Page 82 of Hello Darling
22
Stella
It’s our last full day here at Hotel Belles Rives. At first I thought that “Belles Rives” meant beautiful dreams, but apparently it means Beautiful Shores or Beautiful Banks. Which also makes sense. But so far it has felt like a beautiful dream. It’s not that I don’t want to wake up and return to the beautiful shores that I call home, I just keep hoping that I’ll return there a slightly different person. I really did want to wake up and find that the dream has transformed me into a person who can tell Evan: “Yes, I will go to the premiere with you, of course I will come to the opening night of your performance in London, I would be honored to be your date to your friend Liam’s wedding—I can come and go from my hometown any time at all—no problem!”
It’s not that he keeps pressing me for a firm commitment, but it keeps coming up. After lunch in one of the hotel restaurants, we walked along the jetty, arm in arm, past all the empty sunbeds. The hotel’s private beach isn’t even open this time of year. I love beaches in winter, of course, but Evan said we should come back again in the summer to get the full Riviera experience, and I just made a weird noise in the back of my throat. I told him I was happy to get the full Evan Hunter experience in the cottage, and it almost filled the silence, along with the crashing waves, for a few minutes.
Once we got back to the hotel lobby, there were several guests lingering by the doors to the back terrace. Everyone here is very polite, and the staff seems very discreet, but apparently today is the day that people finally decided to start approaching the movie star while they have the chance.
I barely even noticed the way women looked me up and down and whispered to each other.
I was perfectly fine with it when the other guests would politely ask me to take pictures of them with him with their cameras, but once a crowd developed in the lobby and it became clear that he’d be signing autographs and taking pictures with them for a while, he insisted that I return to the cottage to wait for him. When Evan Hunter leans in and whispers in your ear with his fancy English accent: “Get your ass to the bedroom, darling,” you get your ass to the bedroom.
I should just be here on the bed, naked and waiting for him.
I should just be happy to check on Muffin Top with my app, the system that this amazing, considerate man set up for me so that I wouldn’t worry about my cat so much while I’m visiting him.
But my thumbs have a mind of their own, and they take advantage of the free WiFi by opening up the Safari app and typing:“Evan Hunter Heathrow”into Google search. Just to see if I looked as tired and dehydrated as I felt when those pictures were taken. The top results, though, are images of Evan Hunter at Heathrow with several different girlfriends who are not me. They are all pretty young actresses, all shiny-hair and dewy-skin and camera-ready. They’re holding Evan’s hand and smiling but careful not to look too excited to be captured by the evil paparazzi. Evan is blank-faced but handsome. And then there are the recent shots of Evan Hunter with me. The “unidentified natural-looking brunette.” Evan looks so protective of me, it makes my heart ache, but I look like I flew from Seattle to London clinging to the wing of the jet. I look like an extra in a big box-office movie and the dashing superhero is rushing me to safety in an epic earth’s destruction sequence, right before he goes off to save his real love interest in the next scene.
I don’t even read the comments. I don’t usually care about how things look. If my yoga students knew I was fretting about this kind of thing, I would rightly have my certificate revoked. But I care about this. I care about Evan Hunter.
When Evan returns to the cottage, I am wearing the peach-colored lace Agent Provocateur lingerie that he had shipped to me back home. I had always planned to wear it on our last day here, with a sassy smirk and four-inch heels. Instead I am barefoot and frowning, leaning back on my hands at the edge of the bed, fully expecting him to take one look at me in this and ask if I’d feel more comfortable in my flannel pajamas. The answer would be ‘yes,’ obviously, and then he’d go back to the lobby to take his pick of the many glamorous women who wear this kind of lace under their clothes all the time, and would gladly follow him all over the world, from bed to bed, always properly moisturized and depilated and plucky.
But the real Evan Hunter would never do that. The real Evan Hunter lowers his chin, drops his coat to the ground, and pulls off his shirt as he strides towards me, saying “Fuck me, you’re gorgeous.” The real Evan Hunter wants the real Stella Starkey, but the real Stella Starkey doesn’t know how to be herself anywhere other than Port Gladstone.
He pushes me down on my back and his cold fingertips trace the scalloped edges of the deep V-shaped neckline, his lips planting kisses along the same path. For the first time in the brief history of this man’s mouth on my body, instead of letting my body enjoy the unbearable pleasure of it, I let my mouth do the wrong kind of dirty work.
“So your fingers haven’t cramped up from signing autographs?” I say, in a much snarkier tone than I’d intended.
He sits back up immediately, as surprised as I am by my comment. “I was mostly chatting with people about my movies. Did it bother you that I asked you to come back to the room? I thought it would be easier for you than standing around waiting for me.”
“Oh it was. Much easier. Which is why I don’t think I’d be a great date for you at your premiere.”
He rubs his forehead. “Okay. You don’t have to come to that if you don’t want to.”
“I mean. Any of it. I don’t understand why you’d want me around for that stuff.”
He winces, but then I can tell he’s thinking things through, and while I’m prepared for an argument, he defeats me, as always, with his damn soothing voice and caring eyes.
“Those were just some of the events that I invited you to. You’re also welcome to come visit me when I’m doing absolutely nothing at home, although I’m afraid I don’t get to do that as much as I’d like to. You do understand that I don’t live on the red carpet, right? It’s part of the job, yes, but it’s not the best part and it’s not the worst. I usually take my mother to premieres or award shows when she’s available, and she has a fairly good time. For me, the premieres are fun because it’s a reunion for the cast and crew. Smiling for the flashing cameras and photographers who yell at you is bizarre, and constantly having to repeat yourself when you’re chatting with reporters is just another form of acting. One does get used to it. What I don’t think I can get used to, is the idea of never seeing you again.”
Damn you for being so fucking sweet.“I don’t like the idea either.”
His hands cup my face. “Then be with me.”
“I can’t just…”
He drops his hands from my face, stands up and starts pacing around the room all of a sudden. “Yes. You can. But you don’t think you can or you won’t, either way it’s no good for me and you seem to have this insane notion that it would be terrible for you.”
Here we go…“I don’t think it will be terrible for me, I just know it won’t work out for you either.”
“You don’t know it and I have to admit, I resent you for not trying.”
“Trying what? Leaving my life so I can try to fit into yours?”
“How are you leaving your life if you’re joining mine?”
“You think I’ll just drop everything to follow you around because I’m just the manager of a gym?”
