Page 28 of Hello Darling
I look back to the screenplay on my iPad. I don’t want to, but I also don’t want to contemplate her body any further in her presence. I did that enough in my hotel room earlier this morning.
I manage to ignore her while she stretches. She herself is placing earbuds in her ears. I can only assume it’s because she’s going to listen to music that’s even more up tempo than what The Clash has to offer. She mounts a stationary bicycle in a spot of the room that I can’t see her in if I just look in the mirror. I wish I hadn’t turned my head slightly and seen how she mounted that seat with such grace and ease, because now I can only picture her swinging her leg over and straddling me.
I should be reading this awful script that I loathe but will probably end up doing anyway. My agent also represents the writer and director and told me that they are guaranteed a green light if I attach myself to the project. He said he can get me a five million dollar “pay or play” deal, so I’d get paid even if they don’t end up making the movie. Problem is, if they do end up making the movie I’ll be committing myself to at least three of them because it’s set up to be a franchise.
Maybe if I can convince them to shoot this crap here in Port Gladstone…Sign me up.
I very subtly turn my head so I can see her going to town on that bike. She has a lot of stamina. Good thing, because she will be spending hours riding me once I’ve made my move.
One of the themes ofCover-upis hiding—from the world, hiding your identity, your true feelings. I suspect that Stella is somehow hiding who she really is, despite being a loud-mouthed queen of sass. She’s hiding a romantic wanderlustful dreamer who lives quietly inside of her, and I intend to find out why and then coax her out into the world with me.
But then I might be ruining her. Maybe the thing that I find so attractive about her is how happy she is with where she is—the quality of satisfaction—the apparent total lack of longing. It’s such a rare quality in the world I inhabit. How obnoxious of me to presume she would want to leave her world for mine.
Forty minutes later, I take a seat next to her on the bench as I rehydrate and catch my breath before moving on to strength training.
Her skin is damp from head to toe, glistening with perspiration, her chest heaving. She pauses to gulp down about a liter of water, giving me a chance to admire her long bare neckline. I am dying to lick that salty wet neck.
She replaces the cap on her water bottle and looks up at the clock. “Damn. I have to get changed and open up. I’m a mess.”
“I disagree. You were never lovelier.”
“Pssh. You should see me after I’ve showered.”
“I’d rather see you while you’re showering,” I mumble into my water bottle. Not my finest work, perhaps, but I couldn’t stop myself.
She turns her head and looks at me, wondering if I just said what she thinks I said. “What did you say?” She sounds as if she’s afraid to know for sure.
“What do you think I said?” I look at her straight on, not teasing.
Her cheeks turn the prettiest shade of pink as she presses her lips together and shakes her head. Is she demure? Is that what’s really going on here?
“Glad you got your sweat on, anyway. You have a class today?”
“No, I teach every other day. Someone else teaches yoga today. Candace. She’s much more advanced than I am. You ever do yoga?”
“I indulged a former girlfriend by going to a few classes back in London, but it’s not for me.”
“Really? But it’s great for your muscles and joints. It’s a good way to keep from getting stiff after all the training you’ll be doing.” She says the word “stiff” in such a coy way, I am almost certain she’s trying to beat me at my own game.
I laugh. “I’m completely resigned to being stiff after leaving here.” I take another sip of water, then turn my head to face her.
She is speechless. Studying my face, trying to read me. I feel like an open book, but I understand how confused she must be. I myself am not confused. I know precisely what I mean and what I’m feeling right now and what I want.
I glance at her lips and lean in, almost imperceptibly, towards her. My lips are inches from hers and if she tilts her head up the tiniest bit I will give her the kiss of her life right here right now on this bench.
But she doesn’t. She is frozen. Staring up at me, a gorgeous doe-eyed perspiring deer in headlights.
I am not who she thought I was, not who people think I am, not who I let people believe I am. I have accepted her invitation tonotdo my “whole thing” with her, so she will get a whole new thing from me. All she has to do is take it.
But she doesn’t.
Not yet.
She frowns at me, pulls back, stands up, and walks into the staff restroom, shutting the door and locking it behind her.
Fuckity fuck fucksays Hugh Grant in my head.They’re writing songs of love, but not for you.
Fuck you, Hugh.
