Page 57 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“Good,” she says, “then embrace being PM. This is your rock era.”
“Excuse me?”
“Fleetwood Mac.” She smiles as though this should be enough for me to know what she means. “They thought they were a blues band, then they lost Peter Green and were forced to reinvent themselves. When Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks joined, they found their rock era and became one of the greatest bands in history. That could be you, you just need to find your Stevie Nicks.”
“I don’t really know their music,” I admit.
“Oh, you’ll know it when you hear it. There’s no funk I couldn’t pull myself out of, belting out ‘Go Your Own Way’while dancing around the house in my knickknacks.” I can’t help smiling at this, and as the lights go down, Loretta squeezes my arm on our shared rest and whispers, “Your rock era.”
The second half of the play drags, and I struggle to keep my eyes open. As a rule, Shakespeare is best enjoyed before seven p.m., or after a double espresso. Ryan Stirling taking his shirt off before a battle scene briefly perks me up, but when the crowd starts applauding, I realize I must have nodded off and my head is lolling gracelessly on Loretta’s shoulder.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, jerking upright, flustered, as everyone around us rises from their seat for a standing ovation.
“Don’t apologize. You must listen to your body; when it needs rest, you rest.” Loretta pats my hand. As the applause finally recedes, she turns to face me. “Now, I know I’m just a strange woman you happened to sit next to at the theater, but I see in you a kindred spirit, Anna.”
I’m flattered to hear this, and apart from the awkward misunderstanding, I have loved talking to her too.
“Can I give you my digits, if you ever need the ear of someone who’s been there?” she asks, and I nod.
“That’s incredibly sweet of you,” I say, taking the business card she’s extracted from her handbag.
“It’s a landline number. I’m rarely in but do leave a message. I can’t abide mobile phones. Who wants the world in their pocket? Not I.”
This makes me laugh. Loretta has a wonderful energy and I want to bask in it a little longer. “Did you enjoy the play?”
“Went on a bit, didn’t it?” she says, giving me a sly grin. “Though he’s rather easy on the eye.”
As I bid Loretta good-bye, I sorely regret not clearing up the misunderstanding between us. She probably would have laughed about it. I might have liked to go for a coffee with her, but I didn’t put her straight when I had the chance.
In the theater bathroom, I pull off the silk cap and try to fluff up my flat hair. I can’t have Ryan Stirling questioning whether our date was arranged by the Make-A-Wish foundation. Leaning toward the mirror to inspect my hairline, I see nothing moving. I’ll just assume I don’t have nits while simultaneously not putting my head anywhere near him.
At the stage door, a crowd of female fans are waiting for Ryan to emerge. My heart sinks when I see them. It’s already ten o’clock. If he signs all these people’s programs, he won’t be free until eleven; I’ll struggle to keep my eyes open. Just as I’m contemplating grabbing a coffee from the theater bar, the stage door opens, and a voice calls, “Anna Appleby?” The crowd parts like the Red Sea as I put up my hand and cry, “That’s me!”
A man dressed in a black polo shirt, wearing an earpiece, beckons me forward and the crowd eyes me enviously, perhapswondering why I have been singled out. I mutter, “Journalist,” under my breath as I hurry forward.
The man in black leads me down a corridor.
“Do not ask Mr. Stirling for a selfie,” he instructs. “He doesn’t do photos after the show.” I’m led into a brightly lit dressing room, and there he is, Ryan Stirling,theRyan Stirling. He’s dressed in jeans and a white shirt, and a young woman is wiping makeup from his face.
“Anna?” he asks, his voice loud, as though he’s still projecting from the stage. I nod, suddenly starstruck. “Don’t worry, we’ll head out the side door, avoid the baying mob. I’ll be there all night otherwise.” He gives me an overblown eye roll. “Did you enjoy the play?”
“Yes. You were great, wow, amazing,” I blurt out before I can rein in my fangirling. He grins, as though I’ve answered correctly. Then he bats away the makeup lady, holds out a hand for his coat, and leaps out of the chair.
“Shall we depart?” He puts a hand on the small of my back, steering me out of the dressing room, then through another door, out onto a dark side street. He’s much smaller than I expected him to be—he can’t be more than five foot eight—but up close, his face is even more perfect than it looks on TV. He has a square jaw, hooded eyes, and a slight Roman nose. He looks like a man from another era, a gladiator or a Viking warrior. He’s so beautiful, I need to make a concerted effort not to stare at him.
In the street outside the back of the theater, there’s a car with blacked-out windows waiting for us. Ryan opens the car door for me, then climbs in beside me.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Somewhere we won’t be disturbed. Nothing worse than being in a bar and having napkins thrust in your face to sign.” He leans forward, shakes out his arms, then trills air through his lips.“Forgive me, this is how I de-Richard. There’s a lot that goes into the performance. I have disturbed sleep if don’t get him out.”
“Oh, I can imagine,” I say, though as someone who has never acted, I don’t think I can.
The car drives to a discreet private members’ club called Pleets. Ryan trills his lips for the duration of the journey. The doorman must know the car because as soon as we arrive, he opens a small, hidden side door. Inside the club, we’re shown along a dark corridor, then into a cozy, dimly lit room. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I’m now wide awake. This doesn’t feel real. I’m on a secret night out with Ryan Stirling,theRyan Stirling.I wish Will could see me now. I mean Dan. I wish Dan could see me now. Do I mean Dan or Will?The thought confuses me for a moment. Why am I thinking about either of them?
“Here we go,” Ryan says, walking into the room and indicating a low, curved black leather sofa. To the left is a bar with a red strip of light emanating from beneath it, and a backlit display of bottles. It feels like a miniature nightclub, or, more worryingly, the kind of room where you might get a private lap dance.
“We’ll be able to hear ourselves think in here,” Ryan says, his hand on my lower back again. I assumed we’d grab a drink at the theater. I don’t think I appreciated how different “going for a drink” might be when you’re so recognizable.
