He has been obsessed with acting for as long as he can remember. He has studied acting, movies, plays and people, and read about psychology for the purpose of improving his acting. By the time he was sixteen or seventeen, he was very good at it, able to convince most people, particularly young women, of whatever he wished.
At nineteen, he is six feet and one inch tall. A sculptor would judge his limbs to be in excellent proportion, being long and well-shaped, strong, but not bulky. His back and shoulders, straight and broad, provide an excellent frame for the mature musculature to follow, once he has eschewed smoking and taken up regular exercise, apart from chasing women. To females of any age he is considered an attractive young man. The older ones, past aspiring to his seduction, content themselves with risqué remarks to their cronies. The girls smile flirtatiously, and lean towards him, allowing their necklines to speak for them, and all this he charmingly accepts as his due.
His hair is dark, thick and a bit unruly. His alabaster complexion marks him as a Londoner who makes little attempt to find sunlight, and possibly as someone who spends his spare time in the highly suspect activity of reading. His eyes vary between green and a brownish hue. A litmus test of temper: green is good, brown is bad. Although he has managed to leave his mark on several young men in combat, he has begun to realise that losing control is more painful than productive. He has the scars and interesting bend in his nose to attest to this, however these flaws actually redeem him from mere prettiness.
His eyes seem often to be amused with some secret delight. His expressive mouth is nicely curved; his smile, usually not far away, appears almost hesitant at first, ready to blind some unsuspecting young woman into believing he might be serious about her.
He originally took up smoking at sixteen to be cool, but the nicotine has trapped him, and he has gone outside for a cigarette break. Having lit up, and taken the first essential, life-saving drag, he looks around, spots her, and exhales with a faint whistle of approval.
To his experienced eye, she appears to be about seventeen or eighteen years old, probably in her final year of school. A blazer is draped over the back of her bench, and he recognises the embroidered badge as belonging to a local private school where the posh people send their snotty-nosed kids. His face doesn’t change expression, but internally he sneers with the knee-jerk scorn of the peasant for the aristocracy. Even so, he is quite taken with the scene before him.
The uniform seems designed to be demure and plain, yet she manages to outwit its intentions. Her modest, schoolgirl’s blouse is so full of promise that when she sighs and turns the page, the fabric pulls with obvious impatience on its buttons. The short grey skirt, hiked up with sitting, reveals most of her legs, slim and shapely, ending in the non-regulation black boots for which she is on her second warning.
All this he has taken in and analysed in a split-second. The conclusion, in Binary, is a resounding 1. The conversion to young-man-speak may have been Whoa, or Oh Yes, however he is silent, still exhaling.
As he studies her, she becomes aware of him. She glances up, her left eyebrow raised, perhaps as a deterrent. Snooty, he thinks, but instead of looking away and knowing his place, he continues to hold her gaze a few seconds longer than is socially appropriate, a practised smile of seduction forming. He removes himself from the wall, covers the short distance between them and says hello. She, unsmiling, not to be intimidated, holds his impudent gaze, but her eyes, large and blue, suddenly open wider, become intent. They stare at each other for a long moment.
* * *
So it was that they met again. The unselfconsciousness of childhood had gone forever. Billy felt as though he had been hit savagely in the chest by a speeding porcupine, one which was unusually heavy, and recently manicured, leaving him bleeding, bruised and breathless. His heart was having trouble remembering which beat it was up to. Eliza’s initial impulse – to leap to her feet and throw herself at him with a squeal of delight – was inhibited by a strange reserve accompanied by elevated blood pressure. She blushed, probably for the first time in her life.
“Lizzie?” he said, uncertain because it had been three years. There was a pause, during which she managed, after a short skirmish, to seize her composure in both hands and drag it back from the squalid depths where it was being held captive, no doubt expressing its indignation in a well-bred fashion.
“My Prince!” she said, facetiously.
They both laughed. There may have been a faint whirring sound, indicating that their respective information networks were being updated, with new and most interesting data.
Chapter 1 ~ An Unusual Alliance
In which we introduce the early years of an unusual alliance between Eliza MacLean and Billy Sylvester, and Eliza knows the many joys of being an actor’s daughter.
“Begone, foul brat,” said Billy, but there was a certain fond amusement in his voice. “Duck,” he advised her, and pushed the window completely open, in contradiction to his previous instruction. Eliza climbed in, her face pink with the exercise of cycling, scaling the convenient Quercus robur growing outside in the street, and lowering herself onto the porch roof which allowed access to her Prince’s Chambers. Both tree and roof could be treacherous, so her feet were bare for this last part of her pilgrimage, with shoes being tied by the laces and strung around her neck.
At this stage, in the early 1990s, Eliza would have been seven or so, and Billy five or six years older, depending on time of year. She knew he often retired to his bedroom after dinner on the pretext of studying, but really to avoid the washing up.
The Regal Bedstead of her Prince seemed like a good place to recoup her energies for the trip home, so she threw herself onto it. Billy rolled his eyes, shook his head and lay down on the other side of the bed, holding his book with a contrived air of long suffering while she tried to take it out of his hands, prattling on all the while.
“I’m reading The Lord of the Rings,” Eliza announced.
“Uh huh,” said Billy. “How do you like it?”
“It’s hard, but I like it,” she told him.
“Who will you be?” he asked her.
Eliza tried out roles in her imagination. “I should be a hobbit, because I’m a midget, or an orc would be fun.” She pulled an evil face and snarled at Billy. “But I’d really like to be Galadriel. Would you be Aragorn? Or Gandalf?”
“Saruman!” said Billy, without hesitation.
“Ooh, yes,” she said. Then, “Billy, Galadriel is pretty. Do you think I’ll be pretty when I’m older?”
“Nah,” he said. “Hideous!”
She looked at him with her deep blue eyes opened wide and head tilted in an enquiry, to see if he was serious, so he took pity on her. He ruffled her curls and smiled at her sweet little face, already pretty. “I think you’ll be very pretty, now go home!” He opened his book again and she was effectively dismissed.
Eliza was satisfied at that, and didn’t push her luck. Somehow she knew where the line was drawn. She disappeared out of the window, and went home the way she had come, without a thought about safety. Her father, had he known, would have been very angry with her.
And he was angry, some time later, when Billy’s concerned mother phoned him to report having apprehended a monkey, apparently belonging to him, in its attempt to gain access to the upper levels.