Page 58 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“So, tell me again how amazing you thought the play was,” Ryan says, sitting right next to me on the sofa, then splaying his legs out wide so that our thighs are touching. His eyes glint, as though he’s joking, but he waits for me to answer, so I’m not sure he is.
“Oh, you were wonderful. So many words to remember.”So many words? Is that really the best I can come up with?
“You’re sweet,” Ryan says, briefly dropping his eyes to my chest. “It does take a lot of practice. It’s not like TV where they can feed you lines a scene at a time. The Bard’s language makesit easier. The poetry of it feels right on your tongue; it’s not like trying to memorize the phone book.” When he says the word “tongue,” he sticks his out and wiggles it in my direction. I find the gesture off-putting but I’m not sure why. It’s Ryan Stirling’s tongue, it can’t be off-putting.
A shy-looking waiter comes over to take our order, and I use the opportunity to shift my body and put a few inches of space between us. Regardless of the nit situation, I’d rather get to know him from a slightly less intimate distance. Ryan orders a fruity cocktail for me and a whiskey for himself, then he dismisses the waiter with a wave of his hand.
“So, Anna Appleby, I have to tell you, I’ve never agreed to date a fan before,” he says with a smirk, then slowly passes his tongue across his lower lip. “When my agent showed me your e-mail, it tickled me. I was in a ticklish sort of mood.” He runs a hand up my arm to tickle me, and his touch makes me flinch.
“Ha, well,” I say, clasping my hands in my lap. “I wouldn’t say I was a fan, per se.” Ryan’s face falls. “Well, no, I am a fan. I’ve watched every series ofPort, Starboard, Murder—I love that show.”
“Of course you do,” he says, running his tongue over his bottom lip again, then shifting closer to me and putting an arm around the back of the sofa behind me.What’s with the tongue? Is it too big for his mouth?
“But, um, it’s really this column I’m writing that inspired me to get in touch.” I’m so distracted by his proximity that I’m talking faster than I normally would, blurting out words like an audiobook on double speed. “I’m writing a series of columns forBath Living, on whether it’s possible to date offline—”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” he cuts me off. “Your ‘son’ suggested me.” He lifts his fingers into inverted commas, then moves his hand onto my shoulder, where he starts twirling a piece of my hair. Oh God, Ryan Stirling is twirling my hair,my hair, what ifhe sees something moving in it? All the blood in my body would rush to my face and there’d be none left in the rest of me. I’d just collapse in a heap on the floor, anemically white except for my beetroot-colored head. Every muscle in my body feels tense. I don’t think it’s just the nit paranoia making me uncomfortable here; the hair twirling feels inappropriate. We’ve only just sat down, and I’m yet to finish a sentence. I reach up to tuck the piece of hair behind one ear, gently nudging away his hand, but some instinct in my gut is telling me to get up and leave.
“Which is your favorite series then?” he asks, moving his hand back to his lap as the waiter reappears with our drinks.
“Series two, I love Faye Carraway,” I tell him. Faye is the actress who plays his sidekick. This feels like a safe topic for conversation; I could talk aboutPort, Starboard, Murderall night.
“Well, she’s a bitch,” Ryan says, his face shifting into an unpleasant sneer. “I’m too much of a gentleman to say more, but trust me, the ‘chemistry’ everyone said we had—I deserved a fucking BAFTA for that performance.”
“Oh wow, you’d never know that you didn’t get on,” I say, clutching my drink and taking a large swig of what tastes like pure vodka.
“I didn’t say we didn’t get on. I said she was a bitch.” Ryan shifts away from me now, slouching back on the sofa, both arms spread along the top of it. “Now you’ve ruined my post-show buzz by mentioning Faye.” He stares at me, and his mouth moves into a smile, as though he’s joking, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. They lock on to me, like lasers finding their target, cold and unblinking.
“Sorry,” I say, laughing nervously.
“How are you going to give me my buzz back?” he asks, his voice quiet.
“I could tell you all the great things there are to do here inBath?” I say lightly, glancing down at my drink, not wanting to look him in the eye. “I’m a great tour guide. Have you seen the Roman Baths yet?”
“I don’t think the Roman Baths are going to give me what I’m looking for,” he says. When I lift my gaze, his eyes are still on me. They seem darker, pupils bleeding into his irises so they appear almost black. He throws back the whiskey he’s holding, then licks his lip. There’s the tongue again.
“Why don’t you tell me about the first time you got off thinking about me?” he says. “In as much detail as possible.”
“Excuse me?” My body tenses, my hands clasping my drink so hard that I can see the pads of my fingers, white through the glass.
“Tell me your fantasy, I’ll do what I can. You want me to arrest you in character? You want to call me Detective?” Now he lunges across the sofa toward me, clasping one hand around the back of my neck, while the other grabs hold of my thigh. “Don’t be shy. You can tell me all the bad, bad things you’ve done, naughty girl.” He smells of whiskey and stale stage makeup. His movement is so sudden, his hands so forceful, that my body freezes, my eyes searching desperately for the waiter, but I see he’s made a discreet exit, and we are entirely alone in this small, dark, windowless room.
“No, no, thank you.” The words come out as a whisper, though in my mind I am shouting.Why am I not jumping up? Why do my limbs feel paralyzed?
“Playing coy? You want to play by the letter of the law, then don’t play with me,” he whispers into my ear in his Brandon Farley voice. “Shall we just get out of here?” he asks, seemingly unaware of how repulsed I am by his clammy hand running up my thigh. “My hotel’s just around the corner.”
My body is still frozen in shock; I can’t move. I open mymouth, but my brain can’t formulate words. His hand inches further up my skirt, and finally I manage to speak. “I have nits!” I blurt out, my voice a hoarse whisper.
“What?” He moves back a few inches, relaxes the hand on my neck. “What did you say?”
“I have nits. I wouldn’t get so close,” I say, louder now, and this time it has the desired effect. He jumps back as though I’ve slapped him.
“What the fuck?” He scowls at me, brushing himself down. “Why would you come here with…with that?”
“It wasn’t planned. This was a mistake.” I stand up, backing away. The more space I manage to put between us, the more my panic subsides and my voice returns. “And for future reference, just because someone likes the show you’ve been in, it doesn’t mean they want to be pawed within minutes of meeting you.”
Ryan glares at me, his short legs still splayed wide on the couch. I feel so foolish, all I want to do is run. I don’t want those cold eyes on me a moment longer. As I turn to leave, Ryan says, “You look a lot older than your byline photo. I’d call that false advertising.”
In the corridor, the doorman opens the outside door for me. “Get home safe, ma’am,” he says, and there’s a note of sympathy in his voice. Does Ryan Stirling come here after every performance, picking out a different fan from the stage door? I think I have been dangerously naïve.
