The Captain's Snowbound Christmas

by Eleanor Harkstead

  “Don’t stop there.” Bunny smiled.

  Reuben laid his palm over Bunny’s shorts, his erection beneath. He wanted to savour the moment as he drew down—

  “Draw your sword, sir!”

  Reuben froze in horror, his throat so tight he couldn’t speak.

  How the hell had that happened? How had those words leapt out of his mouth?

  All day, all day, he’d been holding it back, difficult though it had been, and now, now at the very moment that he was about to be alone and naked with Bunny, that bloody catchphrase had erupted from him.

  And everything changed. Bunny’s lips parted slightly but not seductively, more in a sort of did he just say that? gape. They closed then parted then closed again. It was like slow motion as he shifted atop the mattress as though it had suddenly turned into a bed of nails and, worst of all, horror of horrors, that solid, sizeable erection that still rested under Reuben’s palm began to soften.

  “Fuck. Sorry…” Reuben said. All the heat and passion had vanished and he got off the bed. “It just popped out. The words, I mean. I’m sorry.”

  Sadly, no cocks popped out.

  “Honestly, it’s okay,” Bunny told him, but the smile he managed to force out was the fixed, polite one he had shone on the people who’d told him to draw his sword throughout the evening. And now that was the expression he had selected for Reuben. “You’ve got an early start, so…I’d better leave you to it, hadn’t I?”

  “I’m sorry. You don’t have to go…” Reuben’s words trailed off. No, Bunny did have to go, because Reuben had fucked it all up. Good and proper. He handed Bunny his shirt and his trousers. He tried to make a quip, but his startled brain was empty.

  Save for that bloody catchphrase.

  Draw your sword, sir! Draw it! Draw your sword, I say! Now!

  “We’ve both had a long day,” was all Bunny said as he began to dress. It was possibly the most awkward moment of Reuben’s life and the most mortifying too, because the spark that had been there between them—and he knew they’d both felt it—had gone out. The fizz had, like other things, suddenly become very flat indeed. All he could do was watch the man he’d hoped might become part of his life put on his clothes, fasten his coat and prepare to leave. Eventually Bunny was ready and he passed his hand through his hair, ruffling it even more than it already was.

  “Thanks for coming out tonight,” Bunny said. He took a step back towards the door. “It was really lovely and I…erm… Good luck tomorrow on the shoot.”

  “Thanks,” Reuben said, his voice small. “I’ll show you out.”

  But Bunny shook his head. “It’s okay, I’ll find my way. Good luck again and…yeah, night night.”

  With that, he was gone.

  Chapter Four

  At some point in the middle of the night, Reuben woke up in a cold sweat, realising that he and Bunny hadn’t swapped numbers. But his reason overtook him and he knew that it didn’t matter. Even if they had, Bunny wouldn’t be contacting him.

  Perhaps if Reuben had chosen to have his relationship-ending faux pas with a less famous man, it might’ve made things easier. But everywhere he looked, he saw Bunny.

  Or at least, Captain bloody Firth. If he stood at the bus stop, the revolving adverts would jerk suddenly from an advert for turkeys to Bunny’s scowling face, his sword raised and that catchphrase etched across him.

  ‘Draw your sword, sir!’

  Then the bus would arrive and Captain Firth would be pasted along its side. If Reuben was really lucky, he’d get to see an advert inside the bus too, and on gigantic advertising hoardings by the side of the road.

  ‘Draw your sword, sir!’

  On the Tube, Captain Firth’s posters followed him all the way down the escalators, and would reappear as an enormous advert on the platform. Then as he got on the train, trying not to skid over on discarded copies of free newspapers, he’d see the ad all over again, Bunny peering out through a footprint as if he were looking through blinds. Reuben got into a taxi and the flip-up seat sprang up to reveal Bunny’s face again.

  ‘Draw your sword, sir!’

  At least Reuben had stopped flinching and wincing after the first week, but the adverts seemed to mushroom in number everywhere he looked. There were trailers on television, trailers when he went online, a special Captain Firth pizza courtesy of his local takeaway.

  And what would that pizza taste of anyway? Disappointment and embarrassment, of course. And it certainly wouldn’t have any spice, and absolutely no sausage.

  Reuben occupied himself going to his various makeup gigs and doing his lasts bits and bobs of Christmas shopping. He’d come home, clearing piles of junk mail from the mat.

  Does no one send Christmas cards anymore?

  He’d check his emails, but there was nothing from Amy about the Soho project. Of course there wasn’t—why would Bunny want someone as unprofessional as Reuben Sheldrake on his production?

  The day before Christmas Eve, Reuben piled all his presents into his car, along with enough jumpers to last until New Year, and drove out of London. Before he got to Cornwall, though, he had a job in Chichester, so he drove down to the south coast. It was going to be fun, theatre makeup for the actors performing Britain’s favourite Shakespeare scenes. The cast hadn’t been publicised, but some big names were promised. Reuben just hoped that Bunny wouldn’t be among them.

  He set up backstage, his trusty toolbox at his side, and welcomed the first actors in. He made chit-chat about Christmas as he tucked tissues into their collars and got on with the work of making beautiful people even more stunning.

  Reuben worked through his production line of knights and dames, and the time raced by. Each face faded into the next, each bit of small talk over as quickly as the last, but still he thought about Bunny.

  And I have to stop thinking about Bunny. We’ll probably never meet again anyway.

  Or so he told himself, right up until Bunny strolled into the makeup room.

  Reuben’s chair had only that minute emptied and the others were all full. He hoped Bunny would retreat, but it didn’t seem there was any chance of that.

  Draw your—oh, bugger off!

  “Evening,” Reuben said. He knew he sounded stiff, but he couldn’t help it.

  “Evening.” Bunny gave a polite nod, then an even more polite smile. “Should I sit?”

  “Yes, if you would…” Reuben ran his hand through his hair, then turned, suddenly very interested in lining up his brushes on the worktop. He would have to say something, though. With all the effort he could muster to sound off-hand and casual, Reuben turned back to Bunny as he said, “There’s some big names at this thing. I’ve just had Peter Harcourt in my chair.”

  “The Skipper!” Bunny took a seat. “I play on his cricket team. Unbeaten year, you know.”

  Draw your cricket bat.

  Just no.

  Reuben armed himself with some tissues. Why did the man have to look so devastating in that evening suit? Reuben occupied himself tucking the tissues into Bunny’s collar. As he leaned close, he could smell nothing but the scent of Bunny’s cologne, and it reminded him of their romp. All ruined thanks to that stupid bloody catchphrase.

  “Well, that’s great! What scene are you doing this evening, then?” Reuben had asked the same question of everyone, before the next in his arsenal, what are you doing for Christmas?

  “They’ve thrown me Once more unto the breach,” he replied. And they would, wouldn’t they? What else would they give to the insanely dashing Christopher Manners? “I’m going to town with it. How can you not?”

  The catchphrase stayed buried.

  Thankfully.

  “You’re going to buckle your swash, as they say?” Reuben knew which colour foundation to use on Bunny without even checking. He’d seen the man’s face float before him as he lay in bed at night almost as often as he’d seen it on the sides of buses. He poured some of the foundation onto his palette and got to work with his sponge
, dabbing Bunny’s forehead. It was a little furrowed, he noticed, and Reuben said, just as he would to anyone in his chair, “Can you relax for me?”

  “Probably not,” Bunny admitted with an awkward sort of smile. He glanced along the busy row of makeup chairs. “But I’ll try.”

  “Look, can we just…forget about what happened? I mean, we’re in the same industry, we’re going to keep bumping into each other, and I’d hate to keep thinking…you know…” That I fucked up something that could’ve been amazing.

  Bunny nodded. He dropped his voice and murmured, “No hard feelings, okay? At least hang on to my number, you might need it when we’re into filming.”

  No hard feelings.

  Reuben bit his lip as he recalled Bunny’s erection wilting under his hand.

  Yeah, definitely no hard feelings whatsoever.

  But then, as he sponged Bunny’s cheek, Reuben realised what Bunny had said. “Your number? We didn’t get round to the whole swapping numbers thing.”

  “And I felt terrible about it.” No doubt mindful of keeping their business private, Bunny’s voice was so low that Reuben had to concentrate to hear. “That’s why I thought— I don’t blame you for not ringing. It just gets old sometimes.”

  “But I don’t have your number,” Reuben whispered. “I couldn’t have rung you.”

  “I called—” Bunny fell silent as a hand landed heavily on his shoulder. Peter Harcourt had returned to Reuben’s chair. “Harkers! How goes it?”

  “Can I shove in?” Harkers asked Reuben with a smile. “Two minutes with the Bun?”

  “Erm…yeah, be my guest.” Reuben stepped back and nearly sent an elaborate, ringletted wig and its polystyrene head flying. He busied himself trying to make it stand upright again.

  “Dave’s leg’s broken,” Harkers told Bunny. “We’re down a Benedick and we need him in about five minutes. I know you know the part, I saw you do it last year. Act 4, scene 1. Can you do it, Bun? Step in and do your best sexy hero bit?”

  Bunny glanced towards Reuben and asked, “Will I be ready in time?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry,” Reuben said, gesturing to his makeup on the worktop. “I can have you done in a couple of minutes. Quick changes are a speciality!”

  “Then it’s a yes,” he told Harkers. “I'll be there as soon as Reuben makes me look presentable.”

  “Splendid!” Harkers slapped Reuben’s back. Then he perched on the edge of the counter, and Reuben realised that he was going to wait. There wasn’t going to be any opportunity to discuss things just now.

  Reuben got to work, blanking everything from his mind other than the job in hand. Whatever that business was about Bunny’s phone number, it would have to wait. Or, more likely, he’d never, ever get to the bottom of it. He worked fast. As soon as the sponging was over, he carefully defined Bunny’s eyebrows and his eyes, and smudged a little rouge on his cheeks. He used a brush to apply just a dab of lipstick, and as he prepared his powder brush, the door burst open.

  “Draw your sword, sir!” a cacophony of voices bellowed as a gang of actors beloved from various television detective series and costume dramas burst in. Reuben’s grip on the brush tightened so much he was amazed he didn’t snap the handle.

  “Not now, lads!” Harkers chided with a laugh.

  Bunny groaned and told Reuben, “This is half the cricket team.” He waved his hand towards the men. “Bugger off, Thwackers, this is time-sensitive stuff!”

  One of them, known on television for his masterful Belgian accent, swished a giant prop candy cane back and forth.

  “Draw your bloody sword, Bunny, you old bugger! Draw it!” he shouted. It was like the voice in Reuben’s head personified.

  Reuben threw down his brush. “Just sod off, will you? Sod off with that irritating bloody catchphrase! It’s not big and it’s not clever, and some of us are actually trying to work here! Why don’t we do your catchphrase? Oh, you don’t have one!”

  The actor gaped at Reuben. “Well, that’s me told off. Slapped wrist for old Spencey!”

  “He’s right, though. You’re a pain in the knackers, Spence.” Harkers laughed. “Bugger off!”

  “And don’t come back!” added Bunny. “Or, rather, you can come back when you’ve learned how to catch a cricket ball!”

  “Oh, everyone’s a critic!” Spencer laughed, and he and his rabble retreated.

  Reuben went back to powdering Bunny’s face. His hand was trembling. “Sorry, I don’t normally erupt at people. I don’t know what came over me. Erm…here, you’re finished now.”

  “I’m flat out from now until curtain.” Bunny gave Harkers a nod and he drifted away, clearly having taken the hint. “Will you be here until the end or are you rushing off?”

  Was Bunny offering an olive branch? Then again, perhaps it was the Soho project he wanted to talk to him about.

  “I’m driving down to Cornwall tonight,” Reuben explained. “I can’t hang about, but if you swing by, I might still be here.”

  And if he wasn’t, Reuben would leave his number for him, even if he had to scrawl it in lipstick on the mirror.

  “Oh, okay, of course.” Bunny rose to his feet. “Look, don’t wait around for me. You’ve got a horribly long drive ahead. It doesn’t need to start any later than it already is. Have a safe trip and a lovely Christmas, Reuben.”

  Reuben wiped one of his brushes. “Merry Christmas to you, too. And have a really good evening, won’t you?”

  Bunny nodded, already making his way to the door after Harkers. “Bye then.”

  Reuben offered him a wave and the next actor took Bunny’s place in the chair.

  “So what scene are you doing?” Reuben asked, as the speaker on the wall filled the room with the sound of raucous applause. He barely heard the answer, barely heard anything because he could hear the scene being played out. It was romantic already, but in Bunny’s hands it was nothing short of dreamy.

  “Peace! I will stop your mouth.” From the speaker, he heard the audience give a collective awww. Bunny was kissing Beatrice. Lucky gal.

  Reuben nearly used a brush instead of a sponge. He nearly used the wrong shade of foundation. Everything was in freefall. Why had Bunny thought that he had his number? What had he been about to say? Reuben might never know.

  Maybe it was best he didn’t, but as the scene continued over the speakers, Reuben was lost in the timbre of Bunny’s voice and his heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest and echoed in his ears.

  He would never be able to forget Bunny, or that one day they’d had together. All that flirting and nudity and those passionate kisses. And it was over, and Reuben had to move on. Because they would meet and meet and meet again, and he needed to face each time with a professional smile.

  And just hope he’d never be asked to spray Bunny with fake sweat again.

  The evening went by in a blur, except for Bunny’s rendition of King Henry. The power of his delivery sent shivers through Reuben and made his hair stand on end.

  He really is a brilliant actor. No wonder being defined by that one role grates on him so much.

  Bunny didn’t come back to the makeup room. Reuben finished the last actor, and after he’d tidied his workstation, he was ready to leave. Without paper or pen, he made do with an eyebrow pencil and a tissue to write his number on for Bunny. He managed to tear the first tissue he wrote on, but his second attempt was successful.

  He left it in the centre of the worktop, a corner of the tissue anchored under the wig stand, and went down to his car.

  Chapter Five

  Reuben started his car and put the radio on. He rubbed his hands as he listened to the weather report. It was much colder now than it had been when he’d arrived in Chichester that morning, and the weather report didn’t fill him with glee.

  Unexpected snow flurries were coming in from the north-west, looping round the edge of Ireland and cascading their way across Cornwall.

  The roads would be gritted, though. It was A-roads
and motorway for most of Reuben’s journey. He just hoped that when they said unexpected, it hadn’t taken the gritters too much by surprise.

  As Reuben skirted the edges of Portsmouth and Southampton, he watched the temperature gauge on his car plummet. At least he had his heating on. But as he went through the New Forest a thin rain started to fall, and within minutes it had turned into flecks of icy snow. The snow got heavier once Reuben had passed Bournemouth, his windscreen wipers squeaking with effort as they shovelled the snow away. The sides of the road were beginning to clot with drifting snow, and his satnav warned him that the road up ahead was closed.

  Reuben slapped the steering wheel in annoyance. He was a few yards from a turning, and was now stuck with the option of sitting for hours immobile on a road that was rapidly turning Siberian, or attempting to pick his way through side roads that might be even worse.

  But if he drove up to Blandford Forum, he’d still be on a main road and he’d be able to rejoin the route to Cornwall farther along, after the closed section.

  “Once more unto the breach, dear friends!” Reuben declared. At least it was an improvement on the catchphrase that had been rattling around his head for the past few weeks. He turned off the road.

  But as he drove, his satnav didn’t recalibrate and kept nagging him to turn back onto the road he’d just left. And before long, Reuben realised he’d lost all sense of direction. He had a horrible feeling that instead of going north to Blandford Forum, he’d instead somehow ended up going south-west. The roads got narrower, the snow more enthusiastic, and as his trusty Renault picked its way up a snowy incline, it came to a shuddering halt.

  “Once more unto the massive fuck-up.”

  Reuben sighed. Why had he left the main road? Why had he thought this was a sensible idea?

  He got out and reluctantly prodded the engine, but he had no idea what he was looking at, so he called the breakdown service. The fact that he couldn’t describe where he was, other than that he was on a dark, snowy hill somewhere in Dorset, didn’t help, until his satnav at last chimed in with his location. Reuben was looking at a wait of several hours, so he flipped on his hazard lights, pulled a blanket out of his boot and wrapped it round him. Before his eyes, the snow turned into fist-sized fluff and hit his windscreen like snowballs.