Star Man

Fifth day of May. Spring fully sprung. The scent of summer officially in the air. Strawberries on the market stalls, fat and red and juicy, ready for endless afternoons on the park greens with picnics, Wimbledon. I’d never much been a fan of tennis. It was the stranger’s newspaper that made me think about it. The name of a tennis player in a cool action shot, detailing his current scandalous affair or whatever. I took another sip of my coffee and marvelled again out of the window at the busy London street. The coffee shop I was in was small, secluded, and few people understood why it was open. If you came in the morning, you’d be late for work because the line was so long. If you came in the evening, you’d hit the vibrant pre-pre-drinks that usually happened when work shifts finished just shy of each other. But through the day, the place was deserted, quiet, a gentle hum. Unknown to the tourists, loved by the locals. I am a lucky local.

Nothing really ever happened in that coffee shop. It was my escape, as a screenwriter. I often found characters there, through eavesdropping and people watching. It was a past-time of mine, to take a portly gentleman in a tracksuit and give him a riveting rich history, or a luxuriously-dressed Chelsea lass and give her an impoverished abusive upbringing. Most of the characters in the series I wrote for came from the street outside that coffee shop. Never in a million years did I think I would become a character in my own unbelievable series, though.

It was a Tuesday. Nothing ever happened on a Tuesday. Tuesday was still hangover territory, from the seemingly endless partying that happened in the exclusive clubs and bars London had to offer. If one still partied on a Sunday, one was not fit until Wednesday – that was a fact. Sure, some of the younger ones bounced back, with a bit of sugar around their noses and a sparkle in their eye, but eventually it caught up with them, and they joined the ranks of the late-twenty-somethings who couldn’t quite make it into work on time on Monday morning, never mind change outfits or drink Monday evening. So, Tuesdays were my script-polishing days. I sat, drinking my coffee in my usual spot, chatting to Rebecca, the waitress who knew my history as well as I knew hers. After our catch-up, she left me to it.

It wasn’t long before I felt a pair of eyes on me, though. Me, the victim of a people-watcher? Was I about to become a character in another’s work of art? I looked around the room brazenly, but saw no-one, aside from the shocked face of the tennis player on the stranger’s newspaper. I shrugged. Perhaps I was tired. Another bout of editing and polishing, refining some screen action, and I looked up. My eyes met another pair. I found myself frowning, even though a little bit of heat in my cheeks gave me away. The stranger put down his newspaper and smiled at me. I smiled back. I’m a Londoner, not a nasty bitch, even though the two are usually put hand-in-hand. My coffee cup empty, I shrugged the stranger off and waved to Rebecca, who was clearing a table close by.

“Another caramel oat latte, please, Rebecca? And a barbecue chicken melt if you’ve got one.” I asked. She nodded and lifted the tray of cups up. I let my mind wander back to my script as the sound of the coffee shop filled my ears again. I chuckled at the comments left by the other writer, Jenny. She knew how to make professional writing fun. We both did. I liked working with her. It came as a shock when, a few seconds later, Rebecca put down a freshly-brewed latte in front of me. Twenty minutes had gone by.

“Here you go,” Rebecca smiled. “You were lost in it then. Must be a good one coming up?”

“Thanks, Rebecca. I sure hope so. This one felt natural to write!” I gave her a grin and my stomach growled.

“Exciting! Enjoy, love. Oh…” Rebecca leaned over. “Someone has their eye on you…” She winked at me, gesturing to the rest of the shop (I’m sure she had someone in mind), and left me to it again. I noticed a small piece of paper sticking out from beneath the coffee cup and frowned. I pulled it out, confused. A note.

You look busy, so I don’t want to bother you, but I also don’t want to miss a chance to speak to someone so enchanting. Text me?

Beneath the slightly chaotic handwriting, a number. I looked up through my eyelashes, but couldn’t see anyone watching me. There were a few people sitting around the place: a group of girls discussing a project; two young men discussing something with laptops; three separate people typing away at MacBooks; four people reading separately; two reading newspapers (tennis scandal man was closest to me); and me. Serving, there was Rebecca, and Phil, who was food prepping in the back. I sighed and finished the page of script. Did I really want to get into something now? Right now? I realised I’d come to the end of the episode I was writing, at least with handling Jenny’s comments. I had time. On my own MacBook, I pulled up my iMessage and typed in the number.

Who exactly are you, and what do you want with me?

I took a bite out of my sandwich. Three dots appeared at the bottom of the chat window. My heart leapt a bit.

I’m a mystery hidden in plain sight. But I did want your number without making a total fool of myself. Nothing worse than very public rejection, after all ;)

I bristled at the winky face, but ploughed on nevertheless. I had no idea what I was doing. I was twenty-seven years old, still a virgin, with only a couple of VERY short-term relationships under my belt (read: two weeks at a time, no more). Enough traumatic experience with people being downright nasty had hardened me and made me a little bit colder in that arena. But, I was happy with my job, and life’s little perks. I paid attention this time. Someone was texting me. Someone had a phone out to text back that quickly.

I take it you’ve never heard of stranger danger, then? I could be very dangerous.

I looked up, and saw movement from tennis scandal man. The same eyes which had looked at me earlier were now looking down at a phone. He held the paper in one hand, clutched delicately between long, slender fingers. I watched as he put the phone down, and my phone pinged beside my laptop.

Well, you look about as dangerous as a kitten, but I know looks can be deceiving. Assuming I’m willing to take the risk that you’re not currently writing about how to hide bodies, fancy getting a drink?

I actually was writing about hiding a body.

Ouch, wrong risk to have taken! It really depends on what your true motives are? And, you’re also now known as ‘tennis scandal man’. Assuming you’re not one of the twelve-year-olds at the back with the Apple in every orifice.

Tennis scandal man let out a snort of laughter. His paper was down now. He looked up, and I took a bite of my sandwich. With a proper look at him, I understood again why texting strange numbers usually ended badly. He was gorgeous. Tall, when he stood up, legs like a giraffe (he knocked into the table twice before he’d stood properly). Well-built, but lean, a strong jaw, and what I presumed were sticky-out ears hidden beneath a crop of hair that flopped forward at the front in a fringe which faintly held the ridges from his fingers.

“Alright, you got me with that one,” he said, pushing his hands into his pockets. His smile was incredible. I felt panic rise. “Apple in every orifice… may I?” he gestured to the chair in front of me. I nodded.

“Sure, yeah,” I said, moving my laptop back a bit. I glanced at it. I had time. I didn’t have that excuse right now. And honestly, I’d done nothing for this to happen, aside from sit here and be pretty, apparently. I ate the last of my sandwich.

“So… do you have a name?” tennis scandal asked, after a slightly too long silence. “Or shall I call you MacBook lady? Or the Elusive Writer? Or Apple?” He chuckled again.

“Oh… yeah…” I said. Struck dumb didn’t cover it. “Sorry – sorry, Alice. My name’s Alice.” I smiled. I had to snap out of it. But in my twenty-seven years on the planet, not a single male individual had ever approached me out of the blue. “Alice, and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Really, who does?” tennis scandal asked. “Well, Alice, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Matt.”

“Nah,” I grinned, picking up my half-empty coffee. “You’ll always be tennis scandal man. Tennis scandal for short.”

“Where did that come from?”

“Paper.” I gestured to it, where it lay on the table he’d just left. For the second time, he burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, you’re incredible, Alice.” The way he said my name… it was like it was made for his mouth. “I really do hope I’m not interrupting.”

Suddenly, overly-excited Alice came out to play. I snapped my laptop shut, and smiled. Rein it in.

“Absolutely not. I was actually just finished.” I wrapped my hands around my coffee.

Matt told me, with as few words as was possible, that he was an actor. He used a lot of the lingo I knew from my own TV experience, so he really didn’t need to say a lot to tell me a lot. Before I knew it, that May Tuesday midday had become May Tuesday closing. Matt and I had chatted the day away with endless coffees, and an impressive tab at the end of it.

He walked me to my tube stop, and asked me if I wanted to go for dinner with him the following night. I, of course, said yes. I still didn’t know who he was, or what he was in, but I didn’t care. TV fame for me wasn’t really fame – I worked with actors all the time, on table reads and on set, altering the script here and there as needed. Fame was as much a part of my life as anything else, but I enjoyed living in secrecy. I could sit brazenly in a coffee shop and no-one batted an eyelid. I could walk the red carpet at an awards ceremony, and not see a single photo of myself in magazines. I could go shopping, and know there wouldn’t be a single article written. But I still had the joy of seeing my name in credits, and winning awards.

One dinner turned into three, and three turned into a whole day-date. With the good weather continuing, Matt organised a lot of activities for us to do when I wasn’t working. Two weeks into it all, I realised just how deeply into his bubble I was – and how well-known he was.

Nineteeth of May. Dinner. A lovely night, Matt and I had opened up a little more in an exclusive members-only restaurant that we were both members of. He’d treated me again, because he told me it was refreshing to have someone who didn’t look at him and go ‘a bit loopy’. His words, not mine. I’d blushed when he’d held my hand over the table. Neither of us had thought about it as we walked back through the streets towards the tube, but our hands remained quite firmly together. It felt natural, normal. Two weeks together, and perhaps things were moving a little fast, but he hadn’t kissed me yet and I really, REALLY wanted him to.

Had I Googled him? No. But as soon as he’d told me his full name, I’d heard of him. And then I’d recognised him. Purely because my older sister adored him, and hadn’t shut up about him for a good while… but it didn’t mean anything to me. I hadn’t actually told her I was with him… should I? I didn’t know…

What I did know, was that Matt was feeling more and more serious about me, and I, him. On what we thought was a secluded corner, he pulled me close.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked. I nodded. He took my face in his hands and kissed me softly. I held the front of his shirt, hands trembling. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“That was my first proper kiss,” I said softly. At first, he thought I was joking. But as we walked towards the tube, I told him everything about my dating past. The two guys at uni who hadn’t lasted longer than two weeks because of an abusive friend, and the one guy who’d dated me for a joke.

“Then I’m honoured,” Matt smiled. “And I hope I can show you it’s all worth it.” I’d kissed him again, little hearts dancing around my head as I left him for the tube.

The following days were chaos. Some news outlets were exploding with the news of ‘rising star Matt’s’ new squeeze, images of our sweet first kiss swirling around the web like an angry swarm of bees. I was objectified by the media as a plaything in cute shorts. I was vilified by his fans as the latest fame-hungry bitch to steal him. I was harassed in the streets by the press who had no idea about boundaries or personal space. My social media accounts had to be locked down, if only to stop the sheer vitriol from angry, jealous fans. My private life was put on show for all to see. When people learned that I’m a screenwriter, they put two and two together – Matt would be in one of my shows, and I was using him to get a leg-up. I cried when Matt came over into our third week of dating. He held me, apologised, begged me to be strong enough to not let it get to me. I nodded. I could handle it. I had nothing to hide.

The phone call with my sister, however, left a lot to be desired. She was angry – how could I not tell her I was dating HIM?! And why had I chosen him for myself, knowing how she felt about him?! It didn’t matter that there was a thirteen-year age gap between us, and a sixteen-year age gap between him and her, never mind that she wasn’t even sixteen yet! She was livid. It took a few days for mum to calm her down and remind her that I hadn’t had a clue who he was.

Twenty-sixth of May. Another week gone by, and the press were relentless. Anything for a photo. Matt picked me up from work one evening, and was waiting just outside my office.

“Hi,” I smiled, kissing him. None of the girls in the office were fans of his, so they cooed over the fact that the resident virgin Mary wouldn’t die a nun, and left us to it.

“Hello,” he said sheepishly. “Er… Alice…”

“What?”

“I… I’m going to apologise now for what’s waiting outside…” He had his jacket in his hands. “Put your bag on and just walk, okay?”

“For fuck’s sake,” I sighed, palming my eyes. “Press?” he nodded. I groaned. “At least I look half-decent this time.”

“You look full decent all the time.”

“What do you actually see in me?” I asked, looking up at him. I honestly thought about this a lot. He was perfect. Drop-dead gorgeous, perfect skin, beautiful eyes, a heart-melting smile, tall, muscular (he’d answered his front door shirtless one time)… and there I was, looking and feeling like a frumpy late teen beside him. Short, a bit chubby…

“Oh, things you don’t,” came his reply. He never gave me a list of things. Ever. Said he didn’t want to pander to me, or feed the demons. But he’d taught me that I can’t make choices for him. He’s chosen to love me, and I have to accept that whatever he sees in me is enough for him to stay.

“I hate you.”

“I love you.” I froze. I looked up at him. “What?” he gave me a smile.

“I love you too,” I murmured. I flushed beetroot. He gave me a reassuring kiss, smiling, and held me close. Our first 'I love you'.

As we left the building, Matt threw his jacket over my head and shielded me from the flashing press bulbs. His show had been released, so he was current news for the general press and for fan sites and trashy celeb sites. And I was caught in the middle.

My life hasn’t been the same since. I often think back to that month, because that was the month, I became an entirely new person. Me and Matt are still together, have been for three years. I was vilified again for wearing his ring, the bastard took me all the way to New York for Christmas to propose. I’ll be vilified for making my vows to him, too, when we get married on the eleventh. And, undoubtedly, vilified for giving birth to his children. But I honestly couldn’t care less. Matt completes me, and I complete him. We’re a team, a dynamic duo, a power couple, according to whichever publication you read. He’s even graced a few of my scripts with his stellar acting skills.

He really is out of this world.