by Sorell Oates
“Be sure to remember that in those shared dressing rooms right now are a guy and a girl that'll be stepping into our shoes before we know it.”
“Horrifying,” said David camply, contemplating someone younger and prettier than him taking over the roles he'd played throughout his career.
“Frightening, but an inevitability. Everyone needs their chance to shine. I always throw the odd sick day to give the understudy a chance.”
“I thought you were genuinely sick for those two shows,” his voice was scandalized.
“I was. Sick of work. It was one day. A Wednesday. It gave the understudy the matinee and evening performance. It was two performances out of two hundred and eight.”
“You're a generous performer, Susan, and wonderful mentor. And it looks,” David was flinging open the door to her dressing room while speaking, “as though someone else thinks so too.”
A huge bouquet of flowers were there. Consisting of fresh white and red roses, they'd been arranged in a straw basket containing a glass vase with water. The long straw handle of the basket was designed in a heart shape.
“Any guesses as to who?” David was resting on the frame-way of the doorway, keen for the gossip. He was cute in his navy jogging bottoms and plain sky-blue t-shirt. His outfit would enable him comfort and space for practicing dance routines. Taking the card, Susan placed it flat down on her dressing table.
“Callum, Dylan or my dad,” responded Susan playfully.
“Callum, no. It would wind the cast up if they thought he had favorites.”
“Unlikely to be my dad. He's far too used to the job to think of the first day of rehearsals on Broadway is a big thing.”
“Dylan then?”
“It's my only reasonable choice.”
“And Dylan is?” asked David immediately, while feigning boredom at Susan's love-life.
“Oh he's nobody you'd be interested in,” she said pretending to fall for his act.
“Don't be mean, Susan,” he wailed.
“He's my agent in America, helps out my British agent if I'm doing transatlantic jobs.”
“And is there…”
“No. Never has been. Never will. He's an old friend from school. He gave me my first break here and he’s thoughtful. This might be him.”
“Dare I step in to read the card for the big revelation?”
“Be my guest,” said Susan, bowing and sweeping a hand outward to encourage his entry.
He stepped in, snatched the card and stepped out of the room. Reading it from the hallway, Susan could see a stream of singers and dancing seeking their shared dressing rooms.
“Wrong on all three counts. I think you'll be disappointed.”
“Give it here then.”
“Absolutely not, Susan-Marie Thompson, you promised I could read the contents aloud.”
“Hurry then. I'm on tenterhooks.”
Dear Susan,
Lovely to hear you're back on Broadway. Probably you don't remember me, but it's Imogen Locke-Smythe from Brighton College. Have never forgotten how talented you were. As we're in the same town I thought I'd send you something to wish you well with the new show.
Love Imogen.
Kiss.
Susan sank onto the seat. Hard and uncomfortable, it didn't come anywhere near the emotional torment the words on the card evoked.
“Susan? Are you okay?” David came in to kneel by her chair.
“I wasn't expecting that. It's thrown me completely.”
Unscrewing the two liter of bottle of water, sitting untouched on her dressing table, David poured her a glass. “Do you want to talk about it? Is it something we need to notify anyone of? Is she an obsessive fan or schoolyard stalker?”
Susan snorted. Water flew out of her nose, sprinkling on David. He wiped her spittle, water and other personal grime from his face with a disgusted expression.
“Sorry! You always know how to make me laugh,” she said, punching his shoulder.
“I was being deadly serious.”
“I know. Sorry, it made it funnier. A schoolyard stalker. No. She's fine. It came from left-field. Didn't see it in my peripheral vision. The girl was a sweetheart. I'm shocked she remembers me,” mused Susan.
“How could anyone forget you? You make an impact on everyone you meet. Everyone loves you.”
“David, if you were straight, I'd run away with you tomorrow.”
“Susan, if I was straight I'd let you!” Kissing her cheek, he checked his watch. “Ten minutes and we start doll. Should I keep you company?”
“Go warm-up or do whatever routine it is you partake of prior to hitting the stage. And thank you David.”
Blowing her a kiss, he went sauntering along the corridor to find his own dressing room.
This isn't Imogen's fault, thought Susan. It was a friendly gesture from a kindly girl she hadn't even mixed with at school. Boarding in the UK, Susan was prominent in the drama club and a school prefect at Brighton College. Thin and popular, Imogen's wild streak prevented her gaining a prefect badge. Her efforts were expended athletically and academically.
Susan's memories of Imogen were fond. She'd never felt the need to bully Susan, despite mixing with the A-crowd. She could recall incidents when Imogen had stepped in to stop the bullying and berate anyone feeling it permissible to make another person miserable.
What concerned Susan was whether Imogen was aware of what occurred at school with Rupert. Did Imogen have an inkling of what happened between Susan and her older brother? Checking the reverse of the card there was no contact details written. Whatever the purpose of the flowers, Susan would never know for sure why Imogen decided to send them.
CHAPTER 4
Falling into Dylan's hug was exactly what Susan was in need of. His arms were comforting, his chest broad, and their shared history one that would bind their friendship no matter the distance or time passing between each meeting.
“Susan-Marie, back in town and back on Broadway.”
“Did you think I'd be a no-show?” she demanded of her old school friend and American agent.
“I did wonder.”
Stepping backward, Dylan took her in. Stunning. Raven black shoulder-length hair, layered to accentuate her cheek bones, sea-green eyes and pink, round button-shaped lips. She remained as visually striking as she had at school. Her figure, though, had not. The puppy fat she'd lost years ago. A harsh truth, thinner opened the door for more roles on Broadway for her. He guessed she must work out regularly from her toned figure. Voluptuous, rather than waif-like, she was everything a woman should be. Dressed in jeans and an unusual hot-pink shirt of a band he'd never heard of, Susan retained an air of elegance and money, as opposed to someone dressing younger than their age.
“Stop staring at me like that!”
“Sorry. I was only thinking how beautiful you are.”
“Right back at ya, Dylan,” she said sincerely.
At five foot eleven, his soft features gave him an impish look. White-blonde, medium length hair, his style combined with his formal fashion had Susan wondering why he worked behind the scenes. His looks were perfect for the stage. She took in the tight black trousers and tighter black shirt, rolled up to his elbows. It was as if his clothes were one size too small. The effect accentuated every aspect of his stocky, but strong, physique.
“How is it you're not opposite me on stage?” she took hold of a hand to spin him for a full twirl of his compact, defined frame.
“Inability to sing, dance or act.”
“Oh I remember now,” she laughed. “Regretfully your talents are best suited off stage.”
“My talent is recognizing a talent. Then I skim money from their earnings to make a salary for myself.”
“Don't knock it,” said Susan. “If it wasn't for you I'd have never got my feet on the professional ladder of this industry. I think of some of the other people you work on behalf of it and it's amazing what you've done. People love the artists you represent. Discovering
them and promoting them engenders happiness from the fans. That's a cool contribution derived from your efforts. I'm proud of your work and more proud to be represented by you.”
Susan always knew how to say the right thing and mean it. Dylan felt his ego inflating.
“How is it you manage to stay grounded, Susan-Marie Thompson?”
“I chose my friends wisely. You'd never let me get a big head. It's not like I will ever forget my humble beginnings.”
An awkward silence opened. They never discussed school much, least of all her experiences there.
“How are things with your dad?” asked Dylan, recovering the affable atmosphere.
“As expected. Contented I'm working and pursuing my goals. Insistent I do it his way. I foolishly thought he might meet me at the airport. I've not seen him for three years, but he was a no-show. I've no idea why I was disappointed. He's never led me to expect any change in his behavioral patterns”
“Coming home is hard?”
“Yes.”
“Because you feel unloved by him not bothering to journey to the airport to welcome you back?”
“I can't be unfair. I know he loves me in his own way. It's just not an easy way to accept. He thinks if you're in a production you stick with it, work with it and it must become your whole life. Because I'm over here with a show he sees himself as surplus to requirement. If I'm honest, he thinks my wanting to visit him is an excuse for me to avoid my commitments to the show. When I turned up, I thought he was going to go straight for my jugular.”
“I didn't realize it was that bad.”
Susan spun her chair to take in the view of Broadway from the serviced offices Dylan rented. Clean, modern, simple and conventional, it suited Dylan's needs. His necessities only encompassed a desk, laptop, phone and spare seat or two for the artists he represented. It wouldn't be cheap renting here though. The technological facilities were modern and first-rate. The fittings were on the ordinary side. Though the furniture was new, it was made of an indeterminate wood. The wooden desk and shelves were complimented by black office chairs. Had it not been for the posters he'd set up, mostly of her Broadway appearances, it would've been drab. It was the partially panoramic view of Broadway that would hike up the costs he had would pay for leasing the tiny office.
“It wasn't great. He was contented to hear I'm 'living' with the London component of the cast.”
“As in Callum rented somewhere nearby to your apartment,” clarified Dylan.
“He did.”
“Is he coming Wednesday evening?”
“Callum? Yes. He'll be there. I believe he's familiar with Mr. Radmacker.”
“I'll bet. Don't suppose you fancy dinner?” asked Dylan tentatively.
“Yes, please. It's nice to have an old friend who knows me to chat with, but I can't tonight. We could go Wednesday after the exhibition”
“That's great. What have you planned this evening?” Dylan forced his voice to be as casual as possible.
“I forgot how big the portions are here and how big my appetite is when I'm comfort-eating. There's a gym close to where I live. I thought I'd sign up to stop me ballooning while I delight in my fast food nation.”
“Wouldn't it make sense to eat now and work out later?”
“Don't tempt me, Dylan. You of all people should know how difficult food is for me. Seriously I would, but I've got my gym induction. You know how risk assessment is these days. I've been working out at gyms since I left school in England, but whenever you join a new one, no matter how much experience you have, they like to introduce you to every piece of equipment there.”
“Health and safety,” said Dylan relaxing at the reason behind her refusal to join him for a meal.
“Anyway, I have my session booked and paid for tonight. My personal trainer will tailor an exercise routine to my body's needs and wants. You never know, I might meet the man of dreams there.”
“You and a gym-bunny? Come on Susan, is that you?”
“Of course not.”
Watching Dylan rise from his chair, Susan followed suit.
“Let's blow this joint. We'll meet Wednesday and immerse ourselves in serious culture, but for now you can share a cab with me if you're done for the day,” she said, linking arms to forcibly remove him from the office.
CHAPTER 5
Susan was inwardly dreading the gym session. She'd never gotten over the trauma of joining when she was fat. It was as if only thin people were welcome to work out. The only way for fat people to become slim was to use a gym. It was a catch twenty-two. She knew she'd never be thin and she knew she had to regularly exercise to keep her figure. Aware it was a necessary evil, she had to bite the bullet and go through with it.
The health club was expensive and exclusive. Attached to rich apartments in Broadway and within walking distance of her own flat, it was convenient and the clientele was as expected. The personal trainer was formal and friendly, but left Susan cold in respect of developing a new crush. He was far too beefy for her taste. Dylan was right: overly pumped men that had more brawn than brains weren't for her.
However clichéd, if everyone had the same taste it would be a boring old world, thought Susan. That her trainer was Neolithic and had difficulty stringing a sentence together didn't mean he was devoid of a heart of gold, or unable to offer the right woman a fairytale ending. He just wasn't for her.
Satisfied she comprehended how the machinery operated and having scrawled an exercise plan allegedly tailored to her fitness levels, Susan signed off on her membership form for processing. Alone, she was left to make use of the gym facilities without supervision.
Strangely, she recognized him right away from behind and it wasn't because he had a perfectly muscular ass, although the black training shorts certainly drew attention to it and his sleeveless shirt uncovered bulging biceps. It was something more than his body that had Susan stealthily surveying the gym, ninja-like, to confirm her suspicion.
Oh my God, he's still beautiful, she thought.
Rupert Locke-Smythe. He was talking to a girl on the treadmill. She was five foot eight and of Asian descent. Her body was tall and slender. Even now, after all these years, Susan knew she couldn’t compete with the likes of her – especially not where Rupert was concerned. Darting past a row of ski machines, she walked past the treadmills to the stationary bicycles lined behind the treadmills.
Taking a cycle mid-row gave her a view of the man. She was breathless before her feet started pedaling. It was Rupert Locke-Smythe and he'd grown into a beautiful man. More beautiful than the eighteen-year-old boy she recalled vividly. Tall and confident, and she could hear his British accent from where she sat. Smooth and low in tone, she wished it was her on the treadmill.
Years change nothing, no matter what distance you put between two people, thought Susan. Isn't that a cheesy line from the musical? It sounds corny on stage, but it's not too far from the truth.
Oh God, he's going. What should I do? I'll work out, because I am no longer fifteen years old and no longer indulge in unrequited love with mean boys. He's not a boy, though. He's a man. The girl from the treadmill isn't following him, that's a hopeful sign. Means he's single. Maybe fate has put us here. First the flowers from his sister and now this. It has to be a sign. Sitting here on the bike isn't going to help love run its course. I'm not even pedaling. Pedal, Susan, pedal. No, stop. Go after him and say hi. That's a bit stalker-ish. Time's running out. Time to be a stalker or time to wave goodbye to what destiny offered you on a plate. Do something. Don't freeze.
She jumped off the bike, the bicycle seat stabbing her in an unwelcome place between her legs.
“Ouch,” she said audibly.
The girl on the treadmill, spun around to see the accident.
She's lovely. No wonder she can turn down Rupert. Unless he was turning her down. Right, pull yourself together Susan. Give Cupid a wave to shoot his bow.
Scouting the men's dressing rooms, she snagged her sneaker o
n someone else's foot and went flying.
“I've got you,” said the dreamy voice, catching her.
“Thanks,” she muttered, forcing herself to meet Rupert's eyes after fifteen years.
“It's fine,” he released her. “You steady?”
“Yes. Thank you so much.”
“What were you after?”
“I'm sorry?”