I shake my head. “A lot of thoughts run through my head when I’m alone.”
“That happens when you have so much on your plate.”
She sits down next to me, putting her arm around me.
“I have something to tell you, but you can’t tell dad.”
“Okay.”
“You have to promise.” I know once she does, she’ll never tell.
“I promise, sweetheart. Tell me what’s going on.” She runs her hand through my hair, like she did when I was younger. Just like she did the night before I married Damien.
“I’m pregnant.” I lift my sweatshirt and show her my little bump, a bump that I’m very proud of.
“Oh, Jenna.” She covers her mouth. I can’t look at her for fear of seeing the disappointment in her face. “Who’s the father? Have you been together long?”
I shake my head, biting my lip. “We’re just friends, but he doesn’t know. I don’t know if I’ll tell him. He’s not really the commitment type.”
“Do you think he’ll change his mind when you tell him?”
I look at her and see myself years from now. “It’s better if I do this by myself.”
EVERYTHING is white and sterile. This is a new side of Chelsea. When we lived together it was girly pink with posters of boy bands, tiara’s and pompom’s in the corner. The virginal Chelsea was sweet, innocent and ready to rebel against her straight-laced corporate American father and her beauty contest winning mother.
I was her salvation.
She was my destruction.
“You’re new here.”
I look at the leggy blonde lying on the sunbed next to me. I don’t remember seeing her when I sat down, but I can’t say I was paying much attention.
“Yeah, I am, my dad lives here. I’m only staying here until I find my own place.”
She turns to face me, putting her sunglasses on top of her head. “Where are you from?”
“London.”
She sits up and swings her tanned, toned legs around. She’s posh, upper-class. Right up my father’s street. He’d call her arm candy.
“What’s your name?”
“Jimmy. Jimmy Davis,” I say, as I hold my hand out to her. She takes it and I shake it firmly.
“Can I call you James?”
I shake my head slowly and smile at her. “Nope, my name’s Jimmy, not James. You’d have to ask my mum why she didn’t call me James.”
She laughs and for the first time since I’ve been in Los Angeles, I’m laughing too. When my mum suggested I should come out there to live with my dad I was against the idea. She told me this is where I should pursue my dream of making music and if I didn’t like it, I could come back and try and be successful in London as a famous musician. She wanted the best for me.
I didn’t want to come. I can’t stand my father. I think I’m the only child to ever celebrate when my mum finally kicked him out, but she says I need him in my life. I beg to differ, but I’m here and enjoying the luxury that his apartment has to offer.
“What’s your name?”
“Chelsea Spencer.”
“Do you live here?” I point to the towering apartment block in front of me. My dad lives on the seventeenth floor. It’s a penthouse, bigger than our flat in London, and it pisses me off that he isn’t looking after my mum, given that he clearly has the funds to do so.