Free On Chasing Brad Through Purgatory by Stephen Benatar Page A

names.
    â€œYes but all the same it wasn’t very good.”
    â€œGod I wish I’d seen it though!”
    â€œIt’s done on DVD.”
    I was no longer even thinking about playing hard to get although perhaps there was now more reason why I should have been.
    â€œAnd did you meet them, all those famous stars?”
    Thereafter for the next half-hour or so our conversation was entirely movie stuff—American and British—because he’d also had a play made into a film over here. Daisy and Sybella . That too was out on video.
    â€œI want to see them both!”
    â€œWell I reckon that could be arranged,” he said. “Only not tonight—not tonight!”
    Why not tonight? My first flicker of doubt. Didn’t he fancy me as much as I’d assumed?
    Uncertainty of course increased not only his attractiveness but my own determination.
    â€œAre you writing anything at present?”
    â€œThere’s a new one about to go into rehearsal.”
    â€œWith a thumping big part in it for me?”
    â€œTelepathy! I’d been on the very point of saying keep all your evenings free in anticipation of a long run.”
    And I’d been on the very point of saying: But will you take me to the first night? By then I had inside me in addition to two double whiskies a glass and a half of red wine—all of it being mulled by my heady imaginings of the life he led and by my awareness of some of the people he had met. There’d also been the Cointreau with my coffee. By then too—even though he’d decided for some reason to pay by credit card—I’d caught a glimpse of his plentifully filled wallet. Scarcely necessary indeed, not from the beginning: his shirt, pullover, trousers, shoes—all of them proclaimed Armani; none of them Marks & Spencer. Even had he been dressed in nothing but swimming trunks there would still have been an air of dealing only at the best places. The way he was groomed: the haircut, the cologne, the smoothness of his shaven skin; his hands, his wristwatch—the way that he behaved: his confidence, the casual ordering of Glenfiddich. To place him in a rich man’s world I’d clearly had no need to hear about his plays and films; but at the same time they’d added a beguiling new dimension. And for the moment I thought I had his interest. Despite the whisky and the wine and the liqueur I struggled once again to keep him at a distance. I made no mention of the first night and even pretended to have to smother a yawn.
    â€œGod! I’m sorry. I suddenly feel so tired. If you’re not going to give me the lead role in your play I think I should be making tracks for home.” It was now getting on for twelve.
    I noticed again the way his wrists looked. Perhaps absurdly this made me feel a little better about myself. I remembered that I’d already found him physically attractive the first moment I had seen him and that I’d already been responding to his personality very early on in our acquaintance; would have liked him just as much if I hadn’t guessed the condition of his bank balance and if he’d only bought me two singles of Grant’s. Surely?
    â€œI’ll be picking up a taxi,” he said. “I can drop you off.”
    â€œOf course. Cricklewood’s in a direct line to Holland Park. By far the shortest route.”
    â€œI’d be glad of the extra ten minutes of your company.”
    â€œThen give me a ring next week or whenever you’re free and I’ll give you ten times ten minutes of my company. Or even more if you feel that you can stand it. I’ll take you to a greasy spoon and lead you step by step into such infinite mysteries as the methods of stock control at Price-As-You-Like-It. Plus the lowdown on all the romance that springs up in the checkout queues. Could maybe provide you with the plot for your next play. Forget the Price and you’ve even got a good