Page 11 of The Actor and His Secret

I breathe a sigh of relief as she doesn’t put up more of a fight and make my way up to the second level of the theatre, where I’m sure there’s a quieter bathroom that I can hide in.

But when I open the door and slip inside, I realise I’m not alone.

There’s a man hunching over the sink, gripping the edges. He’s wearing an expensive looking suit, but it’s ill-fitting, like he rented it from some shop that didn’t even make adjustments. That and there’s a faint hint of alcohol under the smell of his cologne. His thick brown hair is falling out of its gelled style and into his eyes, which are beyond tired looking. They’d probably be hazel in the sun, but in the industrial light of the bathroom, they’re just a muddy brown. His cheekbones are high, but his face is hollow, like he’s just lost a lot of weight.

He’s gorgeous, in a faded kind of way, like he’d once been stunning but had let himself go.

He’s also very clearly having a panic attack.

'Hey,' I say, because I’ve been there and done that, and there’s no way that I’m going to leave someone to suffer through an anxiety onslaught alone. 'Are you ok?'

The man gives a harsh laugh, almost like he’s choking, and grips the edge of the sink even harder. His knuckles show through the skin, and I hope he’s not about to start throwing punches. Maybe he thinks I’m coming on to him. I take a half-step back, but then the laugh gives way to a ragged inhale that sounds like it hurts.

'No,' he croaks, his voice so quiet I almost can’t hear. 'I’m not.'

It looks like the admission costs him, his shoulders curling in and his breathing getting even shorter and sharper. I go into triage mode, stepping up to him. 'Is it alright if I touch you?'

The man nods, and I put my hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles over the ridges of his spine, which I can feel through his jacket. 'I want you to breathe in for a count of four, then hold it, and then we’ll let it out slowly.'

It’s a trick my therapist taught me, controlling breathing to short-circuit panic attacks. I hope it works for this stranger, because I can’t stand to watch someone in the kind of pain I know personally. My medication works well enough that I haven’t had one of these in ages, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember the feeling of it all too well.

The man nods again, and I count out the numbers slowly, feeling his ribs expand and then contract against my hand. We do it again, and again, and after a few cycles the shaking in his hands starts to ebb.

'That’s better,' I say soothingly, switching to what I always wanted on the come-down from a panic attack - a good shoulder massage. It’s hard through the jacket, but even with layers of fabric between us, I can feel just how tense and locked-up this man’s muscles are.

'Thanks,' he says. His voice is still ragged, but it’s a little better now. He’s pushing back into my hands, like a cat eager to be pet, and I keep going, digging my thumbs into the tense lumps along his shoulder blades. 'I’m so sorry. This is so embarrassing. I just - I think I need to get out of here.'

'It’s not embarrassing,' I counter. 'Plenty of people, myself included, have anxiety that becomes unmanageable at times. But I agree with you - I’m not interested in being here anymore either. But responsibilities and all.'

‘Yes,’ he replies, eyeing me cautiously, as if I’m about to steal something from him. Clearly, this man distrusts new people just as much as I should’ve with Geoff, before I was blinded by the high life. ‘Do you…’

He stops himself, which makes me lean in. ‘Do I what?’

His rich brown eyes, which are more the decadent colour of chocolate than I first noticed, drink me in. From stiff leather shoes to the dramatic pink bowtie I matched with my tux.

I get the odd feeling that he wants to get as far away from me as possible. Is it the bowtie? Maybe I should’ve gone with boring black after all. ‘Never mind. I should go.’

I busy myself by washing my hands, over and over, aware he is still looking at me expectantly. When the question finally comes, it almost knocks me forwards. ‘What responsibilities are you hiding from in here?’

A nervous laugh bubbles up my throat. ‘Where do I start?’

‘Sounds ominous.’ I notice the strange accent the man has. It’s American, kind of. But there’s something else beneath it, the roll of a tongue that transports me to a warm beach in the Mediterranean. Italian maybe? Or Spanish, I can’t place it.

‘What about you?’ I ask, pumping more soap onto my fingers.

‘I’m not one to enjoy a crowd, to be honest.’

‘Ditto.’

‘Ditto? Isn’t that a Pokémon?’

I snap my head around, amused by the fact this tall man even knows what Pokémon are. ‘You’re not wrong.’

He shrugs, tugging nervously at the knot of his tie as the bustle beyond the door dies down. ‘Sounds like the movie is about to start.’

I wince, and he notices.

‘Can I ask why you’re here, if you clearly have no interest in watching it?’

---