He laughed. “No. You just remind me so much of Mum.”
“I do?”
“Yes, your mannerisms, the facial expressions. Your eyes.”
“Yeah, they’re this a dull sludge colour, great.”
“They’re green. They’re not dull.”
“So where’d you get the pretty eyes from, huh?” She was referring to the light blue eyes that had now become one of his assets as an actor. That and his smile. Oh, he knew if he looked some women straight in the eye, he saw an instant transformation from calm and collected to a nervous jelly mess. He’d seen the state it could create a thousand times. Especially now he was Steve Mason – the Actor and Hollywood Hunk. He’d learnt in his teens he could make girls giggly and shy. He even used his eyes on his own mother to get away with murder.
“Dad, apparently,” he said. That’s what his mother used to say; he was the spitting image of his father.
“Great, Dad passes on the pretty eye gene to just you,” she said, cupping her latte glass and pouting.
“Your eyes are pretty.”
Ruby snorted. “They don’t sparkle like yours. So annoying! And don’t look at me like that, either.” She wagged her finger. “It won’t wash with me. And don’t forget it.”
They people-watched while finishing their coffees.
“Shall we go?” Ruby said, draining the last of her drink and pushing the cup away.
“Damn it, when did you get so bossy?”
The next thing Steve knew he was being lead into an opticians.
“We need glasses,” Ruby said to an assistant that approached her. She was a pretty blonde, who immediately took a shine to Steve who was trying on different pairs of glasses.
“Aren’t you—?”
“No!” Steve laughed it off, keeping a pair of frames on his face.
“He gets that all the time.” Ruby stood in between them. “That’s why we were thinking some glasses.”
“Do you need your eyes tested?”
“Nothing wrong with my eyes, twenty-twenty vision,” Steve said, beaming his million-dollar smile at her. Ruby pinched him. He rubbed his arm, scowling at Ruby, then looked back to the assistant. “I’ve got a job interview, thought glasses would make me look more professional.”
The assistant nodded. If she believed that, she’d believe anything.
“Here, try these.” Ruby picked out a pair of glasses, thin silver frames and handed them to him. He put them on, looked in the mirror, then looked at her, she frowned. “Hmmm…Not enough.”
“Remind me why I’m doing this again?” he said quietly so only Ruby could hear.
“Clark Kent.” Ruby pushed another pair into his hands, putting the other pair back. “No one realised he was Superman, did they? Not even Lois.” She whipped the next pair of glasses off his face. “Not nerdy enough.”
She found another pair. Steve knew what she was doing; she was trying to find frames that didn’t quite suit him, yet didn’t want them to look so ridiculous no one would fancy him. He put the glasses on. They were bigger frames, though fashionable, but they didn’t quite complement his face, so would hide his looks, at least a little. His heart still palpitated every time he glimpsed his new haircut in the mirror, let alone the spectacles on his face. What was he doing?
Early mid-life crisis was definitely what it looked like. The press could not get wind of this.
“Perfect!” Ruby clapped her hands together. “Can we buy these, please?” she said, approaching the assistant, who’d watched dumbfounded for the last ten minutes. She’d tried helping but Ruby hadn’t allowed her to express her expert opinion. The assistant’s face said it all. These glasses were all wrong, which meant they were right for their purpose.
“Well, uh, they’re our display.” The assistant hesitated. “It takes a few days for them to come through usually—”
“We were hoping to take them today – as he only needs plain lenses.”
Steve got out his wallet, pulling out twenties. “Here,” he said, winking at the assistant, young enough to use his blue-eyed charm on, plus she wasn’t his sister. “I’m sure this will do it. Just not a word now.” He tapped his nose.
“Okay, okay.” Works every time. The assistant hurried off, ran it through the till, having a word with the manager. She put the glasses in a case and handed them to Steve, keeping hold of his hand for a brief moment.
“You know, I’m free tonight—”
“I’m sorry, but he’s gay.” Ruby rushed in, grabbing Steve’s arm. The assistant looked taken back.
“What?” Steve said, astounded.
“Come on, Bro,” Ruby said sternly. “Bruno’s waiting for you.”
“Bruno?” Steve mouthed, still wearing a confused expression.
Immediately leaving the opticians shop, Ruby took the glasses out of the case and started cleaning them and removing the tags. “Put these on.”
“Now?”
“No, next week.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, she was on to you then.”
“I thought this whole idea was for me to find a date.”
“You can’t start using your charm like that. Not until we’ve fully agreed on your identity.”
Steve’s phone buzzed inside his pocket, he pulled it out, frowned and shoved it back. He’d deal with messages later.
“Phone!” Ruby said, stopping abruptly, holding a shopping-bag-laden hand in the air, as if pointing to a light bulb appearing above her head. “We’d better get you a phone. Nothing too fancy mind, but you’re going to need to give out your phone number, and you don’t want to give out that one.” She tapped his arm, pointing to a phone shop ahead. “Get a pay as you go. That’ll do you.”
Twenty-five minutes, and some mild arguing later, Steve walked out of the shop with a brand new phone. Nothing too flash, as Ruby had insisted, something to make calls and take text messages. Ruby strolled behind him with a satisfied grin. Steve had wanted the all singing and dancing latest smart phone – even he didn’t have it yet – but Ruby had a point. Unfortunately.
“You want someone to think you’re poor and still love you, right?”
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” Steve muttered, momentarily annoyed by her smug happiness. He stood in the middle of the Cribbs, by the fountain, trying to work out his new phone and put Ruby’s number in it. Ruby threw a coin into the fountain and closed her eyes. He hoped she was wishing this plan of hers would work.
Ruby nudged him. “Oh and, you know, I was thinking, you’ve got to ditch your accent.”
“I’ve worked fifteen years to get this accent. I have to sound American, only way to get the best parts, kid.”
“Hugh Grant does okay.”
“Hugh Grant gets typecast.”
“Point taken.” She nodded. “But you still need to lose it. Otherwise they won’t believe you’re not Steve Mason. You’re an actor, act British. Or something.” She waved her hands in frustration. “Pretend this is your next big role.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll try. I’m sure hanging around you will bring my accent back slowly.” Plus make me swear profusely.
“You say it as if it’s a bad thing.”
He