A Backstage Affair

His body lay immobile on the cold, hard floor.  Beautiful Santi, his soft skin pale as milk as the thick red goo oozed through his shirt like ink spreading through water.

“Okay, that’s great everyone! Take fifteen. Well done Santi,” Howard, the director whispered as the curtain fell before the wall of applause.  Everyone drifted offstage for the interval.  I slipped out the back, masquerading as being desperate for a cigarette whilst Santi stripped naked to the waist letting fake blood gush on to the asphalt.  Every night he almost died, and then came back to life.  I would smoke my cigarette and look at the stars before turning to stare at his naked torso.  He would catch me looking and I would smile absently and pretend that I had been looking at nothing, that my gaze had just happened to rest where he was standing and I had not really noticed him.  His smooth, young flesh.

Was it inappropriate?  He was barely a day over twenty five and I was pushing forty.  Would he have been horrified at my thoughts?  I watched as Ashleigh, one of the chorus girls, came skipping outside towards us giggling like a twelve year old. “God, Santi, It’s all OVER you!  You look like a vampire – no – a what’s it called, a zombie!  You know what I mean.  You’re back is covered – give me that cloth!”  He obliged and she started to wipe the mixture off him somewhat aggressively.  I envied her.  Her skipping and wiping, the long, naturally black hair she didn’t have to dye to cover the greys, the size eight figure she didn’t even have to go to the gym to maintain.

“You were great! I loved the way you died,” She was saying.  “I think you were better than last night.  Don’t you Cleo?  Don’t you think he was great tonight?!”

I smiled brightly. “Of course,” I replied “But I am sure he’s great every night.”  I don’t know whether Ashleigh appreciated the innuendo although a look from him suggested that he had understood.

We were friends of course, Santi and I.  Both lead roles, we had rehearsed a lot together, usually followed by drinks at The Cap.  What I lacked in youthfulness, I made up for in experience and he seemed to like my tales of travelling and of my various theatrical exploits.  I could match him, drink for drink and I always liked those nights, after almost everyone else had gone and it was just the two of us, the edges of the world softened by the alcohol and I had an excuse to look at him.

“Five minute call, Cleo,” He said, snapping me out of my reverie.  He was holding the door open.

“Thank you my lord,” I said, entering with a fake courtesy.

“Cap tonight?”

“Of course.  Will your adoring fans be joining us?”  I gestured to the chorus girls.  He rolled his eyes and I laughed.  “Come on, it must be nice to be this popular.”

“Nice.  Well, that’s one word for it I suppose.”  We went to take our places in the wings.  As we ascended the steps, Santi took my hand as if to help me up whilst my long dress trailed on the ground.  I felt something rush through me, like a tiny electric shock but I brushed it away as the second half began.

Two hours later I was at the bar in my jeans and cami top ordering a rum and coke and a dry white wine.  I glanced over towards our table – Ashleigh was there along with a couple of other girls, sipping their alcopops out of straws.  Santiago looked effortlessly stunning, laughing and flirting with them.  I carried the drinks over, setting them down amidst their lively conversation.  Mellissa, a red headed girl in her early twenties was enthusing about participating in a future production of ROMEO & JULIET as the lead, preferably with Santi playing opposite her.  It seemed to me unlikely, since she struggled to remember her lines as SERVANT NUMBER THREE but I smiled sweetly and doled out something encouraging.  Santi looked at me with a raised eyebrow, seeing through the façade which for some reason made me blush.

“I’m going for a cigarette” I said quickly, grabbing my glass from the table.  I felt his presence behind me but I didn’t turn around until we were in the garden.

“What’s the matter?” He asked, proffering a lighter.

“Nothing.” He was standing closer to me than was necessary - it was almost winter and the beer garden was not full, but I did not step back.  I imagined slipping my hands underneath his shirt, running them over his hairless skin and around his slim waist as I pulled his body towards mine.  He was looking at me curiously.  Suddenly I panicked, wondering foolishly if he could read my thoughts.

“We should go somewhere else,” He said.

“What?” My heart seemed to stop.

“I mean, out of here.  I’m kind of getting tired of being “adored” tonight.” He rolled his eyes and I laughed, relaxing back in to normality.

We snuck out of the back gate and headed towards the seafront, picking up a bottle of wine on the way.  It was cold and we wore our coats zipped up to our chins, our hands clad in woollen gloves.  I felt mischievous and younger than I was, like a teenager staying out past her curfew.  Santi lived in a second floor apartment at the edge of town overlooking the water.  I had been there a few times before, to run scenes or for an after show party.  As we headed there we chattered amicably about the play, doing impressions of some of the more pretentious members of the cast to make each other laugh.

When we reached the front gate, he stopped abruptly, turning to face me.  “What is it?”  I said, suddenly serious.  Without warning he kissed me, briefly but firmly, full on the lips.  When he pulled away I felt like he had taken all my breath with him.

“You wanted me to do that, right?”  He looked edgy, unusually unsure of himself.

“Santi, I…You know I adore you.  But, I play your Aunt for God’s sake!  I’m not a Melissa or an Ashleigh, I can’t compete with them you know.”  I felt trite for saying it but I was lost for words.  My fantasies had been just that – I had never expected Santi to reciprocate.  I had flirted with him because I thought I got away with it, that there would be no expectation on either part.

“Jesus Cleo, you PLAY my Aunt.  You’re not my Aunt in real life you know.  Why are you always so hung up about your age?  You’re not much older than I am.”

“I’m thirty eight.”

“So?”  We stared at each other, a stand-off in the dark.  I wanted to do something, to reach out and grab hold of him, to press my lips against his, but I felt rooted to the spot so I simply stood.  He started to laugh.

“What?”  My tone was irritated.  He shook his head and opened the gate.

“We’re so dramatic.”

I laughed then too, finding the movement in my limbs.  “Well, we are actors, I suppose.”

As we ascended the stairs, Santi took my hand as if to help me up.  I felt something rush through me, like a tiny electric shock, and this time I did not brush it away.


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