Infatuation Is A Funny Thing

He was an up and coming actor. You were dying to meet him. You have a tendency to fixate on things…people…that you become interested in. You had seen him in a few theatre shows and fell in love with his performance. You followed his career, was sure to save newspaper clippings that he featured in, had his picture on your nightstand. He moved on to television, nothing too big but enough to keep a roof over his head and the fans growing. For months, probably, you can’t quite remember, is how long this went on. Until you had a moment, saw your chance.

Your sister’s fiancé, working as a doorman at the finest local hotel, told you about the event that was being held there the next weekend.

“It’s got all the managers in a twist, be sure of that,” he told you, slumped in his armchair after working the early morning shift, dark hair dishevelled after taking off his hat. You were at your sister’s for lunch.

“What exactly is it?” Your sister asked.

He explained then. A party, he said, to celebrate twenty years since the opening of The Crown Theatre. The theatre down the road in the busier part of town. It’s put on some big shows and received good exposure over the years. It’s where he was scouted.

“The place’ll be swarming with old directors, producers, small-time actors and those who have gone off to better things. They’re all gathering for this celebration.”

It occurred to you then. You remember a jolt of excitement running up your spine; it made you return the cup you were holding to its saucer rather clumsily and they both looked at you curiously. You smiled, bashful, and shrugged. But your mind was elsewhere. Charles Evans was coming home. He must be. To partake in a celebration of a theatre that made his current career? It would be rude not to attend. 

You tried to keep your composure, put your saucer down on the table carefully. 

“Wouldn’t that be something? What a fun night that could be, hm?” You looked at your sister, with light-hearted nonchalance.

“Would it?”

“Of course. We both used to love going to that theatre, didn’t we? Let’s go and have some fun with those who used to work there, yes? Is there a guest list, Simon?” You had given her no chance to respond. You were getting yourself into that party even if there was only a slight chance you would meet Charles.

That night you had gone home and pulled out the scrapbook under your bed, where you kept diary snippets, pictures, newspaper cuttings, all dedicated to Charles. You knew at the time what it was to have a crush on a stranger, but what you felt for Charles was more than a crush. More than smiling if his name was brought up in conversation, more than a mild delight to see him onscreen. What you felt struck you in your core; you were the one to bring him up in conversation, announce your favourite actor and persuade present company to watch his work. You wanted to be like him, be able to impress him, love him, have him love you, adore you, worship you.

You turned slowly through the pages of the scrapbook, drew an extra heart next to his name.

The week leading up to the party was no more interesting than any other. The challenge came in trying day by day to go about your usual business when your mind was anywhere but where it needed to be. Your boss asking you four times to restock the haberdashery before you finally registered your task. Being more of a nuisance than aid when helping your mother cook dinner. Failing to get dressed in a timely manner because you were holding up different dresses against your front, turning and humming in front of the mirror, wondering what you might wear Saturday night.

In the end, you wear a red silk number, sitting comfortably against your newly sun-kissed skin; the weather had been good to you. Millie wears a navy blue velvet piece, which matches Simon’s blue tie. You look at them, and all their romance, bittersweetly. You don’t long for a relationship, you enjoy your own company, but you crave a certain kind of relationship. Attention maybe suits the feeling better. What you don’t realise at this point is having that desire be fulfilled is closer than you can imagine.

The man on the door, on recognising Simon, gives you all a friendly nod and ushers you in. The lobby of the hotel is busy, but the three of you find your way through the crowd easily enough into the large room at the back where the party is. You look down, feeling rather confident in the way the lights make your dress gleam, how the silk reflects across your curves. You are ready to make this a good night, made only better by meeting Charles. You are already scanning the crowds for him, his famous mop of thick black curls above heads.

You check the time. Perfect. As intended, you've arrived fashionably late. Heads turn to look at you.

You are a fresh twenty-year-old in a room of people long into their twenties and above, who have the grace and confidence of age and experience. Millie and Simon go to get you drinks, and you selfishly try to lose them, believing if you did happen to stumble upon Charles, that you could have him to yourself, even for a few minutes.

Then it happens all at once, as you slip through groups of people, catching snippets of their conversations, their echoes of laughter, not really focusing on any of them. You duck under a tray of drinks a waiter is holding above your head as he squeezes past and as you straighten, bells start chiming in your head. The room feels like it is fading away around you. You will always remember the feeling so well. Your eyes zone in on only him, no one else is important to you. 

He is talking, and you can’t place who he is talking to. A director perhaps, fellow actors. They don’t strike you as people you will need to remember. But him. For those few moments, which feel like an eternity, he is your world. He tilts his head back and laughs. You can’t hear the sound from so far away, but you can imagine, calling upon memories of his voice from seeing him in plays and on television. The lights above dance across his face, highlighting his perfect bone structure. High cheekbones, square jaw, deep-set eyes, features all the more dazzling to see candidly when every movement is not as pre-planned and as purposeful as they are when acting.

He turns, joining someone else into the conversation, and very briefly his eyes meet yours, and then he looks away. But, oh, how your heart flutters when he looks back, does a double-take, holds your gaze long enough to offer you a small smile, a smirk if you will. Probably smug to catch you staring at him. But it is kind, still.

He says something, to the people he is with, but he doesn’t look at them. You seem to have distracted him somewhat, and your heart could have continued to flutter up and out of your mouth, you don’t dare open your lips or even smile back. You are frozen, something you hear about, a feeling people often write or act about, but something you’d never truly experienced until now. You can’t take a step, your arms are stuck at your sides. In fact, you believe for a few seconds you forget to breathe.

And then the world catches up, reality sets in. Someone bumps into you from the side, a different waiter tries to get through. By the time you get yourself out of everyone’s way, you have lost Charles’ attention. The music is lively, the chatter is loud, the bells are no longer ringing. The moment is over, and as you release a deep breath that had been stuck in your throat, you realise you want to find Millie and Simon because you do, in fact, really want a drink.

“You look flustered.” The first thing Millie says upon seeing you. You shrug as you join the pair of them, taking the clear drink Simon offers.

“You know me and crowds,” you reply, vaguely, taking a large swig.

You are aware that you are looking over your shoulder for the next hour or so. Would you spot him again? Has he seen you but not you him? You try to mingle. You follow your sister and her fiance around to different groups. Current actors performing in the Crown Theatre, other show-goers and fans like you, stage crews that have since moved on and have plenty of stories. You meet many interesting people that night, and some not so interesting, but that’s to be expected. Then Millie has her own starstruck moment. She whispers at you conspiratorially, staring behind you.

“Lilian, don’t be obvious...but that one you like, Charles Evans, is behind you.” She has her glass in a death grip. You don’t know how to react. You so desperately want to turn around and see him again. Her eyes widen, and she drops her gaze bashfully, fiddles with her hair with an air of forced nonchalance.

“He’s coming over. Don’t look...Don’t loo- shh!” She laughs fakely, gently, and then as if accidentally, looks up to see Charles. “Oh!” she exclaims. “It’s Charles, isn’t it?”

Your sister never was one for subtlety. 

He is right behind you. You can feel his presence. This is the closest you’ve ever been and still, you find yourself thinking it isn’t close enough. You turn slowly. He is taller than you thought. You are looking up at him then, and he isn’t looking at Millie, he is staring down at you, with those big blue eyes, cast under a shadow by his hair which has not stayed in its desired, neatly styled, combed look. 

“It is.”

It takes you a moment to register he’s said anything at all, let alone realise what he is replying to. He smiles, a true smile. “It’s Charles.” And he extends his hand to you.

You are in awe. You are shocked. This is your moment. You lift your hand, he takes it with a firm grip, brings your knuckles to his lips, and you swear you could have dropped right then and there. Lowering your fingers, you let your arm fall back to your side. It’s one thing to daydream about a meeting like this and think about how you would like to act, but to really be in the moment shocks all previous plans out of your brain.

“And you are?”

You haven’t said anything. Say something. Your head feels tight like you aren’t getting enough oxygen, your mind is clouding over. You inhale sharply. Say something.

“I’m Lilian. Lilian Stone.”

“Beautiful name,” he doesn’t miss a beat. “Beautiful dress.” His eyes flicker down, you feel a warmth rush over you.

“And yourself?” Suddenly he is gone from in front of you, moved on to your sister. You feel cold. She bats her eyelashes and blushes, extends her own hand for him to take, much more forthcoming than you were.

“I’m her sister. Mildred Stone. Soon to be Cooper. ” As if remembering, she reaches back for Simon with an embarrassed chuckle. Simon stumbles forward, away from a conversation that had momentarily distracted him. He straightens his black jacket, grins at the man.

“Simon Cooper. My fiance.”

“Pleasure.” The gentlemen share pleasantries. The crowd shifts as a song being played by the band draws their attention.

“May I?” That hand again. That strong hand, held out to you, enticing you. You have to say yes, dance with him. When would you ever get a chance like this again?

His hold is firm, confident, maybe even promiscuous. The sound of half a dozen violins rains down upon you, the sensual bass of the cello, is that a trumpet you hear? You cannot tell, nor do you really care about anything apart from the way Charles' fingers slip smoothly across the silk above your hip. You bite your lip with nerves when you feel him tighten his grip as you start moving, but the silky fabric doesn’t let him get away with it. You smile, politely laugh when he lifts his hand and places it firmly on the small of your back, no way the fabric can interfere. Your body is full of nerves but this is all you’ve ever wanted.

“Lilian. I would like to think I’m more interesting than my bowtie.”

You can hear the grin in his voice, oh, it makes you shiver. And then you realise, with your focus no longer solely on the placement of his hand, that you have been staring at his chest, specifically his bowtie, since you started dancing.

He pushes you out and spins you. You gasp in shock and delight. When he reigns you back in he pulls you much closer, so you have no choice but to look up, and subconsciously you admire this move. And it’s that thought that triggers the waterfall of memories that pour into your mind, how you planned to take this chance to woo him, not the other way around. Although, in all honesty, there isn’t much more wooing to do on his part.

You smile in a way you know shows the subtle dimple in your cheek and look up at him as you imagined you would a thousand times, meeting his gaze, blue eyes to blue eyes.

“I don’t mean to be shy, I’m just such a fan.” Don’t come off too obsessive, but let him know there’s adoration there. Lure him in with your vulnerability.

“That explains the stares,” he says. You try not to watch his lips as he speaks.

“I hope you don’t think me rude.”

“Not at all,” he twists you, you break eye contact, and again you are brought back to his chest with a dazzling smile awaiting you. “I found myself quite enchanted, catching your eye across the room like that.”

“The kind of thing written about in great romances.” You hold his gaze while you speak, then drop your eyes to look over his shoulder. Plant the idea of romance in his head, flirty and lightheartedly, then give him time to reflect on it. It also gives you time to catch your breath while you know he isn’t looking at your face. You try to sigh as delicately as you can, expelling the previous nerves. You think of his smug smile, the way he flatters you now, how you have your own motives, and you can’t help but believe you are both playing a game.

The song finishes, he steps back and bows, your hand in his. All at once, you worry if this is it, the end of your meeting, the end of your time with him. Your chance, gone. But you’ve beguiled him somehow, and he pulls you in close, hovers his lips beside your ear.

“Let me buy you a drink?”

Hook, line and sinker. The game is on, and you are going to win.