Mr Americano - ALAN RICKMAN fanfic

Chapter 21 - Creative Juices

"I umm...you mean watch you work?"

"Well, I was thinking you could perhaps mingle, meet some new faces, gain some contacts, a little inspiration..."

Scott's words suddenly flash in my mind like a neon sign. "Getting your cunt filled to get your script read." My eyes avert and Alan picks my chin up.

"Darling, you're not going to let this arsehole rule your life. You're a smart, talented fabulous woman who is capable of wonderful things; you just need to believe in yourself again. So what do you say? Get those creative juices flowing..."

It's impossible not to feel the warmth of his words. No one has ever rooted for me as much as he. Every part of me warms right though to my toes.

"It depends," I smile, cocking my head to the side in a jokey manner, "Will I get to see you in Shakespearian tights?"

"At my age, I'd clear the bloody theatre."

Chuckling I go to kiss him. "I beg to differ Mr Rickman. You are a blessed man."

...............

Thursday

Managing to cover the remainder of my bruising with makeup gave me one last thing to worry about. The other worry was that I was walking into a room of unknown people who were essentially Alan's co-workers in a new theatre production that he'd been asked to direct. He'd been telling me all about it on the drive.

Perfume - The story of a murderer, based in eighteenth-century France. It tells story of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille – an orphan with a super-human sense of smell who becomes homicidally obsessed with maintaining and bottling the scent of a woman. Instantly I am intrigued, sucked in by the dark yet strangely erotic story line.

"I knew you'd like it. It's an adaptation of the book by Patrick Suskind. Tom Tykwer – German fellow has written a wonderful adaptation. I have the book at home...Great read."

"Maybe you could read it to me. Although...in your voice I'm afraid you may make murder wickedly tempting."

"You sound just like Grenouille."

"Well, you do smell pretty good, and I have no intention of letting you go anywhere."

Alan's eyes meet mine in a sideward glance with a playful smirk.

.............

Being back in a theatre environment surrounded by people is both exhilarating and terrifying. Alan, who rests a reassuring hand on my back as we enter, introduces me professionally by my first and last name, which generates hand shakes all around. A large part of me feels like a phoney, but the rational part of myself tries to reason with my negative thoughts, reminding myself that this was a place I once longed to be – The West End – theatre, my love, my passion, my escapism. Relax, I tell myself. It's as though Alan can hear me thinking and offers a gentle smile over the worry lines etched about my brow.

Highly tiered with an ornate interior, the theatre is breath-taking, and takes me back to a time in my life where I would visit the London West End with my Gran and marvel at the grandeur of the venues in the days before she passed. She was my inspiration and belonged to the theatre herself. Sadly, I never got to see her perform, but I always enjoyed her stories.
I am handed a cup of coffee and the script by a team member and I take a seat down in the front row along with the producer, the scriptwriter and Alan, the director. He is a man of razor focus when he is working. I wouldn't have expected anything less.

The moment the play begins, I am mesmerised. Though the story line is hooking, my mind diverts and I'm envisioning my own play, Sweeny Todd playing out before me to a sold out audience that came to hear the tale of the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.

My thoughts are interrupted when Alan takes to the stage during a crucial scene to comment on the body language of the two characters at play, one of them being an extremely pretty red head. In this scene she is to be followed by Jean Baptiste who is enticed by her sweet scent, thus heightening his obsession. Ultimately, she will be his first victim. Up there on stage, I watch Alan intently giving her direction. She is periodically dressed in eighteenth century clothing, her breasts alluringly on display in a stomach-busting corset.