Stars

“I received a call from Kenneth Branagh today, entailing details of a film he’s directing.” Tom sipped on his wine, grinning ear to ear and biting the end of a breadstick.

“I assume this will be Shakespeare related… um, not been any recent historical plays… you’ve been propositioned to play… Mark Antony?”

“You’re so far off. You won’t even guess. I couldn’t – I was thinking through all the plausible adaptations he could be doing and then he just said, “I’m doing a picture for Marvel, an adaptation of Thor.” I have a script reading in a week and if that goes well – screen test in three months.” He bounced in his seat, “I’m rather excited.”

“That’s big budget.” I replied, bowing my head slightly, “That means actors who we see as idols. Tom – Branagh doesn’t get any old guys to play his Norse Gods. He’ll get legends like Patrick Stewart and such Shakespearean actors from places like RADA; like you!”

He shook his head, “No Patrick Stewart or Sir Ian McKellan, unfortunately. They’re the X-Men side of things.”

“Of course. I don’t know comic books, but I’m good with that mythology kinda shit – who are you going for?” I wiggled my eyebrows, sucking up sparkling water through a pink straw and picking apart a slice from a baguette.

“Oh, you know. Thor.” He put his head in his hand and leant to the right, “And his brother. Loki. I’ve been advised to go in his direction, but I’ll go for Thor anyway – what’s the worst that could happen?”

I leant my head in the opposite direction to him and smiled, “Oh, you know, you don’t get the part.” He stuck his tongue out in my direction and I giggled, “I think you have a good chance. You’ll be a phenomenon. A fucking phenomenon.”

He laughed, “You’re swearing quite a bit tonight.”

“The excitement is rubbing off on me, chum.” I replied, a manic grin gracing my face. “You fucking future phenomenon, you.”

“Chum? I thought we had passed ‘chums’ by now.” The waiter placed our plates down on the table; Tom turned to thank him and turned back around to face me, “I’ve seen you naked enough by now to believe we were at the stage where we began to develop pet names for each other, darling.”

I cocked my head, eyes widening a little, “But I call you darling!”

“Perhaps we shall both refer to each other as darling.” He picked up his glass, gestured for me to do the same and they hit gently together.

“Just to clarify – we’re official now, yes?” I said after putting my wine glass back down.

“Yes. If you agree.”

“I certainly do, darling.”

“Well, then, darling – I best call my mother because we’re ‘official’.”

“Don’t mock me, you fucking wanker.”

“Oh, we were doing so well.”

-

I fell asleep on Tom in the taxi back to Stratford. I woke up with two French plaits and his left hand resting on my neck, I blinked a few times and noticed his iPod was under the hand on my neck, I moved my hand, pulling the iPod out and pressing the centre button, nodding in approval of the song. I untangled myself from the earphone wires and sat up from his lap, leaning my head on his shoulder. He turned and kissed my head, offering me his right earphone. I took it and held his hand, he rummaged through my bag and got out a bottle of M&S lemonade, taking a drink from it and passing it to me.

I picked at the sticker on the bottle, listening intently to the music playing and looking out of the window. When the cab stopped and I got on my knees to get the cash for the driver out of my rather large ‘travelling’ bag, I noticed it was raining, so I accidentally threw a purple umbrella at Tom, who scowled at me as his curls began to turn from a blonde to a brown colour. I smiled at the driver awkwardly, handed him the eighty pounds and ran off, getting my keys out of my bag and chasing after Tom who was power walking off with my umbrella. He turned around, laughed and ran around the corner to my flat, standing in the foyer with a smirk on his face.

“I hate you.” I said, my eyelashes and the tip of my nose dripping with cold rain. I opened the door and began to climb the stairs, shivering, “You better make me a cup of tea or I will slit your throat while you sleep.” I heard a gasp and he shook the umbrella in my direction, getting my back even more wet than it was. I opened my front door and threw my bag on the floor, removing my shoes and stripping myself of all clothes, walking into the warm bathroom and turning the taps, the bath filling with hot water.

Tom walked into the bathroom five minutes later with a cup of tea and a Ripple bar; he placed both on the side of the bath and sat himself down on the fluffy bath mat. “I’m sorry I’m the cause of your future cold.” He put his cheek on the warm edge of the bath and closed his eyes. “I’m so tired; curse me for not being able to sleep on journeys.” His eyes opened again and he looked me up and down, “You’re not wearing any clothes.”

“I’m in a bath. Of course I’m not.” I opened the wrapper to the chocolate bar and bit a chunk off. I held the bar out towards his mouth and he did the same, letting the chocolate melt on his tongue. “Take your shirt off please, I think it’s only fair that I see your boobs too.”

He chuckled and removed his jacket and grey v-neck, folding them and putting them next to my inside out trousers. “We’ve become so domesticated since Paris. I feel like we’re one of those ancient couples you see on buses sometimes.” I gathered some bubbles in my hands and threw them at his face. He shook his head and pulled me forward in the bath, cupping my jaw and pressing our lips together.

“Sylvia Sofia Sternberg, you little harlot.” We broke apart and I looked up at the open bathroom door, seeing George standing there, a dirty grin on his face with his hands on his hips. “I leave you alone for one week and you’re sharing baths with mysterious men.” He walked over, kissed my cheek and held his hand out to Tom, “I’m George DuBois, I’m Sylvie’s roommate and her stage lover. Who might you be?”

Tom stood up, shaking his hand and smiling, “I’m Tom Hiddleston, Sylvie’s boyfriend? He turned around with his eyebrow raised, “Yes, boyfriend. It’s nice to meet you.”

George put his hand on Tom’s bare shoulder and I swallowed pretty much all my tea, “You were in one of those British indie films weren’t you? I recognize that hair and those cheekbones.” George kept his hand on Tom’s shoulder and lifted his spare hand to his mouth, placing his index finger on his lips, “Last year was it? It won some awards? I apologise, I don’t recall the name, but it was very good.”

“Oh, thank you!” Tom beamed at him and looked at his socks.

“Was that Unrelated? Aren’t you doing another film with…” I trailed off and he nodded, scratching his chin.

“Yes - we’re filming in late summer early autumn on a British island later this year. I’m rather looking forward to it.”

George grinned, “Right, it was lovely meeting you, sir and your phone is where you’d left my phone, Sternberg. I have to go and meet Theresa’s grandparents, wish me luck!” With that, the man wheeled off, knocking over a pile of towels and slamming the door.

I rolled my eyes and washed my face with a flannel. “I’m warm now. Do you fancy taking a nap?”

He nodded and passed me a blue towel, “I was hoping you’d say that as soon as we walked in.”