Page 22 of Hello Darling
7
Evan
Occasionally, I read a script or a play and I know immediately, with all my heart and soul that I was born to inhabit a role. It seizes me, as if grabbing me by the shirt and saying: “YOU MUST BECOME THIS PERSON. YOU ARE THIS PERSON.” Fortunately, more often that not, I do get the opportunity to take on those parts, but there have been times when they went to other actors. Rejection is a part of being an actor and you do eventually learn to deal with it, because you have to. But sometimes, God, sometimes it just hurts. I’ve always imagined it’s how it would feel to be rejected by someone you’re madly in love with.
As much as the media seems to want to paint me as heartbroken after Georgia left me for the boy, the truth is I was never in love with her. I liked her a lot, it was a delightful fling, fun while it lasted. She always wanted to attend events, parties and clubs, and I rarely did. It never would have lasted forever, and I would have ended it in the classiest way possible, eventually. She just beat me to the punch. Minus the classy part.
Was I surprised that she left me for Braden?
Let’s just say that I was with her the first time “I Wish I Was In Georgia” came on the radio, and could see the writing on the wall. I could see the excitement she was trying to hide. It didn’t feel good at all—I went home alone in a foul mood and got pissed by myself for the first time in years. But it was more a “what the fuck am I doing with my life” kind of drunk rather than a “why the fuck doesn’t she love me the way I love her” sort of thing.
From the moment I started talking to Stella Starkey, though, I felt that pull. That soul-stirring, deep-down recognition that here is a character that I need to know, and that becoming this person—the man who falls for Stella Starkey—would somehow bring me closer to myself. It’s exciting and unsettling. I want to get lost and found in the lush misty wilderness that is her personality.
Also, I just really want to shag her and get lost and found in her luscious fanny.
Ever since she opened that beautiful mouth of hers, I’ve been consumed with the desire to know what she can do with it besides surprise and arouse and crush me with words. When she told me last night that I could “drop the act” with her, it felt as though she had unlocked something inside of me. Drop the act. With her. Yes, please.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been completely myself with a woman. I’m always the person they want me to be. I have a feeling she’s got a bit of an act herself, this one. Beneath that crispy exterior is a center as sweet and soft as nougat, I’m willing to bet.
I realize I’m groaning out loud, and not in the sexy way. I feel that ache inside, that spectacularly awful combination of longing and excitement to see her again and the awareness that there will come a time when I’ll have to say goodbye. It’s too soon to be feeling this way. WhydoI feel this way? And does it really matter why—if I like her this much?
It’s four in the morning here and I’ve been lying awake in the dark for an hour. Now would be a good time to make calls to the UK, and I woke up with the nagging feeling that I should be calling my girlfriend to check in. Then I remembered that I don’t currently have a girlfriend. Then I remembered how good it felt to sit so close to Stella at the theater last night, and then I remembered her smooth exposed skin and round breasts in that tight little top, those luscious curvy hips in those leggings, and let’s just say my body is now convinced that she and I are a very happy couple. Still, it does feel a bit strange, not having someone who’s waiting for me to check in with them.
I have been perfectly content being a serial monogamist. Hollywood insiders have made it entirely too easy to find appropriate girls to have flings with while on location when I wasn’t in a relationship. When there’s a production with a playboy director and or producer at the helm there is often a secret list that circulates amongst the chosen few men on set, of women who are “DTF.” I loathe that term. In my mind I always tell myself it stands for Down To Frolic. The last time I was totally single while on location in Australia, I found out that the young lady I had been casually involved with for a couple of weeks was on one of those lists. I stopped seeing her immediately. I always used protection of course, but the issue was more that Hollywood was a small enough community as it was. I didn’t need to be “Eskimo brothers” with half of the men listed in the opening credits.
It’s still too early to leave for the gym. Thank God Billy offered to open up early or I’d lose my mind. Or go blind from wanking to thoughts of his sister—best not to mention that when I see him. I sit up in bed, switch on the lamp and pull my laptop from the bedside table. Time to check emails.
Not in the mood to peruse the long list of invitations that were passed along from my publicist’s office to my assistant Wendy. Premieres in New York and LAopening nights in London, fashion events in New York, Milan and Paris Happy to have a publicist’s office and assistant to send my regrets for me and happier to have a good excuse to turn those down while I’m here.
When I see a message from Starkey Fitness I am ridiculously pleased. It’s forwarded from my secondary Gmail account—a generic email welcome packet from the gym. Nothing personalized, and yet I am smiling because I’m certain that it was written by Stella.
Welcome to Starkey Fitness! If you’re a member—you’re family. And our family likes to sweat. A lot.
God. I’m like a boy of twelve when it comes to this woman. Before allowing my mind to wander, I catch sight of an email from my mate Liam asking if I’m available for a chat anytime soon and also where the fuck am I. I reply “yes” and “you’ll never guess,” tell him I’ll ring him in a bit. Liam is the happiest sod I know. He was miserable when we were at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art together, because he was always cast as the best friend to my handsome lead, but once we graduated he decided to remain in London working on the West End and the BBC’s finest productions, alongside the best actors and directors that England has to offer. He’s never out of work, makes a perfectly good living, gets to see his friends and family all the time, and to top it off, he’s been with the same wonderful woman since we were at school. If he weren’t such a good friend I’d want to kick him in the teeth.
“So,” my friend says, with feigned gravity, as soon as he answers my call. “I hear that dear oldEvangiais no more.”
“Alas.Evangiais dead. Long liveBragia. Or whatever the media is calling it.”
“Georden, actually. Which is unfortunate.”
I cringe. “That’s awful. So you’ve been Googling her.”
“Lord, no. I’m a card-carrying Hunterhoe.”
I guffaw. I’m not sure who coined the term “Hunterhoes,” but my beloved fans are surprisingly sophisticated and not as Dutch as they sound. There is, of course, some cross-over with the Hiddlestoners and Cumberbitches. My fans are just as well behaved and lady-like as Tom and Benedicts. Except when they’re not.
“You’re the only one I ever Google. So you’re not miserable?”
“No more so than usual.” I pause for Liam to snort-laugh. “I haven’t even seen her in person for a month and a half, I think. We’ve been on different continents for work.”
“Right she was filming in New Zealand.”
“Aha. So you did Google her.”
“Alright, just the once. We were looking forward to meeting dear Georgia. Well, I was anyhow. Is it true she dumped you by text?”
“God no—where’d you read that? We’d always planned to meet up in Hawaii when she’d wrapped her film, but she called to tell me she’s interested in someone else. It wasall very simple and civil.”
