Lifeline
The next morning Ashe slept in, awoken only by the ringing of his phone at noon. It was a video call, one he’d expected. Wiping the sleep from his eyes he answered the phone, propping it up on his bedside table.
“Gran’ morning, li’l monkey,” he said softly, his voice shifting to his natural accent as he yawned and lay back on his pillow. Behind Rowan he could see his parents sitting by the dining table, waving to him, and beside her was Will Emerson, Rowan’s father.
“Tell me about your day, poppet,” said Ashe. “Are you going to the park?”
Rowan would turn five in a few months’ time and had been scheduled to visit Ashe in New York in March; that had now been pushed back to April and changed to Paris. Ashe and Riley would meet herself and Will there shortly after Coriolanus made its final curtain call.
His niece was precocious, talkative and looked so like her mother it was uncanny. The mere thought of Rowan always reminded Ashe of what really counted in his life, making him realize how a life in the limelight made it easy to be distracted by things that didn’t matter, like fame. All that was an illusion, he thought, unlike the child who was now gesturing wildly with her little hands and laughing.
She began telling him about her day, her singsong voice a delight to his ears. For the next few minutes Ashe happily listened to her, laughing at her stories about friends whom she’d met at the park, or at the supermarket when Gran would take her along. Then she asked about Riley and told him to thank her for the snow globe she had received in the post, featuring the Manhattan skyline. She named the landmarks in one breath: Statue of Liberty, Chrysler Building, Empire State Building and the Brooklyn Bridge. It was her favorite new toy, she told him.
After a few minutes, Will cautioned her that they would be late meeting her friends at the park. She blew him kisses which Ashe playfully caught with his hand, said goodbye and moved away from the screen. Only his father and mother remained, sitting at the end of the table. They used to make these calls on the computer, but Ashe had given them the latest smartphone and upgraded their WiFi setting to the best that Reeth had to offer, and they’d become used to propping it up somewhere around the house and talking to him as they prepared tea or whatever it was they were doing.
Sometimes they’d forget that he wasn’t physically there, that it was a video call, and he’d have to remind them to move in front of the camera to where he could see them. They were always busy, just like Ashe, though their work and motivation differed. That was the thing about generations: everything changed, but at the same time it remained the same.
The mood changed after Rowan left. The absence of the child’s laughter reminded Ashe that there were other things which had to be discussed. He had rung them just before he went to bed after his meeting with Catriona, although it was then around five in the morning in Yorkshire; he hadn’t wanted them to be taken by surprise if Catriona fulfilled her threat.
Ashe had found his father in the kitchen making a pot of tea. His mother had still been asleep. Looking at her now, her hands clasped tightly on the table in front of her and her expression serious, told Ashe more about her reaction to his news than she was willing to say.
“I told your mum what we talked about, lad, about the choices you made a long time ago,” said his father. “It’s your life, and we don’t judge you. We never have.”
When Ashe had brought Hazel home from Club Fet five years earlier, he’d helped her change her clothes from the sweltering leather maid’s outfit into one of his own tracksuits. She’d been so high she couldn’t sit up straight in the passenger seat, her head lolling from side to side from the effect of the drugs. He knew that he’d have to explain to his parents what had happened and how he’d been involved. It was his fault really, he’d told his father while his mother was having tea with friends in Swaledale. It was his fault, because he should have known what Catriona was capable of.
Although his father knew, they’d said nothing to his mother about Ashe’s involvement in the BDSM lifestyle. The previous night, however, Ashe had realized it was no longer possible to keep this knowledge from the woman who had raised him to love the arts, who’d nurtured his love for the theater by driving him all the way to London to see plays while his father stayed at the farm.
“What about Rowan?” Ashe asked. He was out of bed by this time, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. Walking into his office he sat down, propping his phone on the desk.
His mother shrugged. “She’ll hear nowt, at least for now. Maybe when she’s older, if it still matters.”
“And Will?”
“He already knew, because of Hazel,” she said. “But it’s your private business, son, this thing you had with Catriona, and there’s no sense in beating yourself up because you and your dad didn’t tell me sooner. It was for the best, I think; I don’t understand these things.”
“I’m sorry, Mum.”
“No need to apologize. You know that whatever you decide to do, we stand behind you; we always have.”
“Aye,” his father nodded. “Lance told us he’ll always stand by you; he came home with you that night, remember. Ben will too, I’m sure of’t.”
“I haven’t spoken to them yet,” Ashe said. “I sent them a text before I went to bed and told them we’d talk in the morning.”
“But first there’s the play,” said his mother. “That’s what’s important right now. Do your best and let them judge you for that, not for what you do when the lights are out. That’s no one’s business but your own.”
“That contract will sell papers,” said Ashe, smiling wryly.
“Then let it,” replied his mother. “It changes nowt. You’ll still be you, no matter what. You know the drill, son: show up on time and be professional.”
“Thank you,” said Ashe, sighing as he ran his fingers through his hair.
“No need to thank us. Neither time nor brass can change thee lad, ‘cos you’re Yorkshire born and bred,” said his father, chuckling. “We didn’t raise you to be anything you’re not.”
“Take care of Riley,” said his mother. “You have that lass’s heart. Don’t let her get hurt.”
“I won’t,” Ashe said.
“Break a leg tonight,” his father told him, grinning; then he grew serious. “Show them what you’re made of, lad. You’re from Yorkshire, after all, and you’re tough. Nowt can change that. Even Hazel knew that.”
That evening, the play ran for almost three hours. There were no missteps, no mistakes, no missed beats—not that Ashe was expecting any. He was so intent on being Coriolanus that he forgot everything else; forgot that a world existed beyond the stage. As far as he was concerned, there was no audience watching the production and reacting to every word spoken and every action performed. He was in a vacuum of his own making, where he felt safest. Catriona’s threat of leaking their contract couldn’t touch him there, especially after his conversation with his parents.
There was only the play.
When it was all over, after the standing ovation where he took one bow after another with his co-stars, after he’d looked out into the sea of faces he couldn’t place to say a silent prayer of thanks, Ashe broke down in the shower. He didn’t know why, but the dam that held all his emotions in check finally broke inside the small shower stall that came with his dressing room. It came after he’d shut the door of his dressing room to well-wishers who’d come to give him flowers and presents of chocolates and candied fruit, telling them that he needed a few minutes to get ready for the after-party and that he’d talk to them there. It came after the realization hit him that the opening night of Coriolanus fell on the anniversary of Hazel’s death.
Ashe hadn’t cried like this in a long time and it surprised him. Was it cleansing, he wondered, washing away his past: the mistakes he’d made when he’d ignored the signs of Hazel’s addiction, and later when he’d put his work first? He’d wanted to make it up to his parents after they’d trusted him to take care of Hazel, only to have her return home a pregnant addict. Five years later she was dead. He’d never faced such thoughts before, because he’d kept himself too busy to do so.
He’d been busy hiding his regret and pain behind a smile, and now it seemed to have caught up with him, making him feel like a fraud. Was that what Catriona had meant last night, when she’d told him he was nothing but a country boy pretending to be someone he wasn’t?
Ashe realized at last that this was just part of the process, part and parcel of the long preparation for an ambitious production that would make or break him. As the water ran clear at his feet, the fake blood washed out from his hair and under his fingernails, Ashe turned off the tap and toweled himself dry. He took a deep breath in and out, cleared his throat and looked at his reflection in the mirror. The stage make-up was mostly gone and along with it the tears he had shed; he cleaned off what was left with cotton pads soaked in make-up remover.
Fifteen minutes later he was dressed in his black Gucci suit, wearing a smile he’d practiced earlier in front of the mirror. If it hadn’t yet reached his eyes, Ashe would pretend until it did. Dale was waiting for him outside, already carrying gift bags that fans had left by the backstage door. Lance was hovering nervously, glancing at his watch.
“The car’s outside,” he said. “We have to be at the Pierre in twenty minutes.”
“Where’s Riley?” asked Ashe, his voice barely audible above the noise around them.
“You have fans outside, Mr. Hunter,” said Dale.
“Ashe, see you at the Pierre!” Some of the cast members called out from the other side of the corridor and Ashe waved back before turning to face Lance.
“Where’s Riley?” he asked again. He suddenly felt lost without her, floundering in an ocean in search of a lone buoy to hold on to.
“She’s in the car,” replied Lance. Dale raised his arms, gift bags dangling from his hands.
“There are more of these outside, Mr. Hunter.”
“Please leave all presents in the dressing room, Dale,” he said as Lance handed him his coat and scarf. “All right, let’s go.”
“What about your fans?” Dale asked, hurriedly slipping the gift bags inside the dressing room and locking the door. “They’ve been lined up outside for the past two hours.”
“We’ll be late!” protested Lance.
“Ten minutes,” said Ashe, wrapping the scarf around his neck and heading toward the backstage door. It would be madness out there, he thought, then he remembered the barricades they’d set up around the door which would hopefully speed up the signing of autographs.
“Let’s go, then,” Lance said with resignation as he pushed open the door and stepped out. Ashe followed him. He knew he would need more than ten minutes to get through the line of people, but there was also the after-party to think of. Then there was Riley whom he couldn’t wait to see again, who would ground him and pull him back to what mattered. He just had to get to the car.
It took Ashe fifteen minutes to sign autographs and pose for as many pictures as possible before Lance pulled him away from the barricaded section and rushed him into the waiting limo. The back seat was empty and Ashe almost got out, thinking he was in the wrong car.
“She’s waiting for you at the hotel,” said Lance as he shut the door. “She was in the usual car, not this limo; this one is courtesy of Reign Studios. Your success onstage tonight is as important to the old man as the movies he’s lined up for you to do.”
Ashe said nothing and glanced at his watch. His jaw clenched and he could feel himself grinding his teeth. He’d been looking forward to seeing Riley for more than twenty-four hours. Was this what addiction felt like? It scared and excited him.
“Get Coriolanus out of your head and smile, Ashe. It’s not the end of the world that Riley’s not here,” Lance told him, his face softening as he grinned. “You were amazing up there, man. Speaking of which, the reviews should be coming in by now.”
“Too soon, surely,” replied Ashe, grateful for the distraction.
Lance chuckled as he switched on his phone and scrolled through his messages. “The audience members started tweeting during the interval. The verdict is that they loved it before the interval and they loved it afterward. Someone even took a picture of you taking a bow, which they shouldn’t have, and posted it online.”
Lance scrolled through the tweets that were tagged CoriolanusBroadway, reading some of them out loud as they drove through the busy streets of Manhattan toward the Pierre Hotel. Ashe smiled as he listened to Lance, recognizing a few names familiar to him from the theater circle. While most of the names meant nothing to them, there were a handful of critics eager to get out their reviews and let their followers know when to expect them.
“Only one person said Tom was better.”
Ashe laughed. “Well, that was Tom, after all. Why did they think I agreed to do it on Broadway?”
By the time they arrived at the Pierre, the press line was more than ready for him. Ashe hadn’t meant to be late, but he’d spent fifteen minutes accommodating his fans and then there was Friday night traffic. As they stepped out of the car, blinded by flashbulbs from paparazzi, it didn’t seem to matter.
The list of after-party guests was impressive enough to occupy the members of the press, who took pictures and filmed the footage they needed for their respective outlets, attaching the names of non-celebrity partner to their respective celebrities as best they could. After the fiasco in Beverly Hills where Riley had been labeled simply as ‘friend’, Betty Forster was in attendance to make sure that the photographers and videographers who were taking shots of her client got his partner’s name right as well.
It didn’t matter that some of the celebrity guests hadn’t seen the play. What mattered was the after-party and that they were being seen, their publicists trailing behind them announcing which movie or television show they were currently starring in. It was business as usual, thought Ashe as he scoured the lobby for Riley, reluctant to go through the press line alone even though he’d done so many times before.
Tonight was as much her night as his, even if he were the only one who knew it. When he saw her walking toward him from the bar, he almost stopped breathing. She’d been sitting on one of the stools flanked by Lindsay and Melissa, who stayed where they were as if allowing Riley to make an appearance; whether that was their plan or not, Ashe was grateful for it.
As he watched her walk toward him, he was in awe of what twenty-four hours could do to a heart. He’d missed her so much, even with all the attention showered on him; it hadn’t been cheap to stage the play, which made him one hell of an investment. Ashe realized what a lifeline Riley had become to him. He lifted her hand to his lips, not noticing what she was wearing or who had designed it; he only knew that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“We have to go,” Lance was muttering, but Ashe lingered.
“I’ll be right there,” he replied, unable to tear his eyes from Riley. The red evening gown he now noticed she wore looked stunning on her; it hugged her hourglass figure, and the lace-edged V-neckline accentuated her full breasts while the flared skirt clung to her hips. Her gown was nothing like the two dresses she had brought to the condo the other evening, which he had actually considered quite plain for a big night like this. He trusted both Riley’s judgement and that of his stylist, so he had said nothing; besides, he wasn’t the one wearing the dress.
“You were so amazing up there, you made me cry and mess up my mascara,” she said as he took her in his arms, careful not to touch her make-up. “Thank goodness Lindsay’s so good with make-up or I’d look a fright right now. They booked me a room here, so it was easy to change into this.”
As she spoke, Ashe looked at her appreciatively. Lindsay had played up Riley’s blue eyes, which he always thought of as one of her best attributes. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders and he was glad that she hadn’t tied it up in a ponytail as she usually did. She was nervous and it showed, for she was starting to ramble and play with her hair, twining it around her index finger. If she thought no one was watching, she’d probably chew on the ends.
“Thanks, luv, but enough about me,” he murmured as he leaned down to kiss her, forgetting about her lipstick. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”
“I feel like I’m at a prom or something,” she stammered. “Only if I were, I’d probably be wearing one of Paige’s last season gowns.”
“You’re beautiful,” Ashe said again, pulling her closer to calm her down before she started talking at a mile a minute. There was still the press line to walk through and he wondered if Melissa and Lindsay had coached her about that, just as they would have advised her about walking in high heels. She must be wearing three-inch-high heels under that gown, he thought, though he changed his mind when he caught a glimpse of black platform lug-soled combat boots when Melissa rushed toward them and fussed over a part of the hem that exposed them.
“Isabella’s not happy about the shoes,” Riley said. “She said they didn’t go with the dress.”
“I love them,” Ashe grinned.
“Do you know I’m wearing breast tape so I won’t have a wardrobe malfunction and flash everyone? “ she whispered in his ear.
“That’s good because. I have no plans for you to flash anyone but me tonight,” he grinned as she wiped her lipstick from his lips. Behind them, Betty was hissing that the press was waiting for him.
“Are you ready, petal?” he asked, holding her hand as he led her across the lobby, barely noticing the people surrounding them. “I’m not letting go of you, you know.”
She grinned, though Ashe could feel her shaking as he brought his arm possessively around her waist and drew her close to him. “You’d better not. I’m so nervous that if someone asked me my name, I’d probably tell them it’s Vera Wang.”