by Sorell Oates
“Of course,” his voice was quiet. “You're sensitive, vulnerable and neurotic. It's what makes you a brilliant performer because you can convey it on stage, but it also puts you at emotional risk. I couldn't let you go on this journey solo.”
“You've a warm heart Dylan, but for the effort incurred, we seem to be getting minimal results. If I'm truthful, I worry it's affecting our friendship,” she professed.
“Of course it's not. I adore you.”
“I know, but when you suggest using Imogen as a pawn in the game it makes me feel sick about what we're doing. Toying with other people's lives.”
“It's what Rupert did to you,” Dylan was finding it hard not to snap.
He was urging on geographically recounting what Nikki had broadcast in the gym, packed full of students and teachers alike. To remind Susan of the glory Nikki and Rupert bathed in as people laughed and jeered at Nikki's wonderful and expressive story-telling ability. That Rupert remained stony-faced and unable to make eye contact with anyone in the room, especially his sister, was not part of the incident he would ever confide in Susan-Marie. Just like he wouldn't tell her Rupert didn't stay late at the party. Just like he wouldn't tell her the minute she returned to America, Rupert dumped Nikki, offering no reason to friends or classmates. He'd overheard later from a mutual friend, Oscar, who lived in the same neighborhood but didn't attend their school, that Rupert had said they weren't compatible as people. That Nikki behaved and acted towards others in a hard, heartless, calculating manner and it made his skin crawl and repulsed him. Those rumors and snippets of information he would never tell Susan-Marie.
“Rupert and Imogen are separate, Dylan. When you insist I use Imogen as bait and I say no, yet you continue persisting that as a viable route it upsets me. It's disrespectful. In fact it makes me angry you're more intent on hurting Rupert than anything else. I don't want to see you turn into someone hell-bent on destroying Rupert, if it's at the expense of other people.”
“It was your idea and your plan. You can't accuse me of obsessing on it, letting it take over me, when I became involved at your request,” said Dylan, the pitch in his voice rising.
“I know that, Dylan. This isn't you. You're not someone that would hurt people without remorse. I can't bear seeing my friend lower himself in the gutter to support a crazy scheme I invented.”
“I told you it wasn't crazy. Expressing yourself in relation to past trauma, catering to your inner child are healthy actions.”
“Inner child? Are you mad, Dylan? I'm sure they are healthy but is the methodology healthy and effective or did you not read that far on ‘homepsychology.com’?” Susan's voice was equally shrill. The line went quiet at both ends.
“We'll take the plan off the table then,” said Dylan. “Your friendship means far more to me than paying Rupert back for what he did to you at high school.”
“And yours, mine. It's only a week before opening night anyway.”
“You'd be surprised at what could happen in seven days,” he said slowly.
“You think in seven days I can make ladies man, Rupert Locke-Smythe fall madly in love with me? Commit himself to me publicly? Humiliate him in front of the people he cares about? Tear his heart, and the hopes and dreams held in it, to shreds in a week?”
“You're blind to it Susan-Marie, but every man is waiting and wanting to fall in love with you.” The words were true, and saying them aloud physically tormented Dylan.
“Let Rupert think he's the prize,” continued Dylan. “He's all ego. Offer him the chance now and he'll leap to have the hottest star in town on his arm. Don't be fooled by his pretense of disinterest in you. Let him believe and you can keep the oath you made to yourself in high school. Give him a taste of his own medicine so he can learn how his words and actions affect others. It's the best lesson he'll ever learn. Don't back out having come this far. It won't affect our friendship. You can do it without involving Imogen. It'll just be you, me and Dylan. Like it was at school that night. This time the outcome will be different.”
Rallied by Dylan's observations, she was ripped traumatically back to the dressing room at Brighton College on the opening night of Hairspray. From there, she was torn emotionally forward to Saturday night where he walked away from her after sharing the most intimate act two people could.
“It's a lesson he needs to learn,” said Susan coldly.
CHAPTER 19
Rehearsals were intense, but the pressure of the show's opening night couldn't compete with Susan's feelings for Rupert. She'd deliberately made an effort to go to the gym Monday and Tuesday evening, but there was been no sign of Rupert. It made no sense. His body was buff. He appreciated the positive effects exercise had on mental well-being. He wouldn't neglect the gym. She could only conclude he'd switched gyms to eradicate any possible chance of them meeting. He had her address, phone number, and place of work but initiated no contact. The lack of effort on his part hurt. Worse still was the thought that she had, yet again, misinterpreted the sizzling buzz between them on Saturday night. Evidently she was a saucy outdoor shag for him. The lack of manners and follow-up on his part was a strong incentive as to why she had reignited her plan. He'd used her and disposed of her without a second thought. Last time it was for school work and detention; this time it was for sex. The activities had changed, the reasoning had not. She couldn't believe she'd let herself get swept up in his kiss, cheapening herself in the process. Susan had fallen for the physical beauty and the intense complications of the man only to have him abuse her soft heart. What increased her self-loathing was that if he called to apologize and make up she'd leap at the chance.
The sight of Imogen standing in the reception of the theater's stage door brought a genuine smile to her face. Dressed in high heels to lift her tiny figure, the dark blue skin-tight jeans did give her the height she badly wanted. The sunny yellow top with a thin black belt on her waist managed to accentuate the petite curves. The light denim jacket had her dressing for spring, not autumn. Susan wished the clock was more forgiving so she could have dressed up herself. Restricted to rehearsal dress, she felt fat and frumpy next to Imogen, regardless of the weight she'd lost. The three quarter length jogging bottoms and asymmetrical blue shirt was appropriate for bedtime, not lunchtime. The two women embraced. Imogen always held a little longer and squeezed a little tighter to convey her feelings.
“I'm glad you came,” said Susan.
“I'm glad you called,” quipped Imogen.
“I should have rung you on Thursday to thank you for getting me out of a tight spot last Wednesday.”
“Are you kidding me? It should be me thanking you for taking care of Rupert that night. You went above and beyond the call of duty. Especially in light of your history.”
“It is history though isn't it?”
“Yes. And letting resentment fuel you is unhealthy, but that doesn't mean you bend over backwards to help the person that hurt you. It speaks volumes about who you are, Susan, to have cared for him with the tenderness and discretion you exercised.”
“I think anyone would have done the same.”
“Don't do yourself a disservice, Susan,” Imogen paused, deliberately debating on whether or not to continue. “Given the nature of your relationship with Rupert and everything he put you through, it wasn't as though he deserved that standard of compassion from you. I thought for so long they were nothing more than schoolyard rumors. Your return to America is stirring up a hornet’s nest professionally and personally. I asked him directly about what I heard in the corridors of Brighton College. He didn't deny it. I'm so sorry, I stood back and did nothing. If it looked that way or hurt you, please forgive me.”
Susan hugged her to reassure her. There was no need to speak. Arm in arm, the girls strolled along Broadway to eat a girly lunch and have a juicy catch up with no mention of Rupert Locke-Smythe. It flew by and Imogen had to hurry off to her offices, her lunch break having already significantly run over.
In her
private office, she hit speed dial of the number one key.
“Rupert Locke-Smythe speaking.”
“You need to go to the gym tonight,” she said breathlessly.
“What?”
“The gym. Tonight. You need to go.”
“Why?”
“Because she's doing the same as you.”
“How'd you find out?”
“We had lunch. It slipped out she was intending to make visit the gym tonight. Given the arrangement, which you set up so you could arrange an inadvertent meeting with her one morning, she's doing the same. She's been going every night to see you.”
“Did she say that?”
“No! You wouldn't, would you? We were gassing about the worries of weight as a woman and she said given the intensity of rehearsals, attending the gym at night was torture. Ding, ding, ding. A sound went off in my head and I thought – you, Ms Thompson, are supposed to be going to the gym in the morning. Why are you going in at night after rehearsals?”
“Maybe she forgot.”
“Rupert don't be stupid and back out now. When I casually said surely she'd be working up a sweat and burning calories dancing and singing in the spotlight for hours on end, she couldn’t wait to tell me that she had to hit the gym tonight to work off our massive lunch.”
“Was she hinting that you should tell me?”
“The complete opposite. It was as if she was deliberately trying to avoid you in conversation throughout.”
“Okay. Alright. I'll go. Let's just hope she hasn't reverted to mornings thinking I've moved memberships or something.”
“You’ll go then?”
“I will.”
Clearing his desk for the day, Rupert grabbed his gym bag. Going to the gym this morning had been fine. Invigorating. He preferred exercising in the morning because it freed his evenings for more pleasurable activities. Having to go twice in a day was testing the boundaries of his commitment to maintaining a near perfect body, not that he ever saw that reflected in a mirror. But it was what women and men saw when in his presence.
Hauling himself to the gym, he changed to walk the treadmill. Heavy footed, his energy sapped by work and the jog in the earlier hours of the day, Rupert saw her enter in his peripheral vision. Eyes following her to the changing rooms, anxiety sneaked in.
Disheartened by her attempts over the previous two nights, she reluctantly faced the rows of machines in the gym. A slow walk was her warm up. There he was in loose shorts and a tight shirt. Surprisingly, he wasn't jogging. After tracking him down successfully, it was now or never to engage payback with Rupert Locke-Smythe. Maybe Imogen was right and the tragic loss of his brothers had scarred him. Maybe losing his brothers, blaming himself for their deaths, had made him needy and clinging to popularity at school to support the damaged ego and tender child beneath. Maybe, hearing that now, she could forgive the eighteen-year-old Rupert Locke-Smythe. Maybe at the very least she could understand his behavior and see the problem lay with him, not her. Maybe that thought would have given her the break she needed to recognize that she, Susan-Marie Thompson, did possess qualities that made her lovable as a soul-mate and not everybody’s friend. But those “maybes” were meaningless.
The thirty-three-year-old Rupert Locke-Smythe had shown up with a bevy of beauties on his arm. Demanding her company before knowing who she was. Persisting even after knowing who she was. Claiming he'd rid himself of his private harem, she'd accepted the date. Susan now questioned whether or not he had even kept his word or decided to tell her what she was longing to hear to get in her panties. Their discussion had her believing he was a changed man. She wanted to believe he was different, had been hoping for years. Exposing his vulnerability by being open, she was in a position to grasp why he'd done what he had in school. But in one revelation, he unkindly pushed her out of his flat. He then pulled her back a week later for sex, only to drive her away again. Ironically, she was no longer angry at the cruel, arrogant eighteen-year-old. Now she was full of rage at the British billionaire who thought he could have it all, at the expense of anyone else's feelings.
Passing Rupert, she took a position on the treadmill adjacent to him. Even in the same baggy gym attire she was unbelievably stunning. Rupert had to force his eyes to stare ahead. If he dropped them to admire her body he could easily go flying from the treadmill. Silent, he knew it was impossible and downright rude to ignore her presence, especially given she was right next to him.
“I thought you were taking the morning shift,” he said, a bemused smiling demonstrating he was not unhappy to see her.
“Rehearsals are all over the place. I can't build my entire profession around avoiding you.”
“That's nice to hear. I wouldn't like that. The idea of us avoiding one another makes me quite sad,” he said simply.
“I can't ever imagine you overly sad about any woman.”
“That's where you're wrong. You continue to see a boy and not a man.”
“That's where you're wrong. I had a better understanding of you then, than I have of you today.”
“I went to extreme lengths to take you to for dinner to apologize for the Hairspray incident.”
“It felt as though it was done out of duty, rather than a willingness on your part. You were visibly distressed throughout, you drank like a fish, and you cut the dinner short.”
“I'm sorry. I hadn't realized I'd feel so secure in your company. It was a trifle emotionally slutty discussing my private life. Perhaps you'd give me the chance to make it up to you.”
“You had your chance. Talking about your brothers wasn't problematic for me. Rejecting me afterward was. Walking out on me after the sexual Saturday night adventure wasn't kind either. What's that saying?”
“Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me.”
“Exactly! What happens if I let you fool me three times?” she challenged.
“It won't happen.”
Susan jumped from her treadmill, which was rolling at a snail’s place. Putting herself in front of Rupert's machine, she placed her hands on it. His blue eyes were blazing against the blue of his vest and shorts.
“How many chances do I give you? How many times do I fall for your lines?”
“I can't answer that for you.”
He bounced slightly, his landing stance putting his feet either side of the automatic moving rubber track. Powering off the equipment, he hopped off.
“Let me treat you to a drink at the juice bar.”
The plan is in action, thought Susan as she wandered after him.
CHAPTER 20
Sitting opposite one another it was virtually impossible not to drown in Susan's green eyes. They were so striking against her features that Rupert was unable to draw himself away from her face.
“This isn't the time and place to talk about Saturday night.”
“I couldn't agree with you more,” said Susan nonplussed.
The juice bar was crowded with the rich residents of the nearby neighborhood. Strutting like peacocks in their designer sportswear, they carefully selected juices that wouldn't impinge on the minimal level of body fat they were determined to maintain.
“That having been said, it wasn't this crowded or public on Saturday night, so I'm not sure why we couldn't talk about it then.”
“I don't remember you inviting me in.”
“You were angry.”
“No. I was jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Of Dylan.”
“Please don't tell me Saturday night was about staking a claim on me or getting one over Dylan,” she said, her anger bubbling.
“Susie please. You chased after me. I didn't know what was going to happen,” his voice was hushed.
“That's true. Dylan and I are friends.”
“I believe you. I think I might have wanted to be more than just friends with you.”
Studying his dark blue eyes there wasn't a trace of deceit in them. The designer stubble and short croppe
d black hair would have given him a thuggish look, had he not carried himself with ease and grace.
“Nice to know it only takes losing five stone for me to become girlfriend material.”
“It's nothing to do with the weight. It's to do with the woman you are.”
“You weren't exercising that philosophy fifteen years ago.”
“I thought you said the past should be left in the past.”
“I did.”
“Maybe if you stopped hurling it in my face when we meet, we could progress at a faster rate,” he said amicably.
“You're basing that on the assumption I want us to progress.”