The man stood smiling, nodding, murmuring thanks.

Thank you.

More hands reached out to deliver congratulatory slaps on the back.

Thank you so much.

He felt like a bobble-head as faces -both friendly and unrecognizable – swam in and out of his vision.  The after party’s din rose, signaling the arrival of another cast member.  A hand thrust a glass of water into his.  He took a grateful sip, cooling his parched throat.

Oh thank you.

A voice called into his ear – the red haired bloke holding up his smartphone – “So you want to hear what the critics said?”

The man blinked.  What, press reviews already? His stomach clinched at their mention.  He wasn’t ready.  No, he was but – no he wasn’t.  From all the kudos around him, things had clearly gone well, but still.  He opened his mouth to answer when another face swam into view. Who was he?

Thank you.

The bloke chuckled, launching into the many preliminary tweets. Ah yes, Twitter – no more waiting for morning after print reviews.  Above the noise, the man head “astounding,” “masterful presence,” “great performance.” His eyes grew round.  They liked him, they really liked him!  He didn’t think his face muscles could smile or his head nod any harder.  It was all good.  He’d done it!  He’d worked years to reach this night.  He’d really arrived.  He allowed himself a moment to savor it all.

But now that the verdict was in, he felt – past tired.  He must have hobnobbed with everybody in the ball room and back stage at the theatre.  Oh damn. Frowning, he rubbed his forehead.  Well, everybody but his fans who’d been waiting at the stage door.  He’d tried to get to them but the autograph hounds had pushed forward, blocking most of them.  He’d had so little time. Damn it.  He hoped they understood and forgave him.

Another hand at his shoulder.

Thank you so much.

He took a deep breath as exhaustion from the four hour play washed over him. He ached.  The faces seemed to press closer, the din grow louder.  He felt light headed and oddly unreal.  Air.   He needed some air.

***

He leaned against the hotel’s facade, breathing in the cool night air, the claustrophobic feeling receding.  Despite the throng of press and people inside, the Strand was peaceful and almost empty.  One or two cabs whizzed by.  Nobody stood around except for him and the doorman who’d glanced his way a few times.   The man nodded at him and looked away.  He would stay out here for a few minutes then head back in before they came looking for him.  Right now, he would just enjoy the solitude.

“Excuse me, sir.”  The doorman appeared at his side.  “Don’t mean to bother but I think those are for you.”

Long stemmed red roses lay carefully placed to the side of the steps.  The man walked over and picked one up.  What was this?  Tied around the stem was a piece of paper stating “JustGiving: £10, much love.”  He retrieved another. “JustGiving: £15, with love.”  And another – “JustGiving: £5, all our love.”  His confusion cleared.  Of course, these were from the fans!  Each rose must represent a donation to his charities.  Stooping, he quickly retrieved every one.  As his arms filled with flowers, the exhaustion fell away.  He stood, a giant smile on his face.

A perfect bouquet.

Thank you,  he whispered.

*****

Congratulations to Richard Armitage and the cast and crew of The Crucible.

Miiiidniiiiight… Not a sound from the pavement…

The Man strode away, hands in pockets as the music on his iPhone barely drowned out the klunk of his boots.  Behind him, the theatre Stage Door light clicked off, plunging the lane into half darkness.

Has the moon lost her meeeeemory?  she is smiling alone…

He sighed, pulling out the earbuds.  Of all the songs to pop up on his playlist, this would be it.

He’d felt at once exhilarated and exhausted after almost four hours on stage.  Hobnobbing and taking selfies with well wishers left him a bit antsy too, still pent up with adrenaline.  He’d decided to head back to the rented flat, walk it off, while listening to something relaxing.

With each step, the melody from Cats drained him, leaving him oddly morose.  He sighed again.  There was no help for it.   He clicked off the player and walked on.

A couple breezed past him, racing down a flight of stairs.  He glanced up in surprise, taking in the Southwark Tube station, realizing they were racing past him to catch the last train of the evening.  He looked around in slight confusion. Where could he go? He didn’t want to go home just yet.  After a few moments of thought, he turned onto Blackfriars Road and headed towards the Thames.  Yes, contemplating the water might help him sort things.

He had a problem -actually, two problems.

His cast mate distracted him and not in a good way.  Unknown to her, she grasped and groped his legs and thighs on stage in the most ticklish spots.  He always fought hard not to laugh.  Imagine him breaking into giggles while struggling to be stoic and imposing at the same time.  Breaking down like a silly novice. He’d never live it down.  Even his PR people wouldn’t be able to spin that.

But that wasn’t his worst problem.

He might have laughed at the irony had the situation not been so serious.  Like the character in the song, he remembered a different life too, a life filled with agile young dancers, of which he’d been a part.  But he’s left that behind, gone into drama, and not performed a pirouette in 20 years.

He’d forgotten how to dance.

Not that he needed to actually dance in the play but a lot of the actions required full body balletic movements, something he feared he’d lost.  He’d spent three years walking like he had gonads of stone during his long project and now, he wasn’t sure he could shake that.  Watching his young 23 year old cast mate dance circles around him in their scenes had been a revelation and a wake up call.  She was so spry, bouncing off chairs, slinking under his to grab his legs – she couldn’t be more graceful.  And the rest of the cast spoke volumes with each movement and gesture.  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to hit that old balletic stride.  He felt rusty, oafish, clunky in comparison.

A jolt at his shoulder. He muttered a reflexive “excuse me” before noting that he’d reached the river at Blackfriars Bridge.   He took the stairs down to the bankside and continued walking east until St. Paul’s majestic dome came into view. Walking over to the railing, he gazed at the London nighttime skyline of St. Paul’s Cathedral, Millennium Bridge, and city skyscrapers in the distance. The river sloshed in a calming rhythm but did little to settle his nerves.  He gazed up into the night sky, too bright from the city lights to reveal any stars.  He sighed.  His people said he was the “star” but he didn’t feel like one.  He couldn’t even keep up with the portrayal by a girl still in drama school.  He was sure she’d noticed his rusty style – gonads of stone.  Had the rest of the cast?

He thumped the railing in frustration.  Him – an ex-dancer!  It was just too outrageous.

He’d have to get himself together, unlearn the last three years.  Didn’t they know that he was Macavity?   He was a CAT in his former stage life!  Fingers raking his hair, he thought hard.  His teachers told him the best refresher was to go back to basics.  Then that’s what he would do then.  Oh, he’ll show them – he just needed to get the tights and leotard back on to get himself into that right frame of mind again.  He had to set himself FREE again.  Yes, that was it.  He’d go home and get the tights…the whiskers… yes, it was all coming back to him now. He’d practice up a storm.

Running back up the embankment steps, he hailed a cab, his face wreathed in a smile.

Macavity Cat, Macavity Cat, Macavity Cat come out tonight!!!

Here is something short and sweet.  Still feeling rusty.  Enjoy!

******

The man sat furious but resolute.

He imagined himself implacable, immovable in the face of his plight.  Surely under the grime, coarse scarf and dark great coat, his foes will see the light of his resolve.   He flexed his shoulders, noting the coils of tension.

Ohhhh, it felt so good.

“Okay.  Ten minute break!”

The man blinked as the dark seventeenth century gaol disappeared, replaced by the glaring hot lights of the photographer’s studio.  Hands tugged at the coat.  Smiling sheepishly at the assistant, he stood.  As the garment fell from his arms, he realized how hot and heavy it was actually.  In his mind, it had been a cold brutal winter.  He’d even shivered.

He accepted the offered bottle of water and idly walked over to the refreshment table filled with the usual fare: bagels, doughnuts, containers of juice, coffee.  Ugh.  Too bad he couldn’t have any of it – needed to watch his weight and all that.   Oh, and chocolate doughnuts – his favorite – large, freshly baked, lots of delicious gooey chocolaty frosting.   The tip of his tongue poked out as he leaned over in concentration.

He stood up.  Wait a minute.  He didn’t have to obsess about his weight any more.  He snorted.  His “sex symbol” days were behind him.  He no longer had to ripple his abs in order to get attention at auditions.  In fact, his career had taken just the artistic turn he craved with serious meaty role and no skin in sight.  While filming the trilogy, he’d been more covered up than anything.  The next film left his shirts soaked to the skin but hardly sexy.  He performed a staging and managed to be the only one to keep all his clothes during a racy scene, to his delight.   The last project had him deliciously mangy with long stringy hair, shapeless ragged clothes, and unkempt scruff.  Now he would play a seventeenth century Puritan onstage.  Not a milieu for any nudity.  Come to think of it, he’d not gotten his kit off in years.  Just as well – he was getting to old for that kind of thing.  Not that he’d struggled to be an “artiste” as they say, but it worked out nicely.  No more bum shots.  No more gratuitous half nude scenes.  No more need for chiseled abs.   Bring on the pizza and beer.  His fans might be disappointed, but that was the way it would be now.

He picked up the chocolate doughnut.  His stomach rumbled at the warm yeasty aroma.  Ah, come here my sweet.

“Your shirt, sir?”

The man blinked at the assistant.  “What?”

“I need your shirt.”

Would this require a wardrobe change?  Who knew Puritans were so stylish?  Sadly relinquishing the doughnut and licking his fingers, he fumbled with the buttons and handed over the garment, awaiting the next change.  Instead she produced a bottle, poured a bit of viscous liquid into her hands, and looked up with a faint smile.

“Boss says the next set will be shirtless.”  She broke into a full grin.  “I’ll oil you up a bit and add some smudges to match the face.”

He knew it was useless as soon as the words left his mouth. “But what does this have to do with-”

The photographer breezed by.  “Ah yes marvelous.  This part will focus on the characters vulnerability and defenselessness.  Take your place in two minutes.”

The man stood morose and not so resolute as hands rubbed him down – was she humming?  He doubted vulnerability and defenselessness would first cross fans’ minds.  His frowned.  He was pretty sure he had no half nude scenes on stage.  Didn’t he?  He glanced down at his abs.

Shit.

The man couldn’t decide.

He’d ducked into the specialty shop during his break in the photoshoot looking for a few Halloween items. The sight of jack o’ lanterns, ghoulish costumes, and ghosts made from sheets with cutout eyes had arrested his attention when he’d spotted it earlier. Unfortunately, it had also attracted half of London apparently, considering the crush of last minute shoppers that evening. He perused the dimly lit shelves searching for the perfect “something” for his young relative, but what would he like? The narrow aisles offered not much room, and he dodged and shifted as the people brushed past with a rushed “pardon” and “excuse me,” barely heard above the Creature Feature tunes playing in the background. Sometimes contact between strangers couldn’t be avoided like today, but it lasted just a second and was gone. He thought nothing more about it.

He was torn between two plastic tombstones, one saying “RIP Shawty” and the other “See You Soon,” when he noticed something different. It started as a faint brushing of fabric against fabric, then an increasing softness pressing into the middle of his back, accompanied by a whiff of floral perfume. Instead of stopping immediately, it continued, pressing more completely downwards, a ridge of buttons along his spine, past a belt in the small of his back, and along the curve of his arse. He would have sworn that he could feel every indentation and contour of her coat and body, as if he’d not been wearing two tee shirts and a bulky knit sweater. Mmm, nice, he thought for a second. Despite secretly enjoying their proximity, he’d have moved then, lest she think that he was taking advantage. He was a gentleman and clearly, the milling throng had forced her against him.

But just as he became aware of the delicious pressure of her body, a hand rose, lightly brushing his leg. Slender splayed fingers gently grasped his right hip. Again, instead of moving immediately, the fingers lingered. The hand shifted slightly, so that the thumb moved from the jutting bone to the soft area nearer his loins. At once, he felt electrified, as if his jeans and pants had melted away and the finger touched the soft sensitive skin beneath. He gasped at the sensation. A frisson of pleasure shot through him as her finger gently circled the area clockwise, once, twice, three times. Then he heard a husky “pardon” and the hand and pressure at his back disappeared.

He turned, open mouthed, as he watched her back, hair and coat floating behind her, retreating through the door and out into the street. Good grief, he thought. First it’s fans stroking his beard; now he was getting turned on by strange women frottering him in specialty shops among the plastic tombstones. What has gotten into him? What on earth would his mum say? At that thought, he chuckled. What would she say, indeed. Turning back towards the shelf, he finally noticed the teen a few feet away staring at him. She arched a brow in what apparently was part surprise, part amusement, as her eyes drifted significantly down and up again, before she engrossed herself suddenly in the fine print on a tombstone.

He looked down and covered himself quickly with the plastic prop.

Oh shit.

****

I totally blame Guylty after her post here. She’s out of control, I’ll tell ya.

The man fought the annoying self-consciousness while the photographer reset up his gear quickly. As the assistant pointed the lights at the huge shiny steel door, the man presumed that was his mark. He strode across the black marble floor and stood. Giving his arms a slight shake, he tried to relax. He thought he ought to appreciate the richness of the dark blue suit and crisp black shirt. They screamed expensive and felt it too. But mostly he felt like a dressed up doll in a stiff frock, scared to put a crease in anything, and very self-conscious.

His agent had setup this personal photo shoot, stating his new image overhaul required the expertise of a renowned photographer. The man knew nothing about photography but if the amount of high tech gear and number of assistants signified the best, then this man was one of them. Assistants turned the klieg and box lights in his direction. The man squinted. He never enjoyed taking pictures at any time. It was alright for PR productions; he could inhabit a character and forget the cameras. But for these personal photo shoots, it was an endurance test. He simply wasn’t a person to put himself forward in personal photos. Some of the past photographers had simply pointed a lens and expected him to do something. He never understood what they wanted him to reveal in a glance. He was just – him. They would call out directions: “smile,” “turn your head this way,” “smoulder,” and he would go through the motions not knowing if he gave them what they wanted or if the whole thing resulted in a disaster. They’d never said it was a disaster naturally, but a cursory glance at his flat doll figure in the stills told him the story. No, he wasn’t a fan of these photo shoots. How long was it anyway?

He shifted awkwardly, feeling suddenly the weight of his arms and hands. His hands- he never knew what to so with his hands. The hot lights beat down. A droplet slid between his shoulder blades. Oh please don’t let him sweat these posh duds, thought the man. Give some direction, anything to take my mind off this thing. He caught the eye of the photographer who cocked his head and picked up a digital camera with a long tether to a laptop.

The photographer stood and regarded him. “That’s a good spot. Stay there.”

The man nodded, happy for any direction.

The photographer continued to regard him, a quizzical crease in his brow. “Look, let’s try something different. Think about a scenario: you’re at a friend’s party standing with a group of people. A woman you’ve seen but never met is across the room. Your nemesis approaches her. Show me how you feel.”

The man blinked. A scenario – yes, he could do scenarios.

As he visualized, the lights and cameras and gear faded away. He heard music, laughter and bustle of conversation around him. He smiled at a sad joke before catching sight of her. She was here, across the room. She looked ravishing in a dark frock, matching her swept back hair. Her hesitant glances around the room told him that she didn’t know many people here. Her eyes alighted on him and flittered away. Maybe he should go introduce himself. Her eyes flickered back. No, wait he shouldn’t seem too over-eager, like a wolf pouncing on the first lamb in the door. He should be casual like, yeah. Sliding his left hand into the pocket of his trousers and crossing one foot over the other, he casually leaned back against the wall. Her eyes moved back and watched him. He lifted his chin and smiled charmingly. Shall I come over?

Suddenly a real wolf loomed at her elbow. The man knew the actor. He was a douchebag and unprofessional to boot. The woman smiled up at the actor and kissed his cheek. Oh, she knew him! The actor seemed a bit touchy feely, lightly caressing her arm, her elbow. The man felt conflicted, torn between staying put or trying to claim the ravishing woman and getting rid of the tosser pawing her. He glowered. He smouldered.

“Fabulous,” whispered the photographer.

[Thanks to Guylty for the inspiration here.]

The buzz pierced through the fog of his mind like a hatchet.

The Man lie prone on his stomach, face buried in the pillow.  The arm dangling over the side felt dead.  He peeled open an eye, but the light’s glare snapped it shut.  He flopped onto his back, sending a jolt of pain through his brain.  The buzzing continued.

He lifted his head gamely, trying to pinpoint the noise.  Hotel room …. floor… pants … trousers… oh, the phone.  Ignoring the banging headache and few unsuccessful attempts at snagging the trousers and rummaging through the pockets, he managed to silence the thing.  He lie back again and groaned over the hangover.  He’d had a few glasses of wine the previous night while – doing something or the other – something about fans.  Why did dealing with fandom seem to drive him to drink?

The phone dinged.  Running a tongue across parched lips, he lie waiting for the rest of his body to check in.  The phone dinged again.  He was popular this morning.  Another ding.  He fumbled, then raised it to blurry eyes.  The red-haired bloke had texted, “Wow!”  Wow?  He peered at the next texts.  “Hey, you really know how to make an entrance!” and, “I couldn’t have done that!”  His eyes opened wider as he scrolled through tens of messages from friends.  His PR person had left four messages.  His agent left a text, “WTF!!!  Did you really put that on Twitter?!”

The man frowned.  What in the world were they on about? His fingers flew across the screen as he opened the program and searched for his tweet.  He vaguely recollected that a few fans had been dubious about his identity, even on a verified account, when he debuted several days ago.  They had demanded he tweet a picture of himself; he agreed.  What was wrong?  He tapped open the link.

The man sat bolt upright, hangover completely forgotten.  Oh.  Shit.

***

The man glanced down at the bowl of soggy cereal he couldn’t eat.  Naturally the news had spread like wildfire through the cast and crew, but they all treated it as hilarious.  Some passed his table with a few joking words; others waved, winked or flashed an enthusiastic thumbs up sign on their way out to the studio.  He gulped some apple juice as his phone continued lighting up like a Christmas tree.  He switched it to silent.

***

The man stared into space, barely listening to the 3-way conference call with his agent and PR person.  The agent had stopped swearing and started listening raptly to the woman five minutes ago. When the agent began chuckling, the man blinked in confusion.  What, everything was okay?  The woman expounded on “changing social mores,” and “appealing to a younger generation.”  At the part about “getting maximum exposure out of the situation,”  the agent burst into laughter.  Exposure, indeed. Imagine the rags back home.  Classy,  just classy, he thought.  He groaned, head sinking down to his chest.

What would his mum say?

***

The newspaper clippings tumbled out of the large envelop onto the table.  He pawed through them: Guardian, Daily Mail, Sun, Times, they were all there.   The rags had tried to make a mini- scandal of it all, but his PR person had arrange a quiet chat for him with a reporter who relayed an amusing story about “smartphone mishaps” and “depth perception,”  which other papers picked up.  He snorted.  The reporter had left out the part about “doofus” and “pissed.”   For the most part, reaction had been favorable.  He found himself with a half million followers on Twitter in 10 days.  They didn’t care particularly what he tweeted, as long as he acknowledged them.  He picked up the infamous picture and looked with a new eye.  He had no clue how he’d managed to set a wide angle that he didn’t even know the phone had, but the pose looked rather lazy and sexy against the sheets, even if he had only intended to reveal a portrait angle. An inadvertent centerfold.  His agent reported that interest in him had not been adversely affected.   It was all a silly mistake to be put behind him.  He sighed in relief.

Right.  Now time to get a different smartphone.

***

The man sat poised at the laptop, stone cold sober.  He knew his feelings could get seriously hurt, but he itched to know what his fans thought.  He’d heard not a peek out them in a month.  Considering the past problems, it was worrisome.   The red-haired bloke had joked he felt a little jealous because his own fans were still talking about it.  So, what were his fans saying? Hopefully, he’d received boffo reviews.  He found himself giggling.  Oh, this was ridiculous.   I’m too old for this silliness, he thought.  He glanced at the sheets containing line changes for tomorrow, then back at the screen.  Oh, hell.   He surfed to the forum, logged into the members-only section with his secret account, and read.

Oh for fuck’s sake!

He stared glumly at the announcement: “DO NOT OPEN THE JPEG.  Looking at his junk is disrespectful.”

They haven’t seen the picture?  What, am I supposed to tweet, please look at my junk?, he fumed.  He could imagine the red-haired bloke falling down laughing at the news.

Bloody fans suck.

The man stretched his neck and long arms, careful not to bump anything in the small trailer. With the day’s filming in the can, the crew had been heading home for the past half hour. He’d dawdled, unsure why. It wasn’t as if he expected a surprise gathering; he’d been careful not to tell a soul about his birthday today. As he’d grown older, birthdays seemed irrelevant in the larger scheme of things. Now that he’d moved solidly into middle-age, the downside of choosing a youth-oriented profession preyed occasionally on his mind, if he were honest. Many of his colleagues were younger. Had he reached this point in his career a little too late?

He shook his head, as if dispersing the thoughts. Adjusting to a new project, new faces, and a new impersonal hotel room, combined with an annual reminder of one’s own mortality would be enough to make anybody maudlin. Rubbing a sore neck, he eyed the small figurine on the kitchenette table, a replica of his character from the last project. A wave of homesickness hit as he fingered it. Yup, definitely getting maudlin.

Briskly packing the script into a backpack, he stepped out into the summer night and headed to the waiting car. Spotting him, the driver turned and nodded. The man found himself reflexively looking around for any loitering fans. A few friendly ones had sought him out around lunch time in the past week or so. After the problems back home, he felt reassured and gratified by the attention. Before the fans had appeared asking for him, none of the puzzled crew knew who his was. Seeing nobody around, he chuckled. Guess I could have used some ego stroking today, he thought.

As the car swung out of the studio grounds towards the hotel, he considered the evening ahead. A hot shower followed by a fancy dinner? A night out on the town? He smiled ruefully. Most likely it would be running in the hotel gym, dining by room service, returning some calls, studying lines, and finally, lights out. If he felt really crazy, he’d open one of the insanely expensive little bottles in the wine bar. Maybe not. After all, it was an regular night like any other.

Still, he found himself noting the empty pavement as he stepped onto the curb. He peered through the doors into the hotel lobby. None of the crew was about. Not a soul, actually. Things looked pretty dead. Maybe he should ask the driver for someplace to go. He turned back, but too late. Hands in his pockets, he watched the car recede into the darkness and sighed. Oh well. That’s that, then. Time to hit the gym.

A few cheers from across the road caught his attention. He looked over to see some men, a few children, but mostly women. A few held up signs. He moved closer to read them: “Another Rubbish Sign,” “Yet Another Rubbish Sign,” “Still Another Rubbish Sign.” The fans! During the week, they’d brought signs, each more ridiculous than the last. Was this a country thing? He grinned from ear to ear. Did he recognise some faces? A little boy he’d met earlier in the week waved a hand while clutching a small toy in the other. The man laughed and the crowd cheered louder.

Suddenly, everybody fell silent. Another sign appeared. It read simply: “Happy Birthday.” From behind it emerged a small brightly coloured plate on which sat a lone cupcake with a single candle. A hand holding a match reached out to light it.

Happy birthday, they shouted.

The man rushed to greet them.

***
Happy birthday, Richard Armitage. I hope you told somebody.

[Happy birthday, too Elsa!]

In the plate glass window, the man watched the reflection of three girls, young women actually, arguing across the road.  His own image reflected there revealed a fit, bearded, middle-aged man, dressed in black from his sunglasses to his boots, sipping black coffee and munching brioche in front of a Pret A Manger.  From their furtive glances and head tilts, he knew they recognized him.  He really wasn’t into the whole celebrity thing and had half a mind to get up and continue on his way.  But his new PR people had warned he had better get used to it, especially once the film hit the theatres.  So here he sat, watching a curious drama unfolding.

The shortest girl spoke sharply and turned as if to cross the street towards him.  The tall, bossy one shot out a hand to stop her, while the middle looked on helplessly.  Bossy wagged a finger in clear admonishment. The man frowned.  A bit full of herself, wasn’t she?  Bossy appeared to be making points as she ticked off finger after finger. Shorty’s face drooped a bit further with each one.  The man’s brow furrowed as he pondered what the problem could be.  Maybe they didn’t want to intrude on him eating.  He stood, pushing the last bite into his mouth.  Placing a hand casually in his pocket and still sipping the coffee, he turned slightly towards the girls.

Shorty’s head dipped a bit as her shoulders sank in defeat.  The man didn’t like Bossy one bit.  Look over here, Shorty, he thought. He turned fully towards them and smiled in open invitation.  Shorty and Middle noticed and stood, rooted to the spot, while Bossy kept lording it over them. Oh hell.  He had to cross the road and pass them anyway. He would be extra sweet to Shorty just to show Bossy.  Tossing the cup in a bin, he caught the green light and crossed.  He could see Shorty and Middle tracking his every step.   He rehearsed what he might say as he strode closer.  Good morning, ladies? Nice to see the sun today, ladies? What the fuck is going on here, ladies?   But before he could get within hailing distance, Bossy whirled around and spotted him.  The three of them turned and fled into the park entrance. The man stopped at the entrance in disbelief, watching their retreating backs.  They ran away!  He knew he was tall, but he didn’t think he was scary.  He rubbed the back of his neck. Well, there was no telling what went on people’s minds.  He shook his head, chuckled and went on his way.

***

The man walked in the mist, the collar of his jacket turned up against the unusual summer chill.  He’d been a bit glum since the last project ended.  He knew this was to be expected; he’d been gone a long time, the longest in his career.  The next project did not begin for a few weeks, so he felt caught in a limbo of sorts.  Reasoning that he simply needed to get re-acclimated, he had taken to walking around the city.  He kept his head down and avoided eye contact, hoping nobody would recognize him.  Since his return, practically nobody had, except for those girls near the park, the ones who ran away.  Down Under, nobody knew him, so he blended in easily.  Here, at least one or two fans approached him weekly for an autograph or picture.  But for the past month, nobody at all had come near him, not on the Tube, on the buses, in the parks, or even here, in Leicester Square.  He relished his new-found anonymity; it would disappear soon enough in a few months.  But if he were honest, a tiny, eg0-driven part him worried that he might have been forgotten. He smirked; ah, the insecurity of actors. As if to prove the point, he lifted his head, squared his shoulders and sought to make eye contact as he walked through the square. He’d darkened the hair again and shaved the beard. This should be easy.  He thought he’d caught a few glances, but their gazes slid from his and back to their own worlds.  A tired-looking woman approaching in a sodden-looking Burberry looked his way and did a double take, her eyes widening in recognition. An instant later, he chided himself.  Feel better now?  Remember, *you* started this.  He readied a charming smile.  She stared for a few seconds before suddenly averting her gaze and striding by quickly.

The man stopped in his tracks and glanced over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t simply lost her nerve.  Nope, still walking.  Hearing a gasp, he glanced at two young women standing by a theatre door with bored-looking boy.  They stared and whispered, clearly recognizing him, but none approached.  He took a deep breath and walked on.   He felt glum again.

***

The man’s head throbbed.  On the agent’s desk in front of him sat a pile of scripts covered in post-it notes.  In his hand, he held a sheaf of paper detailing recommendations in close, cramped writing.  He had asked for the stack to be delivered to his house.  Then he had asked for his fan mail.  That’s when the headache started.  There was no mail.  Well, there were the usual requests from autograph seekers, but no long missives, no gifts, not even complaints – none of the stuff that had kept him connected to his fans for years.  He, the agent and the marketing strategist stared silently at the stylish sweater, mangled in the post, sent for his birthday as the fandom’s communal gift.  They thought his profile might require some upgrading. He was unable to follow the marketing strategist after that.

***

The man poked at the dry cake with his fork.  He glanced over at his lunch mate, an outgoing, gregarious, affable bloke with a high forehead and a wave of reddish blonde hair.  This guy was a hot property, touted as the Next Big Thing, who was beating him in entertainment polls.  They were eating in the most chic, but not appetizing, restaurant in the city, a place to be seen, according to his strategist.  Their lunch date was discreetly broadcast to arrange a casual meet and greet with photographers and fans. The bloke had already chatted up the staff and half the restaurant, all of whom seemed to adore him.  His date pushed aside his own dessert shrugged and smiled wryly.  Showtime, he sighed.

***

They rode in silence.  The photo and fan op had occurred without a hitch.  The man felt ridiculous relief as a handful of fans waited for him to approach.  He found himself trying to chat longer, but they seemed content to collect their autographs demurely and pictures and eager to leave quickly.  Meanwhile, the other bloke’s fans swarmed him; everybody chatted and laughed as if it were a small, impromptu party.  The man decided to wait in the car.   It had taken awhile for the thing to be over. The man thanked the bloke for taking him home.  The bloke waved away the thanks, saying any time.  As the man turned towards his house, the bloke rolled down his window.  Hey, I’m really sorry about your fandom, he said.

***

The man stared at the monitor, willing himself not to move again.  He’d gotten up ten times and gulped two glasses of wine.  His fans had all “defected?”   Well, yes, he had been away, engrossed in that long project he couldn’t talk about, but he’d sent a Christmas message, and a birthday message, and some other message, he was sure.  He jumped up, sloshing the glass of wine.  So those fickle bitches left me?  After all these years?  For the latest, youngest hot totty?  He wallowed in self-pity for a moment before chiding himself.     That’s the ebb and flow of things, fans come and go.  There was bound to be some attrition while I was away.  No matter what the bloke said, he still had people who liked his work.  Resolute, he sat, set the glass down none too gently, tapped at the keyboard.  He would visit his fan sites.  Years ago, he had sworn he wouldn’t, to avoid getting his feelings hurt and being swayed by opinion, but he had to know.  He had to see for himself.

Thirty minutes later, he sat back.  The three main fan sites still existed, all following his career and updating with the latest releases. He checked the membership rolls at the bottom.  Yes, they seemed troublesomely low, but they all didn’t defect, so there, red-haired bloke.  The participants in general forums chatted about his work, interviews and public appearances, all in glowing praise.  They chatted about themselves, a lot about themselves.  There was nothing remotely critical.  It was very pleasant and wonderful and well, uninteresting.  When did that happen?  He gulped more wine.  Clearly these sites would tell him nothing.  Time to google himself.

He typed in his name, leaned forward eagerly and scanned the page.  Blogs!  Yes, he’d heard about blogs and actually read a few theatre ones himself.  The bloggers were an independent, unpredictable lot.  They would tell him what he needed to know.  He eyed the top listed ones; his name appeared in the titles.  With another swallow of wine, he hesitated, then clicked.  404 page not found.  What?  He clicked the next link.  404 page not found.  The blog was gone?  He clicked a different blog link.  404 page not found.  He scrolled through several Google pages, clicking on blogs about him.  404 page not found.  He checked links on blogs not focused on him, but frequently mentioning him.  404 page not found.  He checked tumblr links.  404 page not found.

An hour later, he sat back.  All the blogs and tumblrs concerning him had disappeared.  Sometime over the summer, they had all vanished.  His fan forums were decimated.  What happened?  The only bit of information he found was a farewell post remaining on a defunct tumblr: I will not abide by The Rules. I will create a new account elsewhere.  If you know me, you’ll know where to look.  Rules?  What rules?  His fandom had no set rules. He returned to the main fan sites, searching for rules.  He found something on etiquette, but nothing to cause an exodus.   Finally his eye stopped on a section: members only.  Of course! Rummaging through the desk drawer, he found the secret name and password he had used to join the site years ago.  He’d chickened out and never used it, allowing that his fans should have privacy.  But he would use it now.

Entering the logon, he clicked.   There they were — The Rules — in large bold type.  Due to the defection of old fans and expected influx of new ones, in order to promote proper respect for our actor, a reorganization of this fandom is necessary. Compliance with the following rules is necessary for membership. He groaned as he scanned the lines: 2. Our actor is a busy man.  Approach him only at approved public events designated as publicity for his work. At these events, interact with him briefly, politely and respectfully, and leave as soon as possible.  But what if I have time to stay and chat?  the man thought. Don’t chase them away!  4. Our actor is a shy, private person.  He has stated in interviews that he does not care to give autographs in the street.  So if you see him out and about, leave him strictly alone.  He moaned.  That’s not what I meant!  Now they’re running away from me.   6.  Real Person Fiction in any form or access level is forbidden. Since it involves the person of our actor, character fiction in any form or access level is also forbidden. Such works are potentially distressing to our actor, his family, and friends, and thus disrespectful.  He pistoned back in his chair.  When in the hell did he say this? His eyes fell to the last line: 10. These rules are non-negotiable and will be strictly enforced.  Violators will be brought before a tribunal of their peers for the enforcement of appropriate penalties, up to and including exclusion from the fandom.

His mind reeled, confusion and wine overtaking him.  His head sank slowly to the desk.  What’s happened to my fandom? he thought.