Just Friends

by Robyn Sisman

  At the stage door she joined a small scrum of hangers-on and gave her name to the guy on the door. A few moments later Brett burst out of the exit, still in his costume, glowing and gorgeous, adrenaline pumping from every pore. Before she could formulate her congratulations, he threw his arms around her.

  “Wasn’t that great?” he demanded.

  He smelled of makeup and sweat and excitement. His skin was hot and slick against hers.

  “Fabulous.” It came out in a croak. She took a breath and tried again. “Totally fabulous.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come. When I saw you there I couldn’t believe it!” he gabbled. “Listen, I’ll be a few minutes. I need to help bag up the rice and get cleaned up and stuff. Will you wait?”

  “Probably.” But she was smiling.

  “We’re all going over to Julio’s to celebrate. I’ll be as quick as I can.” He bounded off, then pivoted neatly in the doorway and fixed her with a slow-burn look. “Don’t go away.”

  Freya shook her head. As if she could.

  Julio’s turned out to be a scruffy, studenty tapas bar, much frequented by the cast during rehearsals, to judge by the proprietor’s ebullient welcome. In the noisy confusion of their arrival, as bags were stored and tables pushed together, Freya made her way to the bar and quietly paid for two bottles of champagne before taking her place next to Brett, now dressed in black jeans and a soft blue shirt, hair still gleaming from his shower. Everyone talked at once, drowning out the flamenco music. There was a rumor that Hal Prince had been out front. Or was it Cameron Mackintosh? No, it was Cameron Diaz. Bullshit: Cameron Diaz was shooting in Nevada; there’d been a picture in Screen. Well, anyway, some of the papers had sent a critic—the Post, Village Voice, Paper. What would the reviews say? Oh, God, it was too agonizing to think about.

  The champagne arrived, provoking an excited whoop and a flurry of speculation. When the waiter indicated who had bought it, eyes swiveled curiously to Freya, then to Brett.

  “This is Freya, everyone,” he announced. “She came to see the show tonight.”

  There was a tiny, awkward pause. Freya saw that her extravagant gesture had been misjudged. It set her apart: not one of the kids but someone richer, superior, different—a sugar Mommy. She grabbed her glass and raised it. “You were all fantastic,” she told the blur of young faces. “Here’s to”—her memory stumbled sickeningly, then righted itself—“here’s to Grains of Truth.”

  The toast was taken up enthusiastically, everyone clinked glasses, and to Freya’s relief the hubbub continued.

  “Hey, that was really nice of you.” Brett’s voice was low and warm in her ear. She turned her head to find his eyes inches from her own. The open collar of his shirt had slid sideways, revealing the smooth skin of his shoulder. She wanted to go to bed with him. Now.

  “I got you something, too,” she said, reaching into her bag. She had spent hours trawling through the shelves of the Gotham Book Mart looking for the perfect present, toying with secondhand editions of famous plays or Broadway memoirs, before settling on a paperback copy of Anthony Hopkins’s autobiography. After a great deal of thought and several false starts she had inscribed it, “For Brett, on his opening night—one of many,” signing herself simply “Freya.”

  Brett unwrapped the package. His handsome face lit up. “Cool!” He leaned over and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek. “Thanks,” he said. He smelled of clean, male skin.

  “You’re welcome,” she said lightly, and turned blindly to the person on her other side, a heavy-set young man slumped on one elbow.

  “Aren’t you drinking?” she asked, focusing on his empty glass.

  “I couldn’t.” He shuddered. “Not after that performance.”

  “Why? What was wrong with it?”

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t notice. I corpsed.”

  “You what?”

  “I corpsed. I died. I might as well leave town—or shoot myself.” His expression trembled on the brink of tragedy. “Every single rehearsal I’ve lain as still as a stone. Then, on opening night, I have to sneeze. I’m supposed to be dead, for chrissakes! It was totally out of character.”

  Freya reached for a bottle. “Well, I didn’t notice and I was sitting in the fifth row,” she lied, pouring champagne into his glass. “The way you positioned your arms,” she improvised, “I thought that was very realistic.”

  “Wes is a perfectionist. Aren’t you, babe?” A woman across the table reached over and poked him in the arm. She wore her hennaed hair in pigtails that stuck out from the sides of her head, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Her gaze moved on to Freya and hardened. “So how long have you known Brett?”

  “About three days.”

  Both women glanced automatically at Brett, who was trying not to laugh while one of the actresses dangled a spear of asparagus vinaigrette over his open mouth.

  “Cute, isn’t he?” said the woman.

  Freya shrugged, as if she hadn’t really noticed.

  “You know, it’s fascinating what you said about my arms.” Wes’s beefy shoulder nudged hers. “Arms are so important. I studied a lot of pictures of dead bodies to feel my way into the part. I don’t know whether you’re familiar with Stanislavski’s theory of Method Acting, but . . .”

  On he droned. Freya noticed that he had found the courage to empty his glass after all. Meanwhile, the table filled up with small plates of olives and shrimps and smoked ham and things on sticks. Conversation about people she didn’t know, and things she didn’t want to know, dinned in her ears: auditions, improv classes, throat pills, summer stock, bastard directors, what A said to B about C. Even while she spoke and listened and acted normally, more or less, she was aware of Brett’s proximity, caught within his magnetic field. Every time he accidentally brushed her arm or her leg, a current of desire jolted through her. She drank steadily.

  Wes was still in full flow when she felt a gentle squeeze on her leg. “How’re you doing?” asked Brett. He had a trick of looking up at her from under his eyebrows that she found wildly seductive.

  “Fine.” Kiss me, she ordered silently.

  He leaned closer and ran the back of one finger down her bare arm, erasing her brain cells with one swipe. “I’ve hardly talked to you.”

  “There are a lot of people,” she said stupidly.

  “We could go if you want.”

  Freya bit her lip. “Could we?”

  Five minutes later they were standing outside in the hot night. The air smelled of hamburger and dirt; headlights bounced through the darkness. Good old New York.

  “So . . .” Brett scuffed his sneaker back and forth on the sidewalk. “Don’t you live somewhere around here?”

  “A few blocks away,” Freya agreed casually. She stuck her thumbs in the front pockets of her jeans and examined her toecaps. “You want to walk me home?”

  Brett’s smile widened. “Sure.”

  They walked a few yards in silence. Do you have a girlfriend? Freya wanted to ask. What about that actress person with the pigtails? Do you think I’m attractive? How about coming to England with me?

  “I was wondering . . .” Brett began.

  Freya swallowed. “Yes?”

  “What did you really think of my performance?”

  So they talked about Brett: his talents and ambitions, and the stresses of this particular show, which was so demanding—“mind-fuck” was Brett’s expression—that they could perform it only on alternate days.

  “Of course, I’d like to do more commercial stuff. There’s an audition coming up for Cats,” Brett explained.

  “Do you know, I saw that in London on opening night.”

  “But . . . wasn’t that way back in the eighties?”

  Whoops. Freya’s brain whirled with mental calculations. Brett must have been—yikes!—seven or eight years old, a kid on a bike.

  “School trip,” she explained blithely. “I can’t have been more than thirteen. Or twelve, even. Eleven or twelve. Th
ough I might as well confess I probably am a little older than you . . . Almost thirty.” She sneaked a glance at his face, waiting for his reaction.

  “Who cares?” Brett turned to her, looking genuinely surprised that she should think it mattered.

  That was what was so great about younger men, Freya told herself: they didn’t have any macho hang-ups. Plus they were younger.

  Brett smiled into her eyes and dropped an arm around her shoulders. “I like you,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

  “Good.” After the tiniest beat Freya slid her hand around his back, as she had ached to do for hours, and curled her fingers around his hip bone. They walked on together, body to body, striking sparks. The silence sizzled between them. Freya’s skin tingled where his arm grazed the back of her neck. Every sense was on red alert, yet she felt exquisitely languid at the same time. It seemed to her that they floated down the dusky streets like two sleepwalkers in the same dream.

  I like you: that’s all that matters. How true! How simple, how unpretentious. What a change from the usual jockeying for status with older men.

  She stole a glance at his profile—at the sweet curve of his lips and smudge of dark eyelashes. His body felt warm and solid under her hand. She remembered the sight of his slatted ribs and flat stomach disappearing into the saffron loincloth. Yes, this was the answer: a younger man, eager and unspoiled.

  Outside Jack’s house she stopped and turned into the curve of Brett’s arm. “We’re here,” she told him.

  “Are we?” He smiled shyly.

  Freya registered a flicker of irritation that he wasn’t a little more assertive. Her own instinct was to drag him inside and eat him alive. “You could come in for a drink, if you like,” she suggested.

  His eyes met hers. “I like.”

  Flustered, she couldn’t at first find her key; then she kept trying to put it in upside down. On the way to the basement door, she had noticed with relief that the windows were dark—not that it took a genius to guess that Jack would be staying out with Candace after his class. Even if he came back late and caught her canoodling in the darkness with a young whippersnapper—on the couch, for example—so what?

  At length, Freya got the door open and led the way inside. Before you could say cradle-snatcher she had turned on a table lamp—nothing too bright—slotted Billie into the stereo, kicked off her shoes, and was in the kitchen hacking ice from the ice tray with trembling hands. Music, lights, action!

  “Great place!” called Brett from the living room.

  Freya raised her eyebrows. As usual, Jack’s apartment was a dump; and she’d never thought of Chelsea as particularly upscale. But for someone sharing a room with three others it probably looked like a palace.

  “It belongs to a friend,” she called back. “I’m between apartments at the moment, so I’m using his guest room for a couple of weeks.” She paused. “He’s out tonight.”

  When Freya carried in the drinks, Brett was sitting on the couch. She caught him smoothing back his hair with a nervous gesture. Weren’t young men adorable? She walked across to him in her bare feet, letting her hips sway, invitation in her eyes.

  “Here you go.” She leaned down to hand him his glass. At the same time he made a clumsy lunge at her arm, to pull her down next to him. Freya half sat, half fell onto the couch. Drink splashed down her front.

  “Whoa! What are you doing?” she giggled, putting down the glasses. “I’m soaked.” She flicked at the moisture on her T-shirt, and saw how her nipples swelled visibly through the wet material.

  Brett saw, too. His face grew intent. Suddenly his musky weight was on top of her, pressing her back against the couch. His lips found hers, warm and insistent. Freya closed her eyes and surrendered with a sigh, opening her mouth beneath his. Her hand slid up over his shoulder to cup the back of his neck. His tongue leaped and darted in her mouth; she felt him plucking at her T-shirt and almost smiled at his eagerness. But the touch of his fingers on her bare skin made her catch her breath. Her back arched as his hand traveled upward; she gave a sigh of pleasure. She reached down to yank Brett’s shirt free, hungry for the feel of his body against hers. She wanted more. Everything. Now.

  Suddenly Brett pulled away. “What was that?” he asked.

  “Nothing!” She grabbed him back.

  But even as she spoke, she heard it, too—a scuffle in the lock, then the sound of the front door slamming.

  “He-e-e-re’s Jackie,” swooped a horribly familiar voice.

  Freya barely had time to straighten up and pull down her T-shirt before the living-room door swung open and Jack entered, stage left, carrying two pizza cartons balanced high on one palm. “Larks’ tongues for her ladyship!” he announced. Then he spotted Brett, and his face changed. He lowered the pizzas to a more conventional position. There was a charged silence.

  “What are you doing here?” snapped Freya.

  Jack did a comic double-take. “I, uh, live here . . . Don’t I?” Now he did his Stan Laurel head scratch. Very funny.

  “This is Brett,” she told him coldly.

  “And I’m Jack,” said Jack. “Freya’s roommate. I’m gay.”

  “Oh, right. Hi, Jack.” Brett sketched a nervous wave. He was now crouched on the very edge of the couch.

  “Kind of dark in here.” Jack flicked on an overhead light and dumped the pizzas casually on the central table. “Anybody hungry?”

  “No!” Freya scowled.

  “You don’t mind if I go ahead?”

  “Yes, we do. Can’t you eat in the kitchen?”

  Brett jumped up from the couch. “It’s time I was leaving anyway.”

  Freya wanted to scream with frustration. “Don’t be silly. You only just got here.”

  “The night is young,” agreed Jack, dropping a hunk of quattro staggione into his mouth. Even sitting down, he dominated the room. “I could show you the video of me fishing.”

  “No, really,” Brett stammered. “I’m on the early shift at Bagels R Us. I should get some sleep.”

  Jack cocked an eyebrow. “You a cook, Brad?”

  “Brett!” Freya almost stamped her foot.

  “No, a waiter—well, an actor, really—at least, trying to be.”

  “An actor!” Jack greeted this news with enthusiasm. “You really should stay. Freya’s probably too modest to tell you this, but she’s quite an expert on the plays of Shakespeare.”

  “Shut up, Jack!”

  What had put him in such a vile mood? It was unbearable to watch him turn Brett into a shrinking schoolboy.

  “He’s joking. Take no notice.” Freya smiled at Brett and took his hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the door.”

  She closed the living-room door firmly behind them, shutting Jack out, then opened the front door for Brett.

  “Jack is an oaf,” she explained, stepping outside with him. “Needless to say, he’s not gay, nor does he possess a fishing video—just a weird sense of humor. Now where were we?”

  She leaned back against the stone wall, half hoping to continue where they left off. But it was no good. Brett was twitchy and self-conscious. “I’ll call you,” he said. “Thanks for a wonderful evening,” she replied, and they kissed cheeks. But it was an empty ritual. The romance had gone.

  She watched him walk out to the street, then stormed back into the living room, slamming both doors behind her, and plonked her hands on her hips. “How dare you?” she shouted.

  Jack looked up innocently from his pizza. “What did I do?”

  “You know perfectly well what you did. You scared him away. How could you do that?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was such a big deal.”

  “I didn’t say it was a big deal. I just like him. I’d like to see him again. I’d like him to have stayed longer.”

  “Oh.”

  “What do you mean, oh?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Jack, you always mean something. You said oh, as if you were su
rprised.”