‘What’s the rush? We still have some hours before your wife gets here.’
‘But you said…’
‘I said I didn’t screw on a professional basis. I already got my screen test.’
Bruce wondered for a moment if it was another trick. You don’t get over the kind of shock he’d had in a moment. If he embraced her, would he suddenly find himself with a knife at his throat? Brooke could see he was hesitating. She stepped forward, took his arms, folded them behind her and turned her face up towards his. Bruce hesitated no longer and within a moment they were welded together like an old steamboat. It was a great relief for both of them finally to reach the point towards which the whole evening had been heading. Bruce crushed his chest against hers, she crushed her thighs against his. Inevitably they lost their balance, but they didn’t care because the huge couch was ready to take their fall.
Now their lovemaking could begin in earnest. Bruce was on top of Brooke, his hands kneading her breasts through the delicate fabric of her gown. He could feel her nipples hardening and slipped his fingers beneath the silk in order to tease them further. Brooke had one hand on Bruce’s behind and one thrust down between their bodies, struggling at his fly zipper.
Closeup on Brooke’s face.
Her expression changes from passionate lust to shock mixed with horror. (She is staring upwards, past Bruce’s head, the back of which occupies the comer of the shot.)
BROOKE
(Struggling to maintain her calm)
Bruce… Bruce… For Christ’s sake, Bruce.
Whip pan to take in Brooke’s POV. Bruce’s face is in the foreground of shot. Over his shoulder we can see Wayne standing behind him, an automatic weapon balanced casually on his shoulder. Bruce is unaware of Wayne.
BRUCE
Listen, Brooke, I really don’t think I can handle any more of your games. Are we going to make love or do I call you a cab?
Bruce’s head drops out of shot as he leans down to kiss Brooke’s bosom. Wayne stands alone in the vacated shot which is Brooke’s POV. He smiles and gives her a little wink.
Overhead three shot. Bruce on top of Brooke, Wayne standing over them both. Bruce is the only thing moving. Brooke is staring at Wayne, Wayne is looking back. Bruce’s back and back of head writhe about a little as he nuzzles into Brooke’s cleavage. Brooke finds her voice.
BROOKE
Bruce. For Christ’s sake. Behind you.
Bruce raises his head to address Brooke. Closeup on his face, chin and cheeks, framed by Brooke’s cleavage.
BRUCE
Sure, honey, sure.
A voice intrudes upon his complacency. It is Wayne ’s.
WAYNE
Morning, folks.
Chapter Sixteen
Bruce swung round and recoiled. In doing so he dug an elbow into Brooke’s stomach. She yelped in pain. Despite the terror of the situation she could not help but protest: ‘Be careful, for Christ’s sake.’
Bruce didn’t apologize – he was too surprised, too scared. He allowed himself a momentary crumb of hope. ‘Brooke, do you know this guy? Is this part of your joke thing?’ But even as he said it, he knew that this was no joke.
‘I do not know this man, Bruce.’ Brooke’s voice betrayed her status as his partner in terror.
Neither she nor Bruce could think of anything more to say. The three of them just stared at each other. Wayne brought the gun down from his shoulder so that it hung casually from his hand, pointing towards the luxurious rug. He had a pistol stuck in the waistband of his jeans and another machinegun slung across his back; he also had a huge hunting knife at his belt. So heavily armed was he that it would not have surprised a casual observer to be told that he had a hand grenade clamped between his buttocks, a bazooka lodged behind his ear and the nuclear button hidden in the holdall he carried in his nongun hand.
Wayne took a step towards the couch and, leaning over, stared hard at Bruce. He put his face right into Bruce’s, drinking in every detail at extremely close quarters. Bruce held his ground, but he had never in his life felt so uncomfortable or so intimidated.
After what seemed like a whole minute (which it was), Wayne whistled slowly, as if unable to believe what he saw.
‘I don’t believe this. I do not befuckin’lieve this! SheeeeIT!’ Wayne exclaimed, shouting the final expletive as he turned away from Bruce in his wonderment. ‘I mean I knew it was the right house n’ all on account of the scripts and stuff in your bathroom, but I still can’t believe it… I am actually here, I am actually meeting Bruce Delamitri. Bruce Delafuckin’mitri. The man! I am talking about the fuckin’ MAN here!’
He dropped the holdall and shook Bruce’s hand hard. Bruce was still sitting half on top of Brooke, so all three of them shook slightly with the force of it. ‘I can not tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you, sir. Scout!’ Wayne shouted. ‘C’mon in here and say Hi. Oh yes, this is a real thrill, sir. This is awesome. Scout, get your dumb ass in here right now! Don’t make me come get you, now!’
Scout appeared nervously in the doorway. Her hair was tousled at the back from having just had sex, her cotton print dress gaped open a little at her breast from hurried dressing. Her bare toes were twitching again at the carpet, still unused as they were to such a luxurious sensation. There was a pistol at her hip, a huge pistol, a Magnum or something like that. It seemed to have been chosen deliberately to accentuate the smallness and birdlike, girlish quality of her body. Scout also carried a machinegun, hanging from her hand as a little girl might hold a teddy bear. If she was trying to look like an innocent but sexy, childlike but womanly, vulnerable but dangerous, slightly imbalanced cutie pie, she was succeeding. If she wasn’t trying, she was a natural.
She stared at Brooke and Bruce with what seemed to be something approaching awe. It was almost as if she was more scared of them than they were of her. This was naturally not the case, but that was how it looked. Her big eyes were sad and troubled, and there was a hesitant, almost ingratiating, smile on her lips. She wanted them to like her. She raised a hand and nervously tried to arrange her hair.
‘Hi!’ She giggled nervously, embarrassedly even, as if she knew she’d been naughty but hoped they were pleased to see her anyway.
Bruce and Brooke could only stare.
‘C’mon in, hon. Join the party.’ Wayne was as brash and confident as Scout seemed reserved. She stayed where she was, rubbing one bare foot nervously against the opposite calf.
‘We messed up your sheets some,’ she said, ‘but you know, with modern detergents there shouldn’t be any problem.’
Wayne did not feel that this was the right note to strike. You do not introduce yourself to your new hosts by owning up to having just stained their sheets. ‘It don’t matter about no sheets, sugar. We can buy more sheets. This is Bruce Delamitri. You are looking at the man here. The man.’
Wayne gestured flamboyantly towards Bruce. He seemed to mean it friendly enough, but since the hand with which he gestured was holding a gun it was something of an alarming movement nevertheless.
Seeing Bruce recoil in terror, Scout hastened to reassure him. ‘ Wayne ’s a real big fan of your pictures, Mr Delamitri. He saw you on Coffee Time USA with Oliver and Dale yesterday, and he’s seen all your movies dozens of times… Me too, I like them for sure, but Wayne, he just loves them.’
‘Hey, Scout, quit it. I’ll bet Mr Delamitri gets real tired of people telling him all that stuff.’
A glimmer of something which, if not hope, was at least a positive and coherent thought crossed Bruce’s mind. There was a great deal in Wayne and Scout’s behaviour that Bruce recognized, that he had dealt with before. They were basically acting like a couple of fans, Scout shuffling her bare feet and casting shy sidelong glances at Brooke, while Wayne stood with his head held high in a ‘Hey, I know you’re famous but you’re just a regular guy like me’ pose. Bruce had met these couples a thousand times. The girl is all embarrassed, while the guy struts up to you and says, ‘I guess you really hate being bothered,’ and then proceeds to bother you. As if by ‘being bothered’ the guy means Bruce would hate to be bothered by schmucks and assholes, not by regular guys like himself. Bruce’s work had always attracted these chippy, arrogant male fans, the sort of person who asks for an autograph and then says, ‘You can have mine if you want,’ adding with a sneer, ‘Except you wouldn’t want it, would you, because I’m not famous, I suppose.’ As if Bruce had gone out and become a celebrity simply in order to score a cheap and easy point over a person who is clearly his equal if not a slightly better person than himself.