Page 13 of The Actor and His Secret

‘Well, then we could go get food?’

My stomach rumbles in response, but again, restaurants seem to be out of the question. Sadly, I can’t say no, since he heard the growl too. ‘I could eat.’

‘Any requests?’

It’s obvious he finds this more awkward than I do, like he’s never picked up a person for a night. He fidgets with the material of his jacket, picking the threads from the seam until they fray. ‘I’m not in London often, so how about something quintessentially British?’

My purposely bad rendition of an English accent makes him smile. And what a nice smile it is, all lips and a hint of teeth. It’s the type of grin that stretches from ear to ear, warming the cheeks and putting sparkles in the eyes.

‘Be careful what you ask for - ’ He stops himself, fumbling over the fact that a name would fit in his sentence, but he doesn’t have one. He bites his lip. ‘If I told my friends I just got in a car with a stranger whose name I don’t even know, they’d kill me.’

‘I could say the same.’ I waggle my eyebrows. ‘But to really make them cross, how about you give me a name. Just for the night. Go for it.’

This is the test. A way to work out if this man does, in fact, know who I am.

He narrows his eyes, roaming his gaze over my face. I feel every inch of skin he passes over, as though he’s trailing a feather over it.

‘Hmm, I think I need to think about that.’

‘Don’t think too hard, you might hurt yourself,’ I reply in jest.

‘You don’t know my name either, so I think the trade is only fair.’

I lean in, taking a deep inhale of that honey-kissed perfume. I wonder if he tastes as sweet as he smells. I suppose we might find out.

‘How about this,’ I begin my proposal, just as the cab comes to an abrupt halt. The driver slams his palm into the horn, and his string of fuck you, prick, bastard chops, dick head comes spilling out. ‘If you can successfully distract me from my responsibilities tonight, then I might just tell you my name come morning.’

Because come tomorrow, I’ll be on a flight heading out of London, and it won’t matter if he knows who I am. The least I can do for tricking him is give the man a good story to sell to the gossip news sites - the fact that he spent an evening running around town with Nikos Ridge.

His eyes brighten. ‘Okay, deal.’

He extends a hand, which I take. Following his lead, we shake on the agreement. His palms are so soft I almost melt into him. I can tell from the sheen of his nails that he paints them with a clear gel. They’re extremely well-manicured, whereas mine look brutalised because I’ve bitten them to stumps.

‘Deal,’ I reply.

He leans forwards, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. I don’t know why my mind goes there, but I’m actually disappointed when he knocks on the plastic window between us and the driver to get his attention. ‘Drop us off here, please.’

The driver doesn’t complain. Clearly glad not to have to drive any further through London, he pulls up to the curb, takes the cash from my companion, and lets us out.

As I climb onto the streets, I leave the little trepidation I had in the back seat of the car. No thoughts of the film, of my father, or the kittens Selina must be having right now as she works out how to cover that I’m missing.

I’m not a monster. I texted her as I left the bathroom, letting her know I was safe and heading back to the hotel, not to be disturbed, to which she replied with a string of angry face emojis.

Tomorrow, we have a short flight to Paris for the final press interview - she can berate me then. But tonight doesn’t belong to me, or the film. It belongs to the man who threads his soft fingers in with mine and drags me into the side streets of London.

‘Whoever came up with the idea of mushy peas deserves a lifelong sentence in prison, no chance of parole,’ I say as I watch my distraction scoop up a glob of green mush on a piece of battered fish.

‘Don’t knock it,’ he says through a full mouth, which I would find gross on anyone else, but which is endearing on him, ‘until you try it.’

‘No thanks, you can have it.’

My stomach is full of fish and chips which apparently, he claims, is ‘the most English meal you can eat’. When in London and all that. I scarfed the entire portion down.

My stomach aches from the overload of carbs, which I’ll need two extra sessions in the gym to burn - or I would’ve, if I was still trying to be in shape for the movie. The habits of the last year will die hard. But I try not to care. The bottled beer he brought for us certainly helps wash it down. As does the view of the Thames.

‘It’s really peaceful here,’ I say, leaning back on the stone steps, a cool breeze caressing my face. I close my eyes, listening to the sounds of the rushing water.

‘It fucking stinks,’ he replies. ‘But it was the only place I could think which wouldn’t have a crowd.’

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