Hardly believing what she was doing she changed into leggings, ran from her room and in five minutes was strapping herself into a pair of blades. Tentatively, she pushed herself a short distance along the boardwalk. ‘Gosh, I’m quite good at this,’ she realized in amazement.
Bib held onto Ros’s hand as she awkwardly skidded back and forth. It had been a huge struggle to convince her to get out here. And she was hopeless. If he hadn’t been holding on to her hand, she’d be flat on her bum. Yet, her ungainly vulnerability made her even more endearing to him.
Bib had followed the evening’s events with avid interest. He’d been appalled by Michael’s macho attitude, the cheek of the bloke! He’d longed to snatch the phone from Ros and tell Michael in no uncertain terms how fabulous Ros was, how she’d terrified a roomful of powerful orange men. Then when Michael hung up on Ros, Bib used every ounce of will he could muster to stop Ros from ringing him back. He worked desperately hard at reminding Ros how wonderfully she’d coped since she’d arrived in this strange threatening city, even though it was so obvious, she should know it herself –
‘Careful, careful!’ he silently urged, squeezing his eyes shut in alarm, as Ros nearly went flying into a woman who was holding on to a small boy on a bike.
‘Sorry,’ Ros gasped. ‘I’m just learning.’
“S’OK,’ the little boy said. ‘Me too. My name’s Tod and that’s my mom, Bethany. She’s teaching me to ride my bike.’
Bethany was in the unfortunate position of having to hold tightly on to the back of Tod’s bike and run as fast as Tod cycled. Bib eyed Bethany with sympathetic understanding because he was in the unfortunate position of having to run as fast as Ros was roller-blading. Which got faster and faster as her confidence grew.
‘Wheeeeeh!’ Ros shrieked, as she sped a good four yards, before losing Bib and coming a cropper.
When she returned the skates to the hire office, her knees were bruised but her eyes were a-sparkle. ‘I had a lovely time,’ she laughingly announced. Then she sprinted joyously across the sand to the hotel, Bib puffing anxiously behind her, tangling himself in his six legs as he tried to keep up.
She woke in the middle of the night, the exhilaration and joy of the night before dissipated and gone. She felt cold, old, afraid, lonely. She wouldn’t be able to cope without Michael, she didn’t want a life without him.
But then she remembered the roller-blading. She wasn’t normally adventurous, usually needing Michael with her before trying new things. Yet she’d done that all on her own and it was a comfort of sorts.
‘I am a woman who roller-blades alone,’ she repeated to herself until she managed to get back to sleep.
Then she woke up, got dressed and went to work, vaguely aware that there was a new steadiness about her, a growing strength.
When she returned from her day’s work, exhausted but proud from holding her own as they inched their way tortuously towards a deal, she bumped into Brad Pitt in the hotel lobby. From the look of things he was just knocking off work.
‘Did you have a good day?’ he enquired.
Ros nodded politely.
‘So, what kind of business are you in?’ Brad asked.
Ros considered. She always found this awkward. How exactly did you explain that you worked for a company that made portaloos? A very successful company that made portaloos, mind.
‘We, um, take care of people,’ she said. Well, why shouldn’t she be coy? Americans were the ones who called loos rest-rooms, for goodness sakes!
‘D’ya take care of people on a movie set?’ Brad never missed an opportunity. The door to his career could open absolutely anywhere – there was the time he’d seen the director of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in his chiropodist’s waiting room, or the occasion he’d crashed into the back of Aaron Spelling’s Beemer – so he was always prepared.
‘Actually, we have,’ Ros said with confidence.
Quick as a flash, Brad’s lightbulb smile burst on to his face and he swooped closer. ‘Hey, I’m Bryce,’ he murmured. ‘Would you do me the honour of having a drink with me this evening?’
A good-looking man had invited her for a drink! What a shame that nothing would cheer her up ever again. Because if anything would do the trick, this would. But even as a refusal was forming in her mouth, Ros found herself pausing. Wouldn’t it be better than sitting alone in her room waiting for the phone to ring?
‘OK,’ she said wanly.
Bryce looked surprised, women were usually delighted to spend time with him. Then he clicked his fingers. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re English, right? You kinda got that Merchant-Ivory repressed thing going on. Love it! Meet me in the lobby at six-thirty.’ And smoothing his hair, he was gone.
In her room, Ros checked the phone, picked it up, trembled with the effort of not dialling Michael’s number and frogmarched herself into the shower. America, the land of opportunity. She should at least try, after all Bryce really was gorgeous.
From the jumble of clothes thrown on the bed she managed to make herself presentable. A short – but not too short – black dress, a pair of high – but not too high – black sandals. But as she watched herself in the mirror, it was like seeing a stranger. Who was this single girl who was going out on a date with a man who wasn’t Michael?
When the lift doors parted, Bryce was loitering in the lobby, sunbleached hair gleaming on to his golden forehead, white teeth exploding into a flashgun smile. Ros’s spirits inched upwards. Maybe things weren’t so bad. On the way to his car, she noticed Bryce patting his hair in the window as he passed by, then pretended she hadn’t.
The bar was low-lit and quiet. ‘So as we can really, like, talk,’ Bryce said with a smile that promised good things, and the mercury level of Ros’s mood began its upward climb again. As soon as they’d ordered their drinks, Bryce started the promised talk.
‘… and then I got the part as the shop clerk in Clueless. They toadally cut it, right, but the director said I was great, really great. It was a truly great performance, I gave and gave until it hurt, but the goddamn editor was, like, toadally on my case …’
Ros nodded sympathetically.
‘… of course, I should have got the Joseph Fiennes part in Shakespeare in Love. It was mine, they even toadally told my agent, but on-set politics, it’s a toadal bitch, right?’
Ros nodded again. Despite Bryce’s many tales of woe, his smile glittered and flashed. But as his litany of bad-luck continued, Ros began to notice that he didn’t ever make eye-contact with her. Yet the intimate smiles continued anyway. Eventually, wondering if he was coming on to some girl behind her, Ros looked over her shoulder. And saw a mirror. Ah, that explained everything. Bryce was flirting with his favorite person. Himself.
On and on he droned. Great performances he nearly gave. Evil directors, cruel editors, leading men who had it in for him because they were threatened by his talent and looks.
‘Hey, I’ve done enough talking about me.’ He finally paused for breath. ‘What do you think of me?’
Ros could hardly speak for depression. With Bryce she felt more alone than she had on her own.
‘Would you mind terribly if I left? Only I’m ever so sleepy. Must be jetlag.’
‘We’ve hardly been here thirty minutes,’ Bryce objected. ‘I’m just warming up.’
To her dismay, Bryce offered to see her back to the hotel. And up to her room. At her bedroom door she realized he was about to try and kiss her. She braced herself – she didn’t have the the energy to resist him. He looked deep into her eyes and