Overexposed

by Amelia Oliver

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Mitchell.” Still nothing, so I add, “The guy that lives here, owns this house!”

  “Oh, the Australian dude! Right. Right, right, right.”

  Before I can correct the junior McConaughey wannabe, he finally gives me the information I asked for. Even though I already know it’s going to be far from what I want to hear.

  “I never saw him. His momma, Patty, no wait…Janet? No, Jackie, yeah, Jackie, she was here this morning. Or…yesterday maybe, I don’t know, but she’s gone now, too. Either way baby, the dude you mean already flew the coop. Moved to England. We’re packing up the lot. Don’t know why anyone would give up this sick basement, but apparently he’s not coming back.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Seth

  London – Six Weeks Later

  They say time heals all wounds. What ‘they’ fail to tell you is how bloody long you have to wait for it to happen. And who the fuck is ‘they’ anyway? What makes ‘them’ experts in providing poncy words of empty solace when I still feel like there’s a sucking chest wound where my heart used to be? Bunch of wankers. That’s who ‘they’ are.

  “Break’s over in ten,” Colin says, his face peeking around my partially closed door.

  “Right. Ok. Thanks.” I huff out from my position on the floor of my dressing room.

  “Lights are sorted. Alastair wants to start from the top, no prompts, no direction.”

  Given I’ve continued doing push-ups and not given the assistant director’s second assistant my eyes, I don’t realize he’s waiting on my confirmation until he speaks again. “All right, Seth?”

  Exhaling forcefully, I push up one last time and lift into a standing position. Grabbing the bottom of my t-shirt I use it to wipe the sweat from my face before taking it off all together and throwing it on top of my bag.

  “Yes, of course. Ten minutes. I’ll be ready.”

  “I have to say while most actors relax during downtime, your working out instead certainly does have its advantages,” he comments with a cheeky smirk.

  Camp as a row of tents, Colin doesn’t even try to hide his appreciation of my naked torso, going as far as fanning his face before laying the back of his hand across his forehead. I can’t help but laugh.

  “There. That’s better,” he says and goes to leave. “Surly Seth is sexy but smiling Seth is scrumptious. Tootles!”

  I dare anyone to not smile around the flamboyant old queen, so I’m still smiling as I move to the tiny bathroom to splash water on my face and pits. Until I catch sight of myself in the mirror and scowl instead. Cutting my hair and keeping my face clean-shaven may have been an attempt to forget the way Piper’s fingers had caressed both, the way she’d grip my hair during sex or how she’d scratch her nails along my jaw when we kissed, but this new image doesn’t feel like me. I don’t mind the changes to my body though, while I’m still lean, my shoulders and arms are now much more defined.

  Doing something physical in my downtime has helped me keep my mind blank and not dwell on all that had happened with Piper. It’s something Joan had suggested during one of our fortnightly calls. Anytime I started to feel like old Seth was looking to reappear, rather than expend energy by feeding my anger and making a total plonker of myself, to channel it into exercise.

  Upside of being fitter is that I’m finding I’m less fatigued at the end of rehearsals now. After my first week with the Westbrook Theatre Company, no shit, I’d thought I was gong to die. I didn’t realise how bloody exhausting doing a stage production could be. Before I started, I’d considered myself to be a pretty fit guy. I skated, I surfed, and I’d work out when I’d felt like it, but I was not ready for the physical demands of the theatre. I didn’t mind though, in the beginning I’d actually embraced the physical pain; it had matched my emotional one.

  Alastair Westbrook and his company had hired me for the role of Puck in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. Like most Westbrook productions their interpretation was modern, a little left of centre and cool as shite. Think more leather and nymphos and less woodland nymphs. Poor old Willy would be flipping his powdered wig if he knew, but it’s one of the reasons I signed on. Also because both Westbrook and I had agreed to a contracted short run with and option to extend if both actor and director were happy.

  I don’t know why I’d requested that clause in my contract, but I suspect it was because at the time I was a breath away from charging back through the doors of Heathrow and putting my arse on the first bird back to L.A. No, not back to L.A. Back to Piper.

  The first forty-eight hours after she’d closed her apartment door were deplorable. I’d felt as though I was being torn in a hundred different directions. Unable to be sure I was making the right decision for no longer than ten minutes at a time; I’d started to drive myself barmy. In the end, I’d flown out almost twenty-four hours before Jackie because if I’d remained in the same city as Piper any longer, I was bound to have done something stupid. Like demand that she see me. I’d known that if I’d had even the smallest of chances in salvaging anything with her, I needed to give her time. Well, at least that’s what I’d told myself as I’d boarded an international flight and got the fuck out of dodge. Cowardice fueled by hurt, Piper’s rejection had stung like a bitch. Let’s be clear, she didn’t reject the actor, or the image, or even the persona. Piper had rejected me.

  Six weeks later and we still haven’t spoken. Zero contact. And it kills me. I know she’d have to know the truth of it all by now, but obviously it’s still not enough for her. Whatever she’d felt for me wasn’t enough.

  The arrogant arsehole in me hoped that once she’d had time to process all her hurt and doubts, she’d maybe reconsider. It was also the reason I never signed her bloody request to drop me as a client. Fuck that shite. As hurt as I was, signing something that essentially said I agreed we could no longer work together had felt like a lie. She wanted my signature? She could bloody well ask me for it.

  Professionally, I haven’t needed anything Rash couldn’t do, so while I knew he’d spoken with Piper’s boss, Sawyer, a couple of times, I hadn’t had any contact with ESM either. So with each day that passes, it becomes apparent that whatever I’d meant to Piper, I no longer do.

  Clean t-shirt and another dousing of deodorant done, I scoop up my phone and sit down on the small sofa against the wall. Everything in the room is relatively new by theatre standards, Westbrook having purposely created the space by gutting and converting an old conserve factory back in the late eighties. I swear there are days when all the lighting is on, and the place is warm, that I can still smell marmalade.

  Looking down at my phone I see I still have several minutes before I need to be back, so I open my notes and get ready to type. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve started messages to Piper. Long messages, short messages, apologetic messages and angry messages. Even a few messages that if they’d been seen by the Testosterone Union would’ve required me to trade in my knackers for a handbag.

  A fear of everything from making things worse, to having to read her reply in even more ways she didn’t believe in me, had me deleting them before I’d hit send. My biggest fear though had been that she wouldn’t respond at all.

  Problem was I had so much I wanted to say to her.

  So that’s how it started.

  While we’ve not been in contact for six weeks, I have written messages. Dated and saved in my notes, they’ve become an outlet in a way. They also give me the illusion of still being connected to her.

  My first message was simple.

  I’m so very sorry.

  XO.

  Some days I gave her more.

  Of all the mistakes I know I made, Piper, the one mistake I didn’t make, was falling in love with you.

  XO.

  There were angry days.

  You’d have to know by now that I didn’t lie. What, no apology? So bloody stubborn. And I’m the one who acts like a fucking child.

  XO.

>   Yes, even when I was pissed, she got the ex and oh. They were hers.

  Some messages were ordinary, journal-like.

  Bloody weather today would freeze the balls off a brass monkey. Jackie compensates by turning the thermostat up so fucking high the house feels like the Bahamas.

  I’m sure I’m getting sick. I think she’s trying to off me.

  Hang on…did you put her up to it, Bubble?

  XO.

  And some…fucked me up for hours after.

  I would give anything to touch you again.

  To feel the softness of your skin beneath my fingertips, brushing them down your spine, as I bring you close.

  I dream about pressing my nose against your neck and simply breathing you in.

  You’re an incredibly beautiful woman, Piper.

  You’re also beautifully incredible.

  Whoever you deem worthy of your love should consider himself the luckiest bastard on the planet.

  XO.

  With only a few minutes left and filled with the fresh emotion spending too much time thinking about Piper always leaves me with, I know I need to make this message quick.

  I miss you, Piper.

  So fucking much.

  XO.

  * * *

  Opening night is this coming Saturday and for the most part we’re ready. Yesterday we’d had a full dress matinee for all the friends and family of the production and a few carefully selected critics. The feeling among all the players is that it went well, but like the rest of the main cast, I’m driving to the theatre now. Well, mostly I’m stuck in traffic, but we’re all meeting to get the early scoop from Alastair. We still have a few days to make any last minute changes so everything can be perfect by opening night.

  My mum and Dad already think it’s perfect, even if I suspect Dad dosed off in the second act. Not big on the theatre my dad, I was totally chuffed he even came along. Mum of course is beaming - which makes me happy - but it also makes me feel like a complete shite that for the first time in my career, I’ve done something she can be proud of.

  Having attended the matinee they also got to avoid the chaos that will come with opening night. That palaver is not their scene at all. Even though the production is technically fringe theatre, or what New Yorkers would call, ‘Off-Broadway’, the company’s publicity department has created quite the buzz. And I wish I could get more excited about it.

  I’ve learned a lot about acting and what it means to be an actor by being in this production. I also know that there is a massive divide between what I knew, what I thought I knew and what I still need to know. Rash, being the skilled sod he is, had teed up both the guest arc on the soap and this role. Timing, conflicting schedules and mostly my eagerness to throw myself into something immediately however meant I could only choose one. Hindsight and a new understanding of things tell me that I was arrogant and grossly unprepared for either. Maybe that’s why even having survived the boot camp like preparation for the play, and being only days away from opening night, I still feel out of my element. Like something is not right. It would be easy for me to assume that it’s about Piper, that she’s what’s missing. Because that’s wholly true, but I’m starting to suspect it’s something else too.

  Since being back in London the initial madness and inconvenience that surrounded me with the Claudia shite, including my relocation here, all died a slow and quiet death. Not only are there far more interesting – read, more money worthy - celebs here in Britain, the roguish ginger royal getting hitched has the county gaging for gossip. While I feel for the newest Duke and Duchess in the ranks, I’m grateful for the shift.

  Or am I?

  Was Piper right about me? Is that why I feel like something is not right? The thought makes me feel even more unsettled.

  ‘Love Me Now’ by Ziggy Alberts comes on the radio, and before I can whinge about Jackie changing my settings, the lyrics hit my ears. Fuck. Me. I’ve only heard the first verse and chorus, but if ever there was a song…

  Traffic is barely moving, less than a snails pace really, so holding the wheel in one hand, I grab my phone and tap open my notes app. I need to talk to Piper, even if it’s in my own way. Glancing up at the road and typing with a single thumb gets old really fast, so I use both my knees to steady the steering wheel as I putt along with all the other cars.

  With two thumbs free, I tell my girl all about the matinee and about my dad falling asleep. I tell her I think the critics are going to be positive about it and even if they give my performance a bollocking, the entire production is top notch so that’s what matters most.

  A quick glance up at the road to find nothing’s changing, I look back down and continue. I share that despite all of it, something still feels off. I tell her that missing her is an ache that isn’t going away, but there’s something else too. Something I can’t put my finger on.

  Another quick glance and a loud exhale; I then start to tell her I’m worried that she may have been right about me after all. That maybe I am a publicity whore, who’s only happy when overexposed. The lump in my throat wont shift and my vision blurs a little when I confess that if it’s true, then maybe it’s for the best that she’s not with someone like…

  I catch a glimpse in my side mirror that there’s a break in the lane to my right, so holding my phone and again typing with just one thumb, I flick my indicator and punch the accelerator down to make the quick lane shift. Moving faster in this lane than I had been for a while, I keep going, focused on finishing my message to Piper before I reach the Westbrook Theatre building.

  I hear shouting and honking, some people really are impatient bints. The noise is getting louder and it’s starting to distract me from what I want to tell my girl. I must be getting closer to whatever has been holding up the traffic this morning, a bingle most likely.

  Hearing one long blast of a car horn I look up to see a bobby waving furiously, alternately blowing his whistle and yelling in my direction. My vision widens to just past where he’s standing and what I see fills me with dread.

  Completely failing to brake but instead driving straight into the back of a parked lorry, too late I see its rear axle elevated as though someone was dealing with a flat. Feeling the stinging slices of shattering glass against my face, arms and hands, two things cross my mind.

  One, airbags may look like fluffy marshmallow-like pillows, but they hurt like a motherfucker. It also has to be noted that seatbelts locking up across your rib cage are no bloody picnic either.

  And two, I wish to fuck I’d not been such a feckless coward and had sent Piper all her messages.

  CHAPTER 17

  Piper

  I know I made it back to my car and I know I made it to the beach, mostly because it’s been six weeks since Seth left, but to this day I don’t remember doing it. I must have been numb, moving on autopilot, just going through the motions without giving them too much thought. To be fair, that also describes how I’ve felt on and off since.

  After the shock had worn off - I mean he left, he just up and left the fucking country - I was furious. At him, at Claudia, at the situation, but none of that compared to how furious I was with myself. And then there was the guilt. Why did I find it so hard to believe in him? Had I always assumed we’d fall apart, so at the first sign of a crack, I’d bailed? I don’t know. I still don’t. I just know I miss him.

  And I don’t just mean the intimacy stuff, even though my damn body still rolls towards his side of the bed in my sleep, I miss things I hadn’t even considered. I missed the tiny smirk he’d get just before he was about to intentionally rile me up. I miss the way that even though Jackie made breakfast at his place, no matter where we woke up, when I got out of the shower he’d have a steaming cup of coffee waiting for me next to my hair shit.

  I even missed how the brazen ass would somehow get to my planner when I wasn’t looking and leave me little notes. Filthy or sweet, I’d find them during my working day and they’d leave me feeling some kind of wa
y. Would you believe that the very first one I’d found had annoyed the shit out of me? Not that he’d written in my folio mind you, well, no, it was that too, but because he’d used the wrong color. Yeah, I know, anal as fuck, but it had.

  I flick back to that date now just to reread it. More often than is probably healthy, because I’d give anything to find a note now.

  Thing is I know there aren’t any new ones because I’ve checked right through my planner for the rest of the year. I’d had to. Finding the last one he’d written - which I’d found about ten days after he’d left - had blindsided me and caused a crying jag so bad Allyson had burst into tears with me. Ally, who is usually not a crier, blamed her period. I blamed Seth, and then of course I blamed myself for having fucked it all up.

  The note? In his chicken-scratch man writing, filling the eight p.m. time slot on a Wednesday night, he’d written:

  Hump Day Treat: Feed Seth my arse.

  And he’d drawn fucking bubbles all around it.

  “You’re up Pipes, not that it matters. You could all bowl a double at this stage and you still wont beat us,” Reb taunts, snapping me out of my introspection as she high fives Clemmie, then Ryver before plonking down in the seat next to me and guzzling my raspberry soda. Which by the way, thanks to Clementine’s elephant sized purse and a quick stop on the way here, also has a healthy splash of vodka in it.

  “Don’t listen to her Piper, we’re scrappy, we’ll make a come back,” Ally retorts, ever the optimist, making Rebel laugh so hard she fakes falling off her chair.

  “Nope, your goose is cooked, Pollyanna.” Ryver taunts Ally, agreeing with Rebel’s assessment. “Mind you Al, you are the only one on your team who’s even looked like they’ve seen a bowling ball before.”