Stars
One.
The first time I met Tom Hiddleston, I was crying. I think he was too.
It was a night in late November, in 2008. There was a party of sixteen dining in the restaurant where I just so happened to be working; it was a very high-class kind of place. I suppose it had to be, considering it backed onto a world famous golf course. To make certain that this wasn’t your standard restaurant, the paintings decorating the walls were worth at least a million pounds each, everything was made of the finest materials available and each of the chefs had to be Michelin star standard.
It was an awfully pretentious place to work at.
To add to the ‘appeal’ of the place, all the staff had to have what the manager (named Juan, apparently used to be a porn star) deemed either “an exotic or classic accent”. I had neither; just a knack for adopting accents and qualification that stated I was a good actor. I was only working there until I found myself something bigger and better. That opportunity came the night I met Tom.
I’d received a text from Jessica Greene, the person I’d refer to as “my agent”. A text that detailed the outcome of an audition I’d gone to two weeks previously. I had managed to land myself the role of Ophelia in a production of Hamlet that was starring Jude Law. I’d done bits and pieces for the RSC, but never a big scale production with a Hollywood star who was in what I would say was one of my all time favourite films (The Talented Mr. Ripley)! That was probably the reason I was so emotional that night.
From what I’d gathered about the bunch of people I was to be serving that night, it was the 68th birthday of a large, boisterous man named Bruce and the fifteen people dining with him were there to celebrate. It was a Tuesday, so naturally, they were the largest table we had booked and there weren’t many other tables that night, so Juan assigned me to the party with the help of the head waiter, Jesus, his younger brother.
It had been a normal evening until they got to cheese. The man named Bruce had grabbed my arm as I poured the port. I looked around the table, noticing the two youngest members of the table giving me apologetic stares. I raised an eyebrow and met Bruce’s glare with a smile. His hand moved up to my name badge, tilting it slightly so it was in his eye line. “If you don’t mind me asking, Miss…?”
“Sternberg.”
“… Miss Sternberg, from where is it that you hail?”
“Woking.”
“No, I apologize, young lady. I mean country wise, where do you originate?”
“My mother was born in Bergen and my father lived in Munich until he was 17.” My brow furrowed and I bit my bottom lip.
“I told you, boy! Of course she isn’t English; they wouldn’t dare employ someone from England!” A white haired man hit the upper arm of the young boy sitting next to him, “You said you’re German, girl? You do realise you people are stealing the jobs of young English men and women? I’ve heard that there are plenty of jobs where you come from-”
“Stop it, grandfather! Nobody agrees with you, for God’s sake!” The girl on his other side said. I felt my palms begin to sweat and my throat start to get choked up.
“No, no, no, who here agrees with me?” A murmur went around the table and the girl stood up, storming out in the direction of the toilets. “See, Miss Bernsterg, we had enough of your kind during the war, bombing our cities and killing our men. We’d be grateful if you tell your Kraut friends to stay in their country. I do apologize if I’ve offended you, but everyone’s entitled to an opinion aren’t they?” He chuckled and banged his fist on the table twice, “Come, come dear and pour us some port!”
I placed the bottle down on the floor next to me and shook my head, “First of all, my surname is Sternberg, not “Bernsterg” and I don’t honestly care if this gets me fired, but I cannot believe you have the audacity to demand things after being so racist and prejudiced in my direction. I’ll have you know I’ve lived in England for all 24 years of my life, I have a British passport and I received commendations for the results I received in my school career, which should outline that I deserve a job slightly more than those “English roses” who sit around on their arses all day, watching Loose Women and spending their benefits on cigarettes and the blue WKD. To add to this, my mother is a nurse and has been for 30 years at Great Ormond Street Hospital where she continues to help save lives of children. My father is a professor of English Literature at one of the top universities in Britain and if none of this makes me worthy of living in your glorious country, sir, then call me Wagner and send me back home.”
And with that I threw the napkin I was holding on the floor and exited through the French doors leading to the golf course. I’m sure I heard Bruce call “I’ll have your paycheque docked for that!” after me, but I didn’t care. I just sat on the stairs, inhaling the cigarette fumes coming from the bar patio and trying to compose myself, but letting the tears fall heavily down my face. Not even a joke told by a loud Irishman could stop the tears.
I heard footsteps from behind me, so I buried my nose in my red scarf and looked from the corner of my eye, noticing the young man from the table sit down beside me. He sighed, “I’m so sorry about my uncle. He seems to think that the world will view his opinions as the right ones.” He ran his left hand through the blonde curls atop his head and offered his right hand out, “I’m Tom, by the way. I’m not a racist of any form.”
I cracked a smile and shook his hand, sniffing lightly and getting a strong scent of his aftershave. “I’m Sylvie. I’m not racist either.” I let go of his hand and sat up straight, dropping my scarf, letting it fall around my neck. “So, how does one come to join such an… enjoyable looking party?”
He laughed and sat on his hands, looking up at the sky briefly. “Family. Bruce is my cousin’s godfather. I’d never met him until tonight, here I was hoping he’d be like Vito Corleone but I felt like I’d sat down to dinner with Darth Vader.” He put his head against his knees and sighed really deeply, “I just can’t get those things that Peter said to you out of my head. It’s making me feel a little sick, actually.”
I put my hand on his shoulder blade, “No, I’m sure it’s just the soufflé.” He turned his head to show me a smile and then moved it back again. “I’m fine with it, Tom.”
“You shouldn’t be.” He muttered before adding, “You know they’re going to get you fired, right? Bruce and Peter have such large shares in this golf club that any risk of them losing interest will be eliminated.”
I laughed a little, “That’s good. I was going to quit anyway. I just got some good news.” Tom’s eyebrow quirked and I grinned, “I am going to be Ophelia in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s latest production of Hamlet.”
“Holy fuck, the one with Jude Law?” I nodded enthusiastically and he wrapped his arms around me tightly, “I’m sorry, I don’t even know you, but I feel so proud. And I’m going to leave my arm around you because you’re shivering.” I giggled and slid closer towards him, “I auditioned for that, as Hamlet. I was offered to audition for Laertes, but had to decline because they want me for a second series of Wallander.”
My mouth opened slightly before I spoke, “I knew I recognized you from somewhere. My dad loves that show. Almost as much as he loved Poirot, he’ll be thrilled to find out about a second series.” I checked my arms before realising I had left my watch at home, “Do you have the time?”
“Ten to midnight.” He replied, looking at his watch, “Do you need to be somewhere?” I shook my head. “I was wondering if you’d like to get a drink, not here of course, but somewhere near.”
“There is nowhere near.”
“Where is near then? This isn’t my neck of the woods.”
“There’s a pub about a mile away with a hotel. I think it’s open until one.” I scratched at one of the tracks my tears had made and cocked my head, so I was looking directly at his jawbone. “I’ll drive us there, but I plan on getting absolutely smashed and getting a room for myself. Will you be doing the same?”
“I don’t think I can afford a room, I haven’t got any money on me.” He answered, letting his arm drop from around my shoulders and standing himself up straight, flexing his fingers.
“I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.” I smiled at him and he smiled back.
It was bound to be a good night.
It was a night in late November, in 2008. There was a party of sixteen dining in the restaurant where I just so happened to be working; it was a very high-class kind of place. I suppose it had to be, considering it backed onto a world famous golf course. To make certain that this wasn’t your standard restaurant, the paintings decorating the walls were worth at least a million pounds each, everything was made of the finest materials available and each of the chefs had to be Michelin star standard.
It was an awfully pretentious place to work at.
To add to the ‘appeal’ of the place, all the staff had to have what the manager (named Juan, apparently used to be a porn star) deemed either “an exotic or classic accent”. I had neither; just a knack for adopting accents and qualification that stated I was a good actor. I was only working there until I found myself something bigger and better. That opportunity came the night I met Tom.
I’d received a text from Jessica Greene, the person I’d refer to as “my agent”. A text that detailed the outcome of an audition I’d gone to two weeks previously. I had managed to land myself the role of Ophelia in a production of Hamlet that was starring Jude Law. I’d done bits and pieces for the RSC, but never a big scale production with a Hollywood star who was in what I would say was one of my all time favourite films (The Talented Mr. Ripley)! That was probably the reason I was so emotional that night.
From what I’d gathered about the bunch of people I was to be serving that night, it was the 68th birthday of a large, boisterous man named Bruce and the fifteen people dining with him were there to celebrate. It was a Tuesday, so naturally, they were the largest table we had booked and there weren’t many other tables that night, so Juan assigned me to the party with the help of the head waiter, Jesus, his younger brother.
It had been a normal evening until they got to cheese. The man named Bruce had grabbed my arm as I poured the port. I looked around the table, noticing the two youngest members of the table giving me apologetic stares. I raised an eyebrow and met Bruce’s glare with a smile. His hand moved up to my name badge, tilting it slightly so it was in his eye line. “If you don’t mind me asking, Miss…?”
“Sternberg.”
“… Miss Sternberg, from where is it that you hail?”
“Woking.”
“No, I apologize, young lady. I mean country wise, where do you originate?”
“My mother was born in Bergen and my father lived in Munich until he was 17.” My brow furrowed and I bit my bottom lip.
“I told you, boy! Of course she isn’t English; they wouldn’t dare employ someone from England!” A white haired man hit the upper arm of the young boy sitting next to him, “You said you’re German, girl? You do realise you people are stealing the jobs of young English men and women? I’ve heard that there are plenty of jobs where you come from-”
“Stop it, grandfather! Nobody agrees with you, for God’s sake!” The girl on his other side said. I felt my palms begin to sweat and my throat start to get choked up.
“No, no, no, who here agrees with me?” A murmur went around the table and the girl stood up, storming out in the direction of the toilets. “See, Miss Bernsterg, we had enough of your kind during the war, bombing our cities and killing our men. We’d be grateful if you tell your Kraut friends to stay in their country. I do apologize if I’ve offended you, but everyone’s entitled to an opinion aren’t they?” He chuckled and banged his fist on the table twice, “Come, come dear and pour us some port!”
I placed the bottle down on the floor next to me and shook my head, “First of all, my surname is Sternberg, not “Bernsterg” and I don’t honestly care if this gets me fired, but I cannot believe you have the audacity to demand things after being so racist and prejudiced in my direction. I’ll have you know I’ve lived in England for all 24 years of my life, I have a British passport and I received commendations for the results I received in my school career, which should outline that I deserve a job slightly more than those “English roses” who sit around on their arses all day, watching Loose Women and spending their benefits on cigarettes and the blue WKD. To add to this, my mother is a nurse and has been for 30 years at Great Ormond Street Hospital where she continues to help save lives of children. My father is a professor of English Literature at one of the top universities in Britain and if none of this makes me worthy of living in your glorious country, sir, then call me Wagner and send me back home.”
And with that I threw the napkin I was holding on the floor and exited through the French doors leading to the golf course. I’m sure I heard Bruce call “I’ll have your paycheque docked for that!” after me, but I didn’t care. I just sat on the stairs, inhaling the cigarette fumes coming from the bar patio and trying to compose myself, but letting the tears fall heavily down my face. Not even a joke told by a loud Irishman could stop the tears.
I heard footsteps from behind me, so I buried my nose in my red scarf and looked from the corner of my eye, noticing the young man from the table sit down beside me. He sighed, “I’m so sorry about my uncle. He seems to think that the world will view his opinions as the right ones.” He ran his left hand through the blonde curls atop his head and offered his right hand out, “I’m Tom, by the way. I’m not a racist of any form.”
I cracked a smile and shook his hand, sniffing lightly and getting a strong scent of his aftershave. “I’m Sylvie. I’m not racist either.” I let go of his hand and sat up straight, dropping my scarf, letting it fall around my neck. “So, how does one come to join such an… enjoyable looking party?”
He laughed and sat on his hands, looking up at the sky briefly. “Family. Bruce is my cousin’s godfather. I’d never met him until tonight, here I was hoping he’d be like Vito Corleone but I felt like I’d sat down to dinner with Darth Vader.” He put his head against his knees and sighed really deeply, “I just can’t get those things that Peter said to you out of my head. It’s making me feel a little sick, actually.”
I put my hand on his shoulder blade, “No, I’m sure it’s just the soufflé.” He turned his head to show me a smile and then moved it back again. “I’m fine with it, Tom.”
“You shouldn’t be.” He muttered before adding, “You know they’re going to get you fired, right? Bruce and Peter have such large shares in this golf club that any risk of them losing interest will be eliminated.”
I laughed a little, “That’s good. I was going to quit anyway. I just got some good news.” Tom’s eyebrow quirked and I grinned, “I am going to be Ophelia in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s latest production of Hamlet.”
“Holy fuck, the one with Jude Law?” I nodded enthusiastically and he wrapped his arms around me tightly, “I’m sorry, I don’t even know you, but I feel so proud. And I’m going to leave my arm around you because you’re shivering.” I giggled and slid closer towards him, “I auditioned for that, as Hamlet. I was offered to audition for Laertes, but had to decline because they want me for a second series of Wallander.”
My mouth opened slightly before I spoke, “I knew I recognized you from somewhere. My dad loves that show. Almost as much as he loved Poirot, he’ll be thrilled to find out about a second series.” I checked my arms before realising I had left my watch at home, “Do you have the time?”
“Ten to midnight.” He replied, looking at his watch, “Do you need to be somewhere?” I shook my head. “I was wondering if you’d like to get a drink, not here of course, but somewhere near.”
“There is nowhere near.”
“Where is near then? This isn’t my neck of the woods.”
“There’s a pub about a mile away with a hotel. I think it’s open until one.” I scratched at one of the tracks my tears had made and cocked my head, so I was looking directly at his jawbone. “I’ll drive us there, but I plan on getting absolutely smashed and getting a room for myself. Will you be doing the same?”
“I don’t think I can afford a room, I haven’t got any money on me.” He answered, letting his arm drop from around my shoulders and standing himself up straight, flexing his fingers.
“I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.” I smiled at him and he smiled back.
It was bound to be a good night.
♠ ♠ ♠
I've wanted to write this for a while now, I think it's come out alright?I'm sorry if I've offended anyone with the racist uncle, but I hope everyone understands I just watch too many films and those views ARE NOT MINE. Just to clarify. THIS IS FICTION. FICTITIOUS.
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