone. They’d be thrilled to partner with you, Alex.”

  She said it as though finding a dance partner in five weeks was as simple as ordering takeaway.

“Can you seriously not spare me this torture?”

  There was a brief pause.

“Hmm. . . you could win two thousand dollars if you came first. Why aren’t you thinking about that?”

  Max promptly dissolved into another fit of laughter, coughing halfway through it.

  Two thousand dollars. I was being bribed to make a complete spectacle of myself. My hourly modelling rate was three times that, yet apparently this was the funniest thing Max had heard all week.

  I was one bad joke away from throwing him out of the car. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel as I fought down the irritation simmering beneath my skin.

“Is that Max?” Stella asked, suspiciously curious.

  Max immediately stiffened in the passenger seat. He cleared his throat and suddenly became very interested in his phone, pretending he hadn’t been eavesdropping.

  I rolled my eyes. At least he was making an effort to look innocent.

“Yeah. You’ve just insulted me in front of my best friend, and the fucker is clearly enjoying every second of it. Happy now?”

  Stella went quiet for a moment before chuckling. “I suppose he’d like to see you dance too. Is he coming to the party?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

  I glanced sideways. Max shrugged.

“I can stay for five weeks,” he said casually. “But after that I have to head back to London. The company needs me.”

“You heard him?” I asked Stella.

“Hmm. . . well, then, bring him over for dinner sometime. Mum was saying the same thing.”

  I looked at Max.

“We’ll see,” he muttered.

“I hope you heard that. Anyway, I’ve got filming now. I’m hanging up.”

“Alright. Bye. See you dancing!” she teased before ending the call.

  Max chuckled, staring at his phone. “I wonder what photos she has. I’d love to see them.”

  I clenched my jaw. “Oh, yeah? I’ve got some photos of you from middle school with that ridiculous haircut. Want to see those?”

  His head snapped towards me, instantly offended.

“I was. . . still figuring out how to style myself back then.”

“Wouldn’t have happened without me. I hope you remember that. And besides, the photos she has of me aren’t even that bad.”

“Even the bed-wetting one?”

“I had a nightmare! You know what I was like back then.”

“Still, you wet the bed.”

  My grip tightened around the steering wheel until the leather creaked.

  It’s fine, Alex. He’s joking. Don’t kill your best friend. He’s the only person who knows everything about you, and apparently plans to take it all to the grave.

  I let out a shaky breath and pulled over. Max eyed me suspiciously but wisely kept his mouth shut.

  I slipped on my cap and mask before heading into the nearest convenience store. I bought a packet of cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked since morning, and after the day I was having, I desperately needed one.

  I was almost out of the shop when a woman in her late thirties approached me hesitantly.

“H-hey. . . are you Alexander Robertson?”

  Shit. So much for being discreet.

  I turned reluctantly.

“Um. . .”

“It really is you! I recognised your voice. My daughter was a huge fan of yours. Could we get a selfie? She’ll be—”

“Shh. . .” I whispered, glancing around to make sure nobody else had recognised me, especially any paparazzi. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Oh! Right. I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have been so careless. You might be in a hurry, so it’s alright if—”

“You want a selfie, right? Come round the back. We’ll take one there. Not here.”

  Thankfully, she agreed without making a fuss.

“Thank you. You’re such a nice and handsome young man. No wonder my daughter adored you. She’d be so happy to know I met you.”

  I smiled beneath my mask as I put my sunglasses back on. “Shame she isn’t here. I’d have been happy to meet her.”

  Her smile vanished, eyes suddenly filled with tears.

   Uh-oh. What wrong did I say?

  She gave me a fragile smile, unlocked her phone and showed me the screen. Her wallpaper was a photograph of her standing beside a young girl, probably a teenager.

“This is my daughter. . .” Her voice trembled. “She passed away four months ago from cancer.”

  I froze.

“But she was a huge fan of yours. Her entire room was covered in your posters. While she was fighting cancer, she’d watch your films and clips over and over. She said they gave her strength. Made her happy.” Her breath hitched. “She was so happy when you won the Oscar.”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

  I couldn’t move. An invisible knot tightened around my throat as I stared at the girl on the screen. I swallowed, but the lump refused to budge.

  There were fans who could make a celebrity’s peaceful Tuesday morning feel like an ambush—pushing through boundaries, demanding attention, then taking to the internet to complain when they didn’t get what they wanted.

  And then there were fans like her. The ones I could never thank enough. The ones who supported me without ever asking for anything in return. The ones I would always feel guilty for never knowing personally. . . or for only meeting when it was already too late.

  I cleared my throat and steadied myself.

“Yes, ma’am. She’s beautiful.” I paused. “And I know she’s happy wherever she is now. I’m sure she’d be thrilled that you met me.”

  That was enough to break the last thread holding her together.

“She was diagnosed too late,” she sobbed. “I was already struggling to pay the bills on minimum wage while raising three children. My husband was useless. All he cared about was booze. He wouldn’t contribute a penny towards our daughter’s treatment until she died.”

  Anger flared in my chest.

  But then she told me she’d finally left that spineless bastard and was now raising her two sons alone.

  My heart sank. There were people struggling like this everywhere, while I could walk into a bar and spend more on one drink than some families had for dinner.

“If you don’t mind, ma’am. . .” I began carefully. “I’d like to help.”

  She looked confused.

  I pulled out my wallet, took whatever cash I had and held it out to her.

“I don’t have much cash on me right now. But I’ll give you my manager’s number too. If you ever need help in the future—”

“What are you doing, young man? Please, stop.” She pushed the money back towards me, visibly embarrassed. “I wasn’t trying to get money from you. Please, I can’t accept this.”

“I know. And I’m not giving it to you out of pity.” I shook my head. “I’m giving it to you because I’m grateful for your daughter’s devotion. People like me get to live this life because people like her choose to support us. Without fans like her, I wouldn’t be standing where I am today.”

  I gently pushed the money back into her hands.

“So please, take it. Otherwise, I’ll feel guilty.”

  She stared at me in disbelief, tears streaming freely down her face. Eventually, she wiped them away and smiled as she finally accepted the cash.

“Thank you. I’ll never forget this.” She looked down at the money. “The first thing I’m going to do is buy flowers and put them on her grave.”

  I smiled softly. “Please do. And tell her I said thank you.”

“I will. Have a lovely day, young man. I hope you live a very long and happy life.”

  I smiled once more before heading towards the washroom, my heart considerably heavier than it had been ten minutes earlier. It had been a rotten day, and apparently I’d just found another excuse to smoke.

  I locked myself inside a cubicle and lit a cigarette. My eyes wandered towards the cancer warning printed across the packet.

  The irony was almost cruel. I’d just met a beautiful fan who had lost her life to cancer, and here I was willingly putting the same risk into my own lungs.

  No wonder Max was always on my case about smoking.

  I really need to quit. Daisy wouldn’t have liked this either.

  I let out a bitter little laugh, smoke curling from my lips.

  She was not here to stop me. And somehow, that made it feel as though none of it mattered anymore.

  A long and happy life?

  Yeah. . . I left that hope a long time ago.

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