Acting In Love

          Helen ducked under the cables, careful not to spill her coffee, strode past the cameraman setting up his tracks and wove her way through the room.           “Excuse me, kid”, she was stopped by a burly looking man, looking like a professional bodybuilder who could make sumo wrestlers sing in soprano, “Fans have to wait at the door.”          She glared at him and snapped, “I work here!”           “Let me see some ID, kid”, he said. Helen was stumped. She often forgot to bring her ID as she had never needed it, and could picture it sitting on her tabletop at home.           “Wait! Let her through. She’s fine. She works here. She’s my friend’s kid. She works here as my assistant”, said a woman in her thirties; Laura, thank God. “Come over here, Helen.”          Helen reached her boss, and sighed, “It’s crazy, isn’t it?”           ‘Well, that’s what you do when a star is around.”               “I still can’t believe that he’s doing this.”           “Yeah”, she hummed, “I don’t like stars, I like actors. Far less of an ego, as well as entourage.”           Helen smiled at this. Laura was the epitome of erudite and artistic. She had a mind that knew how to push envelopes on stage, and, most importantly for her, sell tickets. She was who Helen wanted to be when she grew up. Besides, she gave great advice about the plays that Helen penned and showed her. She loved the freedom she had here, away from school and office. She New York, writing and occasionally making money. She hadn’t bought a new pair of jeans in nearly a year, and she lived in a refurbished attic, but her jeans were comfortable, and her attic was roomy enough to hold the all the paintings, books and records for her precious gramophone.           Helen said, “Is it true?”           Laura, “You should never believe what the tabloids tell you. You should know that.”          Helen was startled, “So, it isn’t?”  Laura pursed her lips, “Except on this occasion.” “So…he’s…”  “Going to be a nightmare to control.”  Helen paused, “He really threw a glass of water at - .”  “We don’t talk about that here!” hissed Laura, “Or any of the other things. It’ll be small mercy if he shows up on time, works and doesn’t pick any fights. Or, by the looks of it, if he turns up at all.” She paused, then added, “But even in the one conversation I had with him, the man is definitely a genius.”  Helen had an exact, glossy, flawless picture in her mind, one which she crosses every day on the subway. A poster of a young man, so good – looking it was intimidating, with a sharp gaze that screamed “genius”. He was looking as though waiting for pieces of a puzzle to come together; and oh – so sharply dressed. She couldn’t imagine what it might mean to see him, not the fantasy, but the real boy behind the reputation, or the rumours and makeup. That won’t happen, she reminded herself, she’s going to work with him, she isn’t going to get to know him. There wasn’t a chance that a boy like him would ever look twice at her.  The camera crew had been milling around for days prior, figuring out where they would shoot. However, he was supposed to be here at ten, and now it was edging on to ten-fifteen. Laura felt annoyed. Here he was, with everything, this young, genius, billionaire actor, and he couldn’t even be bothered to come to work on time.  “Could you help with fixing the lights?” asked a young stagehand. Helen nodded and climbed on the stage.  “Finally!” sighed Laura, catching sight of him over her shoulder. The telling sounds of camera flashes, media and screaming girls was heard over her shoulder. Helen couldn’t see him yet, just the hulking bodyguards walking in front of him. Helen turned back to help.  She tried to hand her a cup of coffee to her, and she shook her head, absentmindedly. Helen shrugged, placed the cup down on the stage and moved the lights downstage, turning the screw to keep it up.  “Keeping it at this spot means the audience won’t get a glare”, she explained. The stagehand nodded, eyes fixed over her shoulder, presumably at the boy. Helen sighed and continued working.   “Helen, I need you!” called Laura, more tense than usual.  Helen rushed down, taking the cup with her; Laura said, “You need to Xerox the scripts. We need twelve more physical copies. Like an i***t, I just realised that I left it short. I must have been so stressed about Adrian’s arriving that I messed up. And give Adrian Robertson his coffee!”  Helen sighed. Laura often gave her only half of what was in her head, which was part of what made her so erratic. Helen turned, just as the bright white lights in front of the stage cast a moody glow between the seven-foot space they were placed apart. He was gorgeous. He was standing there, holding a book, wearing a perfectly fitting white shirt and black skinny jeans. She never thought that she had a type before, but a boy who was hot and well-read had to be it. He had to be every theatre lover’s fantasy. He was tall, muscular, with dark hair fringed over his forehead. He had a cigarette between his teeth, and an edgy, intensity about him. One of his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the beginnings of a black tattoo. He shifted.  She took a deep breath. Here goes.  She walked over, suddenly aware of her wine – coloured kaftan dress, her dark skin that had no makeup, her long curly hair that gave her a Turkish belly dancer look and her slender, curvy frame. Why hadn’t she worn makeup today? She only had eyeliner and light foundation on but never bothered much with any of it. It doesn’t matter, she told herself; she wasn’t about to impress him or anyone. He looked up when she came close. His eyes widened when he saw her. His presence was so magnetic, it almost hurt her. His famous golden eyes were like smouldering embers, and he knew it.  “Can I help you?” his voice was curt.  “Your coffee”, she said, handing it to him. He took it, surveying her.  “I take it black with no sugar.”  “It is”, she said, remembering Laura’s odd instructions that day. It hadn’t seemed to be amiss when she asked Helen to pick up coffee, something she never did, but now Helen could see why.  “What’s your job?” he asked, quirking a perfect, dark eyebrow. “I’m…I’m a playwright”, she said. He raised the script he was holding in his other hand – Doctor Faustus – and she laughed. She couldn’t believe she had told him that, especially with the greatest play ever written in his hands.  He nodded, as though reading her right, “You like Faustus?” He took a gulp, and winced, but seemed to like it.  She nodded, “I love it. It’s the best play I’ve ever read.”  He raised an eyebrow, paused, lowering his cup“Better than Shakespeare?” “Yes”, she said, never one to shy away from an opinion, “Much better.”  He smiled, straightened from a slouch to showing his powerful chest. He had a deep sensitivity about him, a fragility. A vulnerability. She was trying to process this when he turned, and she saw him in full for the first time. He looked directly at her, into her, as though about to burn her with them. He spoke, voice rough and full of emotion, “‘Was this the face that launched a thousand ships? And burned the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, you make men immortal with a kiss. For all is dross that is not Helena.”  Helen blushed, hearing the most romantic lines in literature spoken to her with such passion and fire. He paused, then broke into a wide grin and looked away. Helen flushed. How had she been so stupid, looking like a blushing schoolgirl, floored by a few pretty words, which weren’t even his?  She hastened, “’Make me’.”  He paused, “What?”  She said, “It’s ‘make me immortal with a kiss’. And you left out a lot of lines in the middle” He frowned, and then he smiled, embarrassed. Helen glowed with triumph.  He nodded to her, “Yes, I suppose it is. Leaving out was an actor’s choice. You can’t say everything anymore.” His eyes ran over her exposed collarbones, her glowing skin, her dark hair, as though caressing her. Caressing, and doing something far more unspeakable, such as reading through. She resisted the urge to shiver under the weight of all the desire she couldn’t fulfil. The weight of so many other women’s desires too.  “So, are you Helen?”  Helen paused, “I am a Helen. That’s my name. Helen Dewan.” She added when he looked startled. His face twisted into a smile and he said, “Yes, but are you Helen?”  She paused, “No, I’m just a playwright.”  He nodded, “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Helen the playwright. Of Fringe Theatre.”  She nodded, “I guess, then, I’m the opposite of Helen.” He nodded, smile fading, his manner shifted, and he glanced away, “Yes, you are.” He turned away, and her heart sank.