Waiting For Superman: Part Eight (Explicit Content)

My dreams are bright, garish splashes of colour and noise that flit haphazardly from one scenario to another with no apparent connection. I sleep fitfully and I think it’s still morning when I wake. It’s hard to tell because the strip of light filtering through the small gap in the blinds seems bright enough for mid-morning but the sunrise is so early in the summer months, it could be 5am or midday for all I know. It takes me a moment or two to remember that I don’t have blinds, and neither, for that matter, does Stacey. A split-second later and my eyes protest in agony. I close them again, frantic recollections of last night assault my thoughts, in tandem with the hangover battering my senses – a motorcycle kick-starting inside my head. I think I know where I am. Is this Henry’s place? I vaguely remember him rescuing me from the press last night. What else do I need to know?

This bed is large and comfortable, without being ostentatious and the pillow beneath my head is plush and soft. Opening my eyes, I find a room that is airy; the décor understated and classic, but I don’t find Henry. A hideous thought occurs to me that this might not be Henry’s home at all, and I may have woken up in a stranger’s bed. I was very drunk. Pushing the nauseating idea away, I attempt to swing my legs out of bed and lift myself to my feet. I stand up too fast and the room dips away from me, as my stomach rises and I just about manage to stop myself from vomiting. Nice, Jea. Real nice. I take a steadying breath and head towards a door to what I hope is a bathroom; pausing momentarily by a chest of drawers, my eyes smitten by a photo pinned to a noticeboard on the wall above. The image is of Russell Crowe as Maximus in Gladiator, a character who journeyed at least a thousand miles on a rocky, treacherous road to vengeance. The words scribbled across the image are the very same that I have seen quoted countless times and seeing them now, for real, clarity hits me hard with a vision of an excited teenaged Henry the first time he read this. It’s only now that I can fully appreciate what this meant – and still means – to him and I hastily scribble a mental note to thank Mr Crowe if I ever get the chance.

You left him, remember? A small, sarcastic voice whispers in my head. What makes you think he wants you back? And besides, nothing’s changed. You can’t be with him. Telling myself to shut up and feeling sicker than ever, I open the door and walk into a dream. The room is indeed a bathroom and it’s larger than my bedroom, the air dense with steam that cloys at my skin like caresses. The spray from the open shower spits back off the tiles, the screen and Henry’s naked body and settles in my hair like morning dew. The shower is noisy and Henry has his back to me. I know I should be embarrassed at walking in on him unannounced like this, but my eyes are riveted by the fine sight of his muscular legs, back and buttocks as the water cascades over him, longingly streaming over each and every sinew, like explorative hands on a lover’s body. He’s humming softly again and I struggle to make out the tune over the hiss of the shower. I recognise the melody but can’t place it. I stand immobilised, listening and watching, unsure whether I should leave, announce my presence, or jump in next to him.

Henry makes the decision for me by turning around. Noticing me for the first time, he fixes me with an impenetrable stare, his blue eyes widening fractionally. It’s not often that I am completely lost for words but this is one of those occasions. I open my mouth to speak but find myself taking in a big gulp of moist air instead. What do I say? Sorry would probably be a good place to start but what would I be apologising for? Walking in on him naked? Or walking out on him? I try to speak again, unsure whether I can even begin to articulate a modicum of the jumble in my head. It’s like a ball of wool that has become so tangled, I can’t seem to find a thread to start unravelling the mess, and the more I try, the further I entwine myself. I halt again, my mouth opening and closing like a beached fish, as Henry steps dripping out of the shower and moves stealthily towards me; the very weight of his stride echoing in my heart, as he closes the distance between us in a second. I have one more second to register the droplets of water clinging to his carbon black eyelashes, in his chest hair and happy trail and another to note his growing erection. Wordlessly, he picks me up and places me under the shower, before peeling at my rapidly dampening clothes with deft fingers.

My throat closes over and I feel my eyes burn with unshed tears. Nothing’s changed, I think desperately, as he tugs at the camisole wetly hugging my breasts like a second skin. My heart rate spikes and my breathing hitches. I know my body is responding to him and I’m helpless to prevent it – all my earlier conviction deserting me like migrating birds. The water is soothing; a cleansing force, like summer rain on a humid day. I close my eyes as he removes my few garments, taking his time over the scrap of lace around my hips. Tossing my sodden underwear aside, he places soft trailing kisses on my feet and ankles, making his way north up my calves and thighs. His touch ignites me; my skin aflame beneath his lips. like dying embers brought back to life, and desire soars like the proverbial phoenix rising from the ashes of my despair. He skims over my groin and breathes deeply before nipping at my navel and breasts. He does all this swiftly, rising to his full height in moments, before taking my face in both hands. His eyes are glowing but serious, full of a concern that I understand completely and he looks at me – a question resonating in their fathomless blue shadows. I nod fractionally, my head for once listening to my heart and he kisses me on each cheek, tenderly wiping away my treacherous, silent tears with his lips – a tissue soft veneration.

“I am so pissed at you for last night. I know you’re a strong-willed woman and I appreciate that you’re used to taking care of yourself but please don’t ever walk home alone drunk like that again. You put yourself in unimaginable danger and it spins me out to think of what might have happened to you. I don’t know what has caused you to be so guarded, but I want you to know that I am prepared to fight. To fight your demons, your horrible quick temper and to fight for you. Let me love you, Jea.”

Eyes wide, I nod again, and he smiles; triumph and relief ghosting across his perfect features. He leans down to my lips, kissing me more tenderly than ever and, what little remaining resolve I have, scatters like dandelion seeds in the breeze; ugly weeds no longer, they float gracefully before drifting away into bittersweet oblivion, carrying my deepest wishes to the wind.

I know we have serious issues to discuss, but right now all I want is him. Losing myself in him is my sole focus – all thoughts of dark pasts and ex-girlfriends momentarily forgotten. I respond the best way I can and grab handfuls of his soaking curls, pulling him close to me, revelling in his hardness. His breath is ragged as he kisses my throat, tilting my head back to give him better access, before drifting across my collar bone and leaving lingering nips at my clavicle. He dips down to my breasts and takes both in his hands, like a prospector weighing gold, biting and sucking at my flesh and lapping rhythmically at my hardening nipples. He toys with the points, rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers, watching them elongate magically at his touch, before flicking his tongue over each and grazing at them with his teeth. I cry out and my hands splay across the damp tiles involuntarily, an attempt to hold myself together and hold back the inevitable that is closing in on me. Each touch lifts me higher, every kiss and nip giving and asking for more. His lips send messages through me like an old fashioned telex machine, bouncing information from one point to another in an erotic kind of Morse Code. My body reads him perfectly and replies with abandon, my hands seemingly moving with their own life to his erection, my legs rising and wrapping themselves like ties around his waist, as he lifts me up and against the wall. I guide him into me, relishing the exquisite feeling as our combined friction hits me exactly where I need it. Our rhythm is gentle, holding each other back at first and savouring the reunion, but then Henry kisses me savagely and I can’t contain it any longer. I rake my fingernails across the sinew of his back and grind myself down onto him, quickly bouncing back up again and again. Henry slams himself into me, my back sliding up and down the wet tiles, the concentration on his face evident, as he struggles to maintain the strength in legs. On and on he pushes, a master watchmaker winding up a precious timepiece. I feel my insides quickening with each turn, the springs tightening, the cogs and gears grinding against each other; a beautiful mechanism, well oiled and faultless, keeping time in perfect harmony. Henry grunts in approval and slips a hand between us into the soft flesh of my clitoris, fingering slowly and deliberately. Chimes strike in my head and I explode into orgasm, the clock overwound, splintering into thousands of pieces of precious metal and jewel bright stones. I sag against him as Henry thrusts into me twice more before stilling; his breath hot on my neck. He kisses me hard, pulling on my hair and forcing me to look up at him.

“The first time we met, you told me that you don’t like to play games. Well I’m asking you now. Is this a game for you? I know that being with me means you also have to suffer some pretty intrusive shit from the press and that all this bollocks must be as frightening to you as it is surreal, but you ran the other day and last night put yourself in a position where I had no choice but to act the superhero and now, here you are again, back where I’ve dreamt I want you to be. I lay awake for hours contemplating what your reaction would be this morning and if I’m honest, this is exactly the scenario I’d hoped for. Now, however, I’m concerned that you’ll run again and I want to know this. Is this some kind of wicked game, Jea, because if it is, tell me now and we can dispense with the charade.”

Hmmm another speech. He does like to make these doesn’t he? Well I certainly can’t accuse him of being the strong silent type and now I know the name of the song he was humming when I walked in: Wicked Game. How can I prove to him that I’m not playing? I need to give him something to believe in me, but how can I do that when I’m not sure I can believe in myself?

“Henry? Are you sure you want to do this? I know it’s a cliché but it really isn’t you – it’s me. I told you the other day that the press don’t bother me and neither does your past.”

“So what your saying is that it’s your past that’s the problem. How about you give me the benefit of the doubt and let me be the judge of what’s good for me? Yes, I really want to do this and I wish you’d let me. If you’re not ready to talk right now, fine, but don’t push me away. I couldn’t stand that.”

What did I do to deserve this man? He truly has the patience of a saint. I wrap my arms tighter around his chest and nuzzle into him, the damp hair there soft and springy.

“Ok, but don’t say you weren’t warned and I’m saying nothing without coffee and breakfast. I can barely function without food and caffeine in the morning as it is, let alone after a skin-full the night before and especially not after being pounced upon by hot, naked men in strange bathrooms. I think cooking me breakfast is the least you could do.”

I smile sweetly and watch him grin. He really does have the most beautiful smile in the world; boyish, carefree and dazzling in it’s intensity. It delights and excites me immensely. I want to be the reason for that smile. I want that smile to be mine.

“And what would madam like for breakfast?” he says with an arch of his brow.

I think for a moment before unhooking my legs from around his waist and dropping to my knees.

“You,” I whisper salaciously, a slow smile spreading across my face. Food can wait, I think, with a two fingered salute to my hangover. Henry – and his perfect smile – is the only cure I need.



Waiting For Superman: Part Seven

Steve is outside within minutes and, together with a Eurasian-looking giant of a man, calmly shepherds us through the amassed photographers. Henry keeps his head down, Raybans shielding him from the harsh flashes from the cameras and their owner’s barbed questions, that fire at us like heat-seeking missiles. The photographers close in, and I recall a random fact from childhood science lessons: bees and dogs can smell fear. Painful memories of my own experiences with the press spring to mind and I mentally flap them away, shooing at them as if they too are wasps or bees. Now would not be a good time for that particular sting.

“Henry! Henry! Over here Henry!”

“Henry! What number is she, Henry? What’s her name?”

“Alright love? Give us a nice smile!”

“What’s your name darlin’?”

I am bundled, without ceremony, into the waiting vehicle – the same SUV from last night I think, and Henry quickly dives in next to me. Eurasian Giant dashes around to the passenger side and is barely in before Steve puts his foot down. We tear away hurriedly, but pointlessly in my opinion. We’re only going a few short streets to the market, surely they will just follow us? I’m surprised and dismayed however, when Steve drives off in the opposite direction.

“I need to get to work!”

Steve’s response is clipped and professional, “I understand Miss, but my priority is to ensure your and Henry’s safety.”

Henry takes my hand, kissing it and smiles reassuringly.

“You ok?” he whispers.

“I’m fine. Really, I am. It’ll take a lot more than a bunch of tossers with Nikons to bother me. I want to ask you about something one of them said. Will you explain it to me if you can?”

“What do you want to know?”

He looks worried, anxious and not at all his usual self possessed calm. He sits back in the soft leather seat and runs his hand through his hair. Do I really need to ask him about this? Does it really matter? Or am I just falling for the trap so effectively set by the paps and their intrusive probing?

“One of those idiots back there asked you something about a number. What did he mean? Please tell me the truth.” I marvel at my audacity. Surely he deserves the same amount of honesty from me? If it wasn’t so hideous it would be funny.

He sighs and looks at me as if sizing up my potential for crazy-lady aggression in the confined space. After what seems like forever he speaks again.

“I don’t know how they got hold of it but it’s probably going to be all over the gossip columns today. I was a bit of a big-headed idiot back when I was a kid, and one night, I made a drunken bet with a friend that when I became famous I could sleep with a hundred women in a month. Like I say, I was drunk but that in no way excuses it. I was young, a lot younger than I am now, I’d just had my first taste of success and I had a monstrous ego. I’m not proud of it and I never thought anyone would take it seriously. It was just a juvenile bet with a mate and I deeply regret it. I’ve never thought of women in that way – well not since I grew up, and I’m not the kind of man who likes to make notches in his bedpost. It’s pretty grim, I know, and I only have myself to blame. I just hope our good friends in the press tire of it quickly, although I don’t hold any high expectation of that actually happening. Please don’t second guess yourself about this Jea. This is not about you. It’s about me and my arrogance and stupidity.”

There he goes with another of those soul-baring speeches again. What do I say to this? Yes, it’s distasteful and immature, but it’s not really the scariest skeleton he could have hiding in his closet is it?

“But if you were just a kid? Surely no-one is going to be interested in what you said or did back then?” I know this isn’t true. I know that the fandom will go into overload at this, like a child with allergies on an E number high.

“You really think they will report it that way? Goodness no. It will be “Superman Henry in Hundred Women Claim” that kind of thing. I dread to think about the headlines, but the damage is done and I can only hope that it doesn’t upset too many people.”

By “too many people” I take it he means Warner Brothers and I understand his concern. Superman, the morally perfect, uber strong upholder of traditional values, is everything to him right now and this incident from his past could snatch it all away. I have a moment of clarity where I realise with a deep sadness that I have to end this. I can’t bring myself to sully him any further. He needs to maintain his image and preserve what he can of it from any scandal. My presence is not going to aid him. I force myself to do it before my heart can convince my head otherwise.

“Henry. Thank you for telling me. I don’t think we should see each other anymore. I’m not built for all this. I’m sorry.” I wave my hand in a gesture to indicate the craziness that surrounds him.

I hear my voice crack as I finish what I’m saying and I can’t bear to look into his eyes. I’m lost with the thought that I might never see him again and I know that if I do look at him, I will surely drown this time. I take one last gulp of air before I go under and ask Steve to stop the car. The moment he does, I bolt, fleeing from my heart and from Henry. I run as if I’m running to an abusive lover, or like a child to a cruel parent. The tears no comfort, yet flowing with abandon, the steady stream surging directly and surely into the ocean of my demise – a sea the exact colour of his eyes.

I run blindly for several minutes; the Camden streets multiplied tenfold by my tears, a hideously beautiful kaleidoscope of blurred colour and pattern. The pain in my chest and side matched by the torture pumping viciously through my veins by my breaking heart. I don’t stop running, and even though I’m aware of the curious stares of passers-by, I’m immune to them. Cut off from the world, isolated in despair, I’m lost and a pathetic, needy part of me wants to go back and let him tell me it will be ok, let him hold me again and kiss me, as he makes it all go away.  I shake my head in an attempt to get a hold on myself. I pull up outside a newsagent, panting hard, and spy the tabloids in their rack. On autopilot, I take a copy of The Star and quickly thumb through the assorted scantily clad glamour models, idle gossip and celebrity news. There, on page thirteen, is a picture of Henry, one I recognise to have been taken at the premiere last month. Another photo is a still from Man of Steel.  In both he looks extraordinary, yet untouchable, and as I brush my fingers over the dotty newsprint pixels that make up his impossibly handsome face, I feel the itchy burn of tears again. I have seen that face for real; not five minutes ago was I looking into those eyes and seeing my own reflected back at me and now I’ve closed my eyes on him, turned my back and walked away. Well, ran away to be precise, and now I’m standing outside this damn shop, holding this damn newspaper as if it somehow validates my actions.

I realise I should pay for the paper before the shop owner starts to panic. I know that I must look a mess sniffling into a copy of the Daily Star like a lovesick teenager, but I don’t much care. I hand over the money disinterestedly and glance at the article again, this time taking in the thirty-two type headline. It’s as bad as Henry predicted. Quickly scanning the story, I gather that the whole sex-with-a-hundred-women-bet-thing has indeed come out and so, apparently, have at least two of these women. I’m surprised at the sharp stab of jealousy I feel, but I’m not shocked at all by my rising anger. Poor Henry, I think, they’ve really done a hatchet job on that clean-cut image of his, painting him as the stereotypical Hollywood playboy. A ladies man with a reputation for loving and leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him. I don’t believe it for a minute but reading the story, I know I’ve done the right thing. I hope he can overcome this and I know that without me he at least stands a chance. If I’d stayed, I would have tarred him with my brush, blackening his good character further and only adding to the hype. He doesn’t need my shadows. He belongs in the light. I walk slower now, sure of my decision and even though my heart is still twisting painfully, I know I have to carry on and try to forget him. Head higher, I make for work, my heart and soul lying homeless, tattered and ragged in the gutter.


My day passes in a blur of pain, torture, angst and my vain attempts to remain professional and calm for my customers. One of my potential clients is a young royal and I am desperate to design a dress for a real princess. I’m pretty sure I’ve blown my chance though; I’m distracted and withdrawn, and even the lace and tulle filled promise of an opportunity as important as this, isn’t sufficient to keep my mind and heart from Henry. He’s called numerous times – too many to count – and left texts and messages on my voicemail aplenty. I’ve turned my phone off. I simply can’t deal with him and my feelings right now. I need to make a clean break if I’m going to have any chance of surviving him, so, like a surgeon surveying a patient’s x-ray, I aim for detached and clinical.

By the time I get home, I’m a mess. I feel like I’ve been on the spin cycle on a washing machine, emotionally wrung-out and borderline bi-polar. I’ve tried to not think of him. Of his sexy smile that starts in his eyes, soft and sensual at the same time, the life and passion of him and his hot and sweet lovemaking. I’ve tried to remain stoic but a horrific moment after my noon appointment left, when I collapsed in a tearful, anguished heap on the floor – crumpling like one my dresses when it slips from it’s hanger – tells me that my attempts were useless. I love him and I’ve left him. It’s as simple as that.

I can’t face the bedroom, the unmade bed taunting me with yawning empty loss and even though I’m desperate to shower the day away, I’m afraid of the memories that we made there last night. The seemingly lustful ghosts laughing at me and my folly. I ache for him; his voice, his touch and can feel myself recoil from the gaping yearning wound it has left in my heart. The tears spill hot and fast down my cheeks again and I do the only thing I can and call Stacey.


Several glasses of Chenin Blanc and a box of tissues later, I’m an exhausted, sad drunk; sobbing tearlessly into my pillow in Stacey’s spare room. I stare up at the ceiling, wondering if I’ve made the right decision. Stacey has vehemently spent the last four hours convincing me that I have. She knows this industry inside out – like a whore’s dirty knickers she calls it – there are no real secrets and eventually every single stain is exposed for all and sundry to see. The collective dirty laundry of celebrity is washed in public whether they like it or not. Stacey knows I’m not built for her world; Henry’s world, but I was a happy tourist for the briefest of stays and now I feel like I’ve entered the country illegally and my visa has been rebuked.

“Fuck it, Jea,” Stacey had said earlier, “fuck it all. You’ll be ok. I’ll fucking see to it. I know it seems really shitty right now and I wish I could make it all go away but you’re stronger than this. You’re not a publicity sponge like some of the fucking arseholes I meet ever day and I love you for it. I don’t know anything about Henry apart from what you’ve told me and what I’ve read, but from the few brief meetings I’ve had with him he seems really fucking genuine. I don’t meet many like that. Maybe if you’d explained things to him? I don’t know, but what I do know is that he is seriously into you. If he’s really looking for a connection he will understand and if he doesn’t, then fuck him too!”

I close my eyes as the agony of that truth hits me.

“I already did, Stace,” I whisper into the dark, “and look where it got me..”


The following week is nightmarish for me. I get up, shower, dress and work. I avoid my emails and messages and only answer my phone if I know who the caller is. I don’t enjoy being rude to Henry this way but I have to shut myself down like this. It’s the only way I know I can survive leaving him. I know he’s hurt and I hate myself for it but I can’t be with him, so I don’t want to think about him.

Since the “bet” story broke five days ago, three more of Henry’s alledged previous lovers have sold their tales. None of them seem to have had anything but a superficial encounter with him, if indeed they are kissing and telling the truth. It didn’t, and still doesn’t, have any bearing on my decision to walk away, but I have to admit to feeling a tad jealous each time a new ex spills her guts. As much as I try not to think of him, I can’t help remember little things like the way he laughed or his post-coital contented humming. I blanche at the pain of that particular memory: “Only Girl In The World” indeed!

The only reason I’m aware of these further revelations in the continued expose of Henry’s private life, is because the harsh spotlight of unsolicited celebrity is now focused on me. Seeing myself immortalised alongside Henry in newsprint black and white, and sharing column inches with the loose-lipped former lovers was something of a nasty shock but not a complete surprise. The accompanying photo one of many taken on Wednesday night, when we were ambushed outside my flat. Thankfully, the press haven’t figured out who I am yet, and are referring to me as a “Mystery Brunette”, but I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before they do. With a little luck, this story will be yesterday’s news by then.

As well as the calls and messages, Henry has sent flowers. A lot of flowers. So much so that the shop looks more like a florist than a bridal boutique, and each bloom invokes bittersweet memories of pretty posies, summer meadows and lazy, sunlight filled kisses. I know it’s hypocritical but I can’t throw them away. It would be like none of it ever happened and that needy part of me is desperate to cling on to something. I feel like I’ve taken a wild and crazy leap off a cliff face into a breath-taking and ultimately precarious void, only to find that part way though my free fall, I didn’t pack my parachute, just as I’d previously feared. I’ve somehow managed to grasp onto an overhanging shrub and am dangling dangerously, the wood splintering and sliding through my fingers, as surely as my time with Henry is slipping away from me. I feel like I’m drowning in days and even though I know it wouldn’t change the outcome, I’d do anything to relive the last few weeks.

Stacey and Craig know that I am pining for him but they understand my reasons for breaking it off, although I suspect Craig thinks I’m crazy for having done so. Craig is lucky that he sees the world in black and white, thick or thin, and pretty much whether he would shag you or not. He is happily married to his partner Liam of nine years but he window shops often. He and Liam have a healthy appreciation for their relationship and even though neither of them ever really cheat, they are open and honest about any “feelings” they may have for other men. Stacey, on the other hand, is single and determinedly so. She is happy and independent and enjoys the occasional fling but is very much married to her job. Out of the three of us, I was the one who had the closest thing to the perfection; and I lost it and I know that it’s because of these two amazing friends that I’m here today. I honestly don’t know where I would be without them.

Right now, I am dancing to the club remix of Happy and, even though I’m blind drunk, the irony is not lost on me. Craig, intent on ensuring that I have a good time, has dragged me out tonight to celebrate my news. The Princess-to-be has requested my services as her dress designer and the wedding date is set for next summer! Contrary to my belief that I’d blown the appointment earlier in the week, she apparently loves my ideas and loves me! I have been sworn to absolute secrecy and suppose that having divulged this information to both Craig and Stacey, I’m probably guilty of treason or something. I know I should be over the moon about this coup, as this promises to be the wedding of the century, but I’m distracted and uninspired. As an antidote to my moping I’ve decided that drink is the way to go and have successfully consumed the best part of the top shelf. I stand, swaying dazedly in time to the music, watching the room spin and dip around me, the faces of my friends duplicated and blurred like I’m in some surreal Arthouse movie about triplets. I listen to Pharrel’s bright and bouncy lyrics telling me just how happy he is and bolt for the loo, tears flooding to my eyes, and Stacey’s worried call following on my heels. I grab a handful of tissue and try to focus on repairing the damage this latest bout of waterworks has caused. I exit the bathroom and make my way directly to the bar and order another shot – and then another and another. Maybe I can just drink my troubles away, I think sadly, as bittersweet memories of Henry gradually entwine with Gary and Bettie, and soon I’m so drunk I can barely remember what I’m sad about.

I need fresh air and make my way past the heaving throng of gyrating bodies to the exit. The coolness colliding with my face is like a balm and in my stupor, I decide to walk home; completely forgetting that I’m currently staying with Stacey and only vaguely concerned that I’ve left something inside. I check my pockets for purse and keys and satisfied that I have everything I arrived with – apart from my dignity, I stumble and trip the few short blocks through the Camden night. Turning the corner into my street, I’m assaulted by a crazy sense of Deja Vu; the night suddenly on fire with flashing and shouting. I’m confused and bedazzled by the bright lights and don’t realise until it’s too late that I’ve walked into the melee of photographers again. My addled brain screams at me in panic and confusion, and a smaller voice inside my head reminds me of why they are here – I’m shocked at their persistence even now, almost a week later. As recognition slowly dawns, I put my hands up to shield myself from their intrusive lenses and harshly barked questions. The white flashes persistent and scarily blinding in their intensity. I feel like bug on a microscope, imprisoned by a pin-point of light. I’m yelling incoherent insults and warnings and scream as one of them tries to grab my arm. I twist around and bring my other arm up simultaneously, my fist closing involuntarily and just before I can connect with my assailant’s face, someone is holding me back. Someone strong. Someone I love.

Henry drags me away from the photographers and swoops me into his arms. I hear him shouting and I’m barely aware of being deposited on a soft seat before passing out.


Waiting For Superman Part Six (Explicit Content)

Henry pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me, kissing the top of my head. My heart is overflowing with emotion and I struggle to keep myself in check. I quickly wipe away the traitorous tears before he can see. He might find the giggling-after-sex-thing cute, but I’m sure he won’t think the same about crying, and that’s not a conversation I want to start with him right now.

I don’t even know why I’m crying anyway – or maybe I do and just don’t want to admit it. Focus on the present, I tell myself sternly. For pity’s sake, you just had sex with Henry Cavill, get back in the room – and the minute I think his name it’s like a switch is thrown in my mind and I’m suddenly shy again. I just had sex with Henry. Mind-blowing, life-changing, earth-shattering, knee-trembling sex with Henry. I don’t have a good enough analogy to properly describe what just happened. I giggle. Again. This time out of sheer, overwhelmed wonder and joy and my smile is wide, genuine and slightly dazed. I can still feel him deep inside me, even though it’s been a few minutes since we both came and I have the irrationally idea that if I move and lose this connection with him, that somehow it will make him disappear.

Henry sighs and starts stroking my hair. We lie like this for a while, each lost with their own thoughts and I’m struck at how often he makes those little relaxed noises that are peculiar to the male of the species. I sometimes wonder if it’s their way of communicating without actually saying anything, or if they realise they are doing it. In Henry’s case, it’s frequent and endearing, especially as he starts to hum to himself shortly after. I listen carefully, trying to ascertain if there is any recognisable tune behind his humming and am surprised when I recall the melody to a Rhianna hit.

“Rhianna?” I look at him questioningly.

“Yeah, I heard it on the radio this morning before I came over. It’s been going through my head all day. Nothing wrong with a bit of Rhianna,” he replies, arching his eyebrow in that way of his.

“Nooooo, but it really depends on which bit,” I say tartly.

He snorts. “Well I know most men would disagree, but her “bits” don’t do a lot for me. There’s no mystery when a woman flaunts herself like that. She’s a great looking girl, sure, but she needs to leave something to the imagination.”

I’m not sure whether I find Henry’s views on womens’ dress ever so slightly misogynistic, or if he is simply old-fashioned. He is so earnest, so good, it’s a little unnerving.

“But, that’s just my personal opinion,” he continues with a shrug, “if she wants to wear clothes that showcase her charms for all the world to see, then good luck to her. I’m sure she wouldn’t be interested in what an old bloke like me has to say anyway. Personally, I don’t find it attractive. There’s a difference between being confident in oneself, being comfortable in your own skin, rather than exploiting that confidence. It’s a side of my work that I’ve never been at ease with.”

And just like that he has me back on side, all thoughts of the patriarchy and the good old boys network dispersed. Is this man for real? He is too good to be true.

“You do realise that it’s those kind of comments that have endeared you to your legion of fans?” I say it teasingly, but it’s true. I should know.

I wonder if this means there won’t be as many butt-naked, backside flashing scenes a la The Tudors in Henry’s career in the future. I know I should be disappointed if this is the case, but for some reason it’s kind of slipped to the bottom of my priorities right now. I run my hands down his chest, through the dense hair and make my way leisurely south to his hard stomach, out across his hip bones and snake around his buttocks – just because I can. It’s a revelation. I don’t know how often it’s going to keep hitting me that this is real, that it’s really happening, but each time it does, I want to laugh, or scream or do something crazy like run into the street naked.

“And by the way,” I look at him beadily, “you are not old.”

“Huh? Oh, yes of course, I forgot you’re older than me, aren’t you? I’m sorry. I wasn’t including you in that description. Did you not know, you’re only as old as the man you feel anyway? Well, that’s what they say. Which would make you, er, thirty one- the same as me!”

He gives me such a sardonic, sweet look that I beam at him.

They talk a lot, don’t they?”

“Tell me about it,” he says, not without irony, that eyebrow lifting again, “now, unless you plan on joining them in their inane natter, I’d very much appreciate it if you could stop talking and kiss me!”

Take two, I think with a grin, as I feel him growing hard inside me again.



It’s almost two hours later when we resume our conversation. We’ve made love four times altogether, our passion taking us from the bed to the floor and then to the bathroom, where we’ve gotten clean and downright dirty at the same time. The echo of my moans still resounding off the tiles, we sink like spent fireworks together onto the shower floor. Thirty seconds previously, and Henry had me pushed up against those tiles, quite literally banging the oohs and aahs of appreciation out of me, in spectacular, eye popping, fizz and sizzle technicolor. My arms and legs securely wrapped around his hard torso, as if I’m climbing a tree, I curl myself up into him, as snug as a nesting animal. The warm water cascades over us, as surely does our post-coital bliss. Henry is the first to speak and when he does, it’s unstressed, even though he’s breathing hard.

“Christ, we’re good together! You bring out the competitor in me. I want to make you giggle like that everyday. In fact, I don’t think I could ever tire of hearing you laugh like that, not knowing I’m the reason for it.”

I’m laughing uncontrollably again, as is my usual way and am trying to stop so I can speak. His words are sobering and I look at him, wondering whether he really means it. ‘Good together’ is probably the understatement of the century. I don’t ever recall reaching such zeniths of passion with any previous lover, and certainly not with Gary – not to say we had a bad sex life, but it wasn’t as all encompassing as this!

“Maybe I should start trying to make you laugh instead?” I look at him coquettishly and run my fingers lightly up and down his ribcage. He tenses and pushes my hand away, giggling himself and it’s a joy to behold. Henry Cavill, self-possessed star of the Silver Screen, collapsing in mirth on my shower floor as I tickle him.

“Stop, stop Jea!” he says between laughter, and he grabs my hands at the wrists, like he’s slapping me in shackles. He’s too quick for me and, tickles me back. I shriek and try and fail to escape him in the confined space.

“Peace!” I scream, holding up my palms with difficulty, as he still has one hand locked around my wrists. He is so strong, I realise – much stronger than me and it’s comforting and frightening at the same time.

“Are you gonna behave yourself if I let you go?”


“Well, maybe I’ll never let you go then.”

“Don’t then,” I hear the desperation in my voice even though I try to disguise it, and look down at the floor.

He shucks a finger under my jaw, forcing me to look up at him, and the intensity I see in his eyes causes my breathe to leave me, like a draught whipping rapidly through a room. The tightness across my chest is almost painful and the knocking of my heart is the sound of that wind slamming many doors and windows shut with an hypnotic, rhythmic drumming. He leans down and kisses me more tenderly than ever and, without taking his eyes from mine, reaches up to turn off the shower.

“As wonderful a thought that is, we can’t stay here all night,” he says quietly, lifting his chin in the general direction of the bathroom, “although, I would like to stay, if that’s ok with you?”

“I’d like that too.”

“Good,” he says agreeably, planting a chaste kiss on the corner of my mouth, “now, I don’t know about you, but I’m worn out, so maybe we should get some sleep? Do you have to work tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I left Ginger, my Saturday girl, on her own today and she’s quite capable, but I have a few appointments. I need to be there.”

“Can I take you for lunch?” There’s that eyebrow raise again. It’s so hot -he really should patent it or something

“That would be nice, but no big surprises this time, ok?”

“Just lunch, I promise.”

We dry off and head for the bedroom. I’m shattered and get sleepily into bed, musing about all that has happened during today. Henry cuddles up beside me and, before I know it, I’m asleep, cocooned softly by his arms and peaceful dreams that float through my mind like whispy clouds.


I wake before my alarm, something I never do and I’m disorientated, desperately trying to cling on to the last vestiges of my dream with slick fingers. Fragments of it lie scattered like a burlesque dancer’s discarded clothing on the floor and furniture of my mind and I’m unprepared and unwilling to open my eyes. Just five more minutes, I think crazily, recalling a movie premiere, a skyscraper roof,  flowers in a summer meadow, a picnic, a yacht, Henry Cavill and sex. A lot of sex and in my dream it was pretty fucking spectacular sex – the kind that never happens in real life. Oh, what a dream! Why did I have to wake up? I dazedly come to full wakefulness, ruefully open my eyes and realise I’m hot. Too hot. It takes me another second or two to process the reason for my overheating is because there’s someone lying behind me – well practically wrapped around me and as reality dawns, I grin stupidly. It wasn’t just a dream, I think elatedly. It really all happened! I then experience a moment of heart-thumping anxiety, as I have a fleeting image that it’s someone else in my bed – a stranger, one who is definitely not the Sexiest Man On The Planet, and I curse Stacey and her penchant for 2-4-1 cocktails, although I have no recollection of going out last night. No, I didn’t see Stacey at all yesterday, I remind myself, I spent the day with Henry; at least I think I did. I know I have a vivid imagination and, in the not so distant past, have had nightmares so realistic, that I’ve been known to call Stacey and Craig in the middle of the night to check up on them, panicking due to some misguided concern caused by my erratic and over-imaginative dreaming. I lie like this for a minute, afraid to look over my shoulder. It feels like Henry and smells like him as well, I think, breathing in his delicious spicy scent, but maybe I’ve imagined that too! In the end, I make myself do it and turn to look at the sleeping figure next to me.

Henry is an image of perfect beauty in his sleep. His face serene and devoid of worry or tension. His brow clear – that little furrow between his eyebrows smooth for once and, even though his incomparable eyes are closed, he still manages to take my breath away. He is breathing shallowly through his open mouth, and I’m struck once again by his beauty. There really are no words to do justice to his perfection. He is exquisite, as if grown from the tears of angels and carved in their image. He is Mother Nature’s Masterpiece, and I know that somewhere she is sitting with her feet up, proud-as-punch, breathing on her knuckles before polishing them on her chest on a job – not just well done – but perfected. I watch him fascinated for a few minutes, as I recall all that happened between us yesterday and last night. I remember his magical touch along my spine and his kisses, both tender and passionate, the feel of his tongue on me down there and the very hot reality of him, hard and huge inside me. I feel the dampness between my thighs and squirm with unsolicited arousal. A quick glance at my phone tells me there is time, so taking care to disarm the alarm, I decide to surprise him with my own wake-up call. Last night he made me stop, just as I was enjoying myself, but this morning I am determined to get what I want.

I scoot down under the covers and quickly take him in my mouth, I would prefer to take my time but I don’t want to wake him before I’m ready. I suck him steadily, bringing him to a magnificent, aching fullness that fills and thrills me equally. I feel him stir beneath me and grab his hips, as they rise up off the mattress to meet my greed. He tugs my hair and I hear him moan appreciatively. I suck harder, taking him as far as I can, taking care to sheath him with my lips from base to tip, where I flick my tongue and gently graze him with my teeth. I pick up the pace, sucking faster and faster, harder and harder until he bucks jerkily under me, his seed gushing from him and slipping down my throat, my name on his lips.

I smile and make my way back up his body, stopping briefly to kiss the soft downy trail on his belly and hairy chest. I peek out from beneath the covers. He is grinning down at me lazily, his eyes glowing and heated.

“Good morning,” I smile at him shyly. Who am I kidding? I just woke him with a blow job. I think I can throw away the vestal virgin act; my halo is looking decidedly rusty and there are cum stains on my habit.

“It most certainly is,” he nods agreeably, pulling me close for a lingering kiss. “For someone who isn’t a morning person that was a pretty impressive alarm call. As much as I’d like to, I don’t think I have it in me to fuck you after that and last night’s exertions and you probably need to get ready for work anyway, but you also need to come and come now.”

He flips me over on to my back and covers me with his body, his hands roaming over my breasts and between my legs. He bends his head and takes my nipple in his mouth and gently flicks his tongue over the hard flesh. I writhe with desire and watch fascinated, as he laps and nips at that little pink point of sensation, his tongue and teeth sending my over sensitised skin into raptures. He rolls the other nipple between his thumb and finger, squeezing my breasts into his face and he looks up at me, a wicked gleam in his eyes. Still watching me, he slowly slides down my body, hands still working their magic on my nipples, skimming over my navel with his tongue. It’s beyond erotic and I close my eyes as he reaches the junction of my thighs. Immediately his ministrations on my breasts cease and he lifts his head away from me. I open my eyes to find him shaking his head.

“Keep your eyes open. I want you to watch.”

I hear myself moan and am captivated by him. His eyes mesmerising and compelling, their bottomless depths full of promise. I feel like I’m drowning in a turquoise ocean full of shining stars, so bright and beautiful, yet dark and fathomless, as it stretches into eternity. He smiles that lop sided smile of his and moves down between my legs. Without taking his eyes away from mine, he inhales deeply and, as if it has a life of it’s own, his tongue appears over his bottom lip – like an predator drawn by the scent of blood. He starts to lap softly at my clit, his saliva adding to my wetness, and I whimper with undisguised approval. Watching him do this is too much. He licks me so fully and completely, working his way down my folds with unbridled enthusiasm, concentrating his main efforts on my clitoris without neglecting the other areas that are singing for his attention. I close my eyes and turn my head fractionally away and he stops, leaving me bereft, a castaway thrown up from the ocean floor on to a desert island devoid of paradise. Oh please, I think frantically.

“Please, don’t close your eyes.” he says softly but there is an underlying seriousness in his request.

I look at him squarely, determined to meet this challenge head on. If you are throwing down this gauntlet I accept and what’s more, I’m going to enjoy it, I think. He nods and, as if by magic, resumes his gentle lingual persuasion on my clit. I watch him and he watches me and it’s agonisingly erotic. I can feel my body building, the heat rising infinitesimally inside. I feel like I’m in a video game where I have to perform a rapid succession of leaps onto higher and higher levels, before reaching the ultimate pay off. There’s a quickening and gathering of synapses, gradually and inevitably growing, coming together to form a ball of perfectly intense fusion that explodes as he gathers pace, and gently, yet insistently, slips a finger into me. I cry out as my orgasm tears through me, and still he’s looking at me, his tongue slowing now, yet his finger becomes two and he rapidly pumps both in and out, as I experience a secondary climax. I’m screaming in affirmation, my back arching off the bed, my toes clenched, my fingers grasping at the rumpled sheets, but I do not look away. I feel my body tensing around his fingers in ever decreasing pulses and slowly, very slowly, come back down to earth, just as the giggles start. He waits until my spasms cease before tenderly removing his hand and kissing me lightly on my other lips. He licks his fingers with such relish I swear I can feel an answering twitch in my groin.

“I love watching you come and I love hearing you giggle. I could do this all day,” he smiles one of his dazzling smiles, and I gaze at him in wonder before I finally close my eyes in sweet relief.


I’m dressing for work half an hour later and happen to glance out of my window, when I see a small camp of photographers still outside. What the hell? Have they been here all night? Shit. I really need to get to work. What if they follow me?


He is in the bathroom and doesn’t hear the first time I shout. A moment later, he comes running to my side, dripping wet from his shower, his hair and skin glistening. He wraps a towel around his waist and follows my worried gaze outside.

“Oh fuck. I can’t believe they are still here. Bunch of parasites the lot of them! I never would have come ba –

“What?” I round on him, spitting fire, “you never would have what? Come back here with me? Fucked me?”

“Gosh, you really do have a temper, don’t you? Please don’t say that. If you’ll allow me to finish, I was going to say, I would never have come back here with you, if I had known that they had found out about you. I don’t want you being followed by them! I would have taken you back to my place – or a hotel even,” he drags his hands through his hair, “Is there another way out?”

Shit. I am such an idiot. I hate myself with as much passion as my tiny flat has witnessed in the last twelve hours – more even. Why can’t I keep a lid on my emotions just once? Henry is looking at me expectantly and, it has to be said, rather stonily.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. You’re right though, I do have a horrible temper, and it’s not something I’m particularly proud of.”

This is a massive understatement – oh, if only he knew. I can feel my eyes itching with impending tears and I stand there helplessly looking at him, wondering if he’s considering walking out on me. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I’d walk out on myself, If I could.

“I really am sorry Henry,” my whisper is barely audible, although I mean every word I say and implore him to believe me.

He studies me momentarily before taking me in his arms and the relief I dare not hope to feel chokes me. The dam breaks and the tears I’ve been holding back for the last few minutes, hours, months and years burst forth like a tidal wave of pain. I’m shaking and blubbing and thinking that now I’ve gone and done it. The anger issues he may be able to overlook, but crying the day after our first date? That’s too big an ask. I’ve probably ruined the best chance at happiness I’ll ever have. This will be it now. I’ll never see him again and the anguish at the thought of losing him is like someone ripping my heart into pieces.

“Hey! What’s this? Jea? Stop this. It’s ok baby. Everything’s going to be ok.” He shushes me, stroking my hair and holding me close. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

I’m still silently sobbing, the pain lancing through my chest like an icicle, but I hear a glimmer of hope in his words. Surely he’s not sticking around? Oh, Henry Cavill, the amount of times I have declared you the perfect man and you’re not only that, you’re a saint. I sniff, desperate to wipe my nose and eyes. I must look like such an attractive prospect right now. I look up at him and he’s smiling kindly.

“I’m so sorry for shouting at you like that. Can you forgive me? I did tell you I wouldn’t ever lie to you.”

“Forgiven and forgotten; however I’d prefer a little less honesty in future. If you could just cut back on the tongue lashing that’d be great. Besides, I’m the only one allowed to lash my tongue in this relationship.” He grins wickedly, wagging his tongue and I giggle nervously, a soft pulsing in my underwear coming to life at his words. Relationship? Is that what this is? I don’t allow myself time to think about that.

“Now, we really need to get you to work. Is there a back door?”

“No. One way in. One way out.”

“Okay.” He takes his phone from his pocket, swipes the screen and presses to make a call. Who is he calling, I wonder? I wait whilst he speaks to the mystery person at the other end of the line.

“Steve? Alright mate? Yeah. Good yeah. You? Great. Can you pick us up in about fifteen minutes? Yeah The Parkers are outside. I know. Yeah Jeanna’s place in Candem. OK. Cheers.”

He finishes the call and takes my hands in his. Who are on earth are The Parkers, I wonder, and what are they doing here?

“OK, Steve will be here in a minute and he’ll get us out and you to work. Under no circumstances do you let them into your shop if they happen to follow us. They are leeches, they will bleed you dry if they even get within a sniffing distance of your skin. Please try not to answer them because they will attempt to goad you. They are highly skilled at making people feel uncomfortable and all they want is a reaction. Promise me you can reign in that fiery side of you just for a few minutes? Please Jea. I know it’s daunting, and I don’t want to scare you, but I have to be this way. I don’t want my life played out like some glossy soap opera, and I want you to be a part of my life, so you need to know what to expect. If you don’t want this, tell me now and I’ll go after I have gotten you to work safely.”

Woah! I was not expecting this. That was some speech. This really is too much to take in, especially on top of my crazy-lady outburst of ten minutes ago. What do I do? Of course I want to be a part of his life, but I’m scared. Not for me. For Henry. For what he could find out about me if we continue down this road, and what it could mean for him, and his career, if he did.




Waiting For Superman Part Five (Explicit Content)

Henry tells me about his family – his love for them almost tangible, his childhood on Jersey, going away at such a young age to boarding school – which he describes as thoroughly depressing yet one of the most important things he ever did, and about struggling to make it as an actor. He asks about my parents, where I grew up and about my business. We talk about movies we love and laugh at our similar taste in music – from Pearl Jam to The Pearl Fishers and everything in between! He is easy to talk to and I find myself opening up to him; something I haven’t done with anyone apart from Stacey and Craig, since coming to London. I know there are things that I’m hiding, but why burden him with my tale, I think to myself? It wouldn’t be fair for me to unload my baggage that way and it would ruin our day, as surely as a swarm of wasps at a picnic.

We leave the park late, wrapped up in each other. I know I’ve only ever felt this kind of happiness once before and I’m suddenly afraid. I barely know this man, but I’m already far too emotional invested in him for my own good and I’m pretty sure this kind of bliss can’t last. I’ve learned the hard way that this planet can be cruel and damn slippery. It’s hard to stay on your feet and find anything worth fighting for, and if you are one of the lucky ones, then hold on tight as, in an instant, it could all be snatched away from you. I didn’t think I could feel this way again and now, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel. Not wanting the ghosts of the past to mar our perfect day, I push thoughts of Gary and Bettie to the back of my mind, feeling like a traitor to their memories. To be fair, we haven’t got to the “talking about the Exes stage” yet anyway – it would all be a little too morbid for a first date.

I shiver despite the heat and, noticing, Henry pulls me even closer, gently kissing the top of my head.

“You ok?” he asks concerned.

“Sure! Just a little tired from the sun, I suppose. I’ve had a great time. Thank you.”

“Do you want to go home, or, we could go for dinner?” He sounds hopeful; it’s beyond flattering. “I know a great place,” he adds with a grin.

“Dinner sounds good.”

“You sure?”

There really isn’t any need for his puppy dog eyes, but I can’t help the effect they have on me, so I wriggle free of his grip around my shoulders and mock having my arm twisted up behind my back. He laughs, grabbing me swiftly and kisses me again, this time harder and, as he pulls away, he tugs at my bottom lip with his teeth, sending sharp answering wrenches throughout my breasts and groin.

“I seem to recall something about having you on top, Jea,” he murmurs against me, the sensation vibrating through my body, ” I don’t want to be presumptuous but maybe we can discuss it over dinner?”

I mutter something in acquiescence and try to nod and kiss him in return. It’s pointless trying to resist him and the slow anticipation that is mounting is beyond exciting. It seems that Henry feels the same as he grabs my hand and pulls me along with him so that we’re now skipping from the park, both of us grinning and giggling. I have no idea of the time, but the sun has started it’s slow descent in the sky, so I guess it must be early evening. I realise we are taking a different gate out of the park and that Henry is headed toward Greenwich Pier, the imposing twin domes of the Naval College casting impressive architectural shadows on the ground around us. We reach the dock but instead of heading towards the Clipper gangway, Henry pulls me toward a secondary dock that is cordoned off from the other, and I gulp as I see the small but sleek, luxurious yacht moored there. I look at Henry for a second, confused but excited.

“What happened to the bus? I liked the bus.”

“Me too, but, like I said, this is a great place! You’re not scared of water I hope!”

He gives me that shy, lost puppy expression again and I giggle. Are we really heading back to central London on this? I spy the name painted on the stern in cream over navy lettering: “The Rum Diary”. Interesting name for a boat I think. The yacht is bright white and looks to accommodate about forty people, but what do I know? A tall woman in her mid thirties with dark hair steps forward and greets us smartly.

“Hi Henry, Jeanna,” she says shaking hands with us in turn, “Welcome aboard The Rum Diary. I’m Gaynor Trent and I’m your hospitality manager this evening. Our Captain, Harry Andrews, will be taking us out shortly. If there is anything I can do to make your trip more comfortable with us, please, do not hesitate to ask.”

Gaynor is warm, friendly and extremely professional. She leads us up the small steps from the gangway on to the deck and down into the saloon, which is small and panelled with highly-polished cherry wood and navy and cream upholstery. There is music playing softly in the background – Crowded House’s Fall At Your Feet – I think, and on the table are drinks and snacks.

“We have been making our own rum for a little while. It’s pretty good even if I do say so myself and makes for a wicked mojito. Please enjoy with our compliments,” Gaynor says with a smile and leaves the room.

I’m stunned and slightly in awe of all this largesse.

“You certainly know how to show a girl a good time, Mr Cavill. Or should I call you Mr Bond?”

I peek up at him, amused and afraid at once. For all my pretence that we’ve been getting closer over the last so many hours, this yacht, and all it encompasses, only serves as a vivid reminder of the two very different worlds we inhabit. Experiencing a moment of sheer, overwhelmed abandon I blurt out –

“Please don’t tell me this boat is yours!”

“No, it’s not mine. Is it too much? All of this?” Henry looks worried and hurt and I berate myself for my stupid outburst.

“It’s a lot to take in for a first date. But no, it’s not too much. It’s perfect, like everything else.” Like you, I don’t add. Memories of my first date with Gary spring to mind and I push them away. That would be unfair to him, Henry and myself to even try to compare the two.

Henry takes me in his arms and breathes out steadily. He kisses me with a surprising tenderness that leaves me desperate for more. Picking up our mojitos, he takes my hand and we head back up to the deck, just as the engines growl into life beneath our feet. A few minutes later and we are backing out away from the dock and gliding over The Thames. The feeling is exhilarating, and I watch mesmerised as a gull swoops fast and low, skimming gracefully over the water, mirroring the boat’s path through the river. The image of the City before us, shimmering in it’s heat haze and framed by the dying embers of the setting sun is one I’ll never forget. I take a sip of my drink; it’s delicious fruity bite perfectly balanced by the cut of the rum and turn my face up to Henry’s.

“Thank you. This has been the most amazing day.”




The past hour and a half has been magical. We’ve arrived at Chelsea Embankment just as the darkness begins to take hold in that never ending battle for supremacy between night and day and I’m reluctant to say goodbye Gaynor and The Rum Diary. Dinner was the most delicious meal of fillet of beef with a watercress mayonnaise and a leafy green salad, followed by a mango and passion fruit Eton Mess for dessert,  our hunger for something more increasing throughout our meal. By the time we passed under Tower Bridge – spectacularly illuminated and majestic in the night – we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Leaving the dock, Henry surprises me again by ushering me towards a waiting shiny, black SUV. He speaks quickly to the driver, who I believe is called Steve, and their exchange is mutually respectful and surprisingly friendly.

Steve heads north toward Camden, so I curl up in the back seat and lean into Henry, smelling in his divine scent and wishing this day never had to end. We are both quiet with our thoughts, although Henry’s wandering hands leave me in no doubt as to what is on his mind. Is he going to drop me off at home? What if he asks to come in? Of course I want him to come back with me and a really silly part of me thinks that maybe he has earned it. I snort and Henry looks at me questioningly.

“Nothing. Just thinking about you,” I wink, and he grabs me suddenly, yanking me onto his lap, one hand holding my wrists and the other clasping my jaw. I have a moment to think that maybe Henry doesn’t like to be laughed at, before he kisses my neck leaving all coherent thoughts I may have had to take flight like migrating birds.

“I’ve had a great day, Jea. I’d like to make it a great night too – if you’ll let me.” He nuzzles and bites tenderly and determinedly at my throat and I know I’m going to say yes.

“Uh-huh,” is all I can muster and I feel his answering smile against my skin.

“Do you have anything to drink at home?”

“There’s a can of beer in the fridge, I think.”

“We know where our first stop is then, don’t we?”

He instructs Steve to pull up outside a convenience store and, as it’s only just around the corner from my flat, we decide to walk the rest of the way.

Henry has his arm slung around my shoulders, in his other hand he swings the bag carrying our purchases: popcorn, potato crisps and more beer – the bottles clinking disjointedly. We are laughing and whispering about our day and, as we turn the corner into my street, the night is suddenly ablaze with popping and blinding flashes, shouting and much pushing. Henry is horrified and, shouting my name, grabs my arm pulling me through the mob of photographers. In the ensuing chaos my dress is torn and there is a smash, as the bag Henry is carrying falls to the ground. We reach the doorway and I scramble for my keys, almost fumbling them in the panic, the reporters closing in on us like a pack of rabid dogs. I somehow get the door open and we hurry inside. Henry slams the door emphatically behind us and we’re both panting, the adrenaline and excitement quickly heating my blood and I flatten him against the door. I kiss him like I’ve never kissed anyone before and tug at his hair, his shirt with my hands and his lips with my teeth. Tasting blood I pull away, but Henry is quicker than me. Once again he lifts me up but this time looks at me for where to go.

“Upstairs. First floor,” I say with breathless excitement.

Henry carries me up the stairs quickly, taking two steps at a time. I still have my keys to hand so instruct him to the correct door and somehow manage to put the key in the lock without leaving his arms. He deposits me on my feet and taking the keys from my hand, closes and locks the door behind him. He takes the torn part of my dress between his hands and, with a salacious smile rips it completely from my body, so that I’m standing in my pretty, lacy bra and knickers.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says huskily, before dropping to his knees and removing my sandals. He looks up at me, his eyes scorching and overwhelmingly sincere, but there is no hiding from the lust there also, and as he devours me visually, my body responds with answering arousal. I want to savour each second of this life changing experience and try to focus on him and only him.  I am determined to be his everything in this moment and if it is only to be this one time, I will ensure it will be something neither of us will ever forget.

He stands again, careful to not touch me. His hunger is palpable and is makes me feel powerful and unmistakably sexy. To think I could have this effect on him is turning me on immensely. He watches me, almost stalking me with hooded eyes and a slow smile that hints at the slightest of dangers. Two can play at that game Mr Cavill so I purposely give my back to him and gather up my hair.

“Unhook me.”

I smile as I hear his small intake of breath. My body is aching for his touch but at the same time I don’t want it, as I know that it will only cause this to be over too soon. Slow, my mind screams at me. Take it slow.

There is the softest of caresses at the nape of my neck and I almost convulse. His proximity is overwhelming, his scent showering me.  The tenderness with which he strokes me a shock, using just one finger he has me spellbound, softly trailing a perfect path from my hairline down my spine to my shoulder blades and back up again, each time his digit working a little higher into my scalp or along my back. With his other hand, Henry unhooks my bra so that his finger now has complete and unobstructed access to the remainder of my back. His touch travels further, right up through my hair to my crown, causing delicious tremors along my head and shoulders and all the way down through my body to the core of my desire. He follows the shivers down, like tracing raindrops running down a window pane, achingly slowly until he reaches the base of my spine and the erogenous zone above my buttocks. All this time his touch remains tissue soft and my body yearns for more.

As if he comprehends my longing, his single digit becomes fingers and his touch more insistent, yet still gentle, massaging along my spine in long sweeping strokes that send me into paroxysms of desire. With his free hand he tugs at my knickers, softly and slowly easing them over my hips and buttocks so that they drop and spool at my feet. Abruptly the rhythmic torture halts and strong hands take hold of my shoulders.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers in my left ear.

With his right hand, Henry grasps my chin and tilts my head away so that he has unparalleled vantage to my neck and jaw. He kisses me with tender, trailing nips along my jawline and down my neck making his way leisurely to my nape across the other side and back again. His sweet mouth sketching the same route now that his finger made and every so many kisses he bites gently – not enough to hurt or mark but certainly plenty so that I cry out each time. His lips kiss every inch of my spine, his stubble grazing my over-sensitised skin, each tiny prickle making my nerve endings dance. He works his way down my body, and I close my eyes in the sweet anticipation of what I hope he is about to do, neurons and electrons in mind and body swaying together in a sultry salsa.

The lower down my body his mouth travels, the more I tremble. He is on his knees behind me now and has relinquished my jaw in favour of my wrist. Taking my hand under his he sweeps down quickly over my breasts and I call out again. An unintelligent and involuntary exclamation.

“Tell me where you want me to touch you.”

His head is so close to my backside now that the whisper of his breath across my buttocks has me aflame. The desire I hear in his masculine, sexy voice urging me on to an even higher state of abandon.

I grasp his hands tightly in mine and place both on my breasts.

“My nipples.” I gasp, “Hard.”

He tugs sharply at both of my nipples, massaging and fingering them expertly and I melt, like the last of the winter snow in the February sun, magically and slowly drifting away. He breathes me in deeply, making my knees weak. Oh please!

Without warning his hot and greedy mouth and tongue are hungry at my wetness as he licks me from tailbone to clitoris and back. He lingers at my most intimate parts and laps rhythmically at that powerhouse of nerves at the join of my legs, whilst intermittently flicking his tongue in and out, in and out. I throw my head back and moan and feel the rigidity seep from my knees. Sensations energise me from within, synapses splintering in cosmic confusion, the organised chaos building inside me, as I struggle to control my body’s inevitable reaction. Sensing I am close, he stills, shushing me and massages my breasts slowly. He bites my left cheek and kisses every inch of my exposed derriere. He pushes my back forward firmly so that I am bent over, giving his tongue unparalleled access to my sex and thrusting my breasts in to his Svengali hands. I hear and feel his moan of appreciation and grind myself against him. He responds with even more enthusiastic licking, sucking and biting than before and I am climbing again, yearning for a release that I know will soon come crashing down on me, like a lone surfer about to drop off a devastating, giant wave at the edge of the earth. His tongue flexes generously, adding to my substantial wetness and he gently slides a finger in and out of me. One digit becomes two, his thumb slipping gently into my most private and taboo part and I come gloriously, wetly and loudly, over and over again into his avaricious mouth.

My shoulders sag and as I slowly come back to reality, I start to giggle. Oh please, not now, I think desperately. The more I try to get myself under control, the more the mirth overcomes me. I clamp a hand to my mouth and nervously look at Henry. He’s still on his knees, looking rather pleased with himself, yet confused at my hilarity. I’m drawn to the glisten on his lips, a shining wet and proud trophy of my arousal. Still trying to get a grip on myself, I lean down and kiss him roughly, tasting me and it only makes me giggle even harder.

“I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you, honest.” I say between kisses and, grabbing him by the hair and shoulders, drag him to his feet.

“You laugh when you come?” Henry asks me incredulously.

“Err, yeah. Sometimes. Only when it’s really nice,” I answer, haltingly. I’m suddenly and unaccountably shy, which is ridiculous considering what he’s just done to me.

“Really?” His eyes are wide and disbelieving. There is something else there too that suggests he is enjoying watching me squirm.

“Yes. Really.”

He grabs me again, his assault on my lips almost violent and disarming. He cups my face in both hands, his kiss exploring my mouth with his lips, teeth and tongue, and we move from the door further into the room. I lift the hem of his t-shirt up and over and in one smooth motion exposing his bare chest, the muscles defined and sculpted, the dense, curly hair forming an almost perfect v down toward his groin. I take a step back to fully appreciate him and moan softly at his perfection. Smoothing my hand down through the curls and over the planes and valleys of his chest and hard stomach, I stop as I reach the waistband of his jeans. Taking his hand, I lead him through the flat into my bedroom and, once inside, I push him roughly on to the bed. He smiles in surprise I think and leans back as I sink to my knees next to the bed. I crawl towards him and slowly make my way up his jeans until I reach his belt buckle. Taking it between teeth and hands, I make short work of this last obstacle to my eventual goal and kiss him again before returning to his jeans.

He brings his hands down to my shoulders and breasts, but I shrug them off.

“No touching,” I say removing his hands and placing them up above his head.

I undo the button fly and slowly, achingly slowly, tug his jeans down his hard body. He lifts his buttocks off the bed to assist me and soon I am down to his feet. It appears that Henry favours tight trunks and looking at him now, I’m surprised he doesn’t do himself an injury – he really should choose looser underwear or just go commando. The thick outline of him strains at the tight material and I walk my fingers gently over and up his long shaft. It’s like unwrapping Christmas presents, I think delightedly and watch his face as I lean forward and slowly lick him from balls to tip. His eyes close and I can’t stand it anymore and set him free. I sit back and gaze at his magnificent glory. If Darwin is correct about his theories of Natural Selection, then Henry has nothing to worry about. I’m reminded of those illustrations of early man and the progression from the earliest known forms of Bipedals right through to present day Homo Sapiens and think there really should be another entry at the end of timeline – Henry Cavill. Survival of the fittest indeed!

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve dreamt about Henry’s manhood too many times to count. Seeing it for real now makes me realise how wrong my fantasies were. He is not just big – he’s huge! I have a moment of panic when I wonder if I can actually get it in my mouth and I know I’m staring but I just can’t help it. It stands tall, and proud, and for a second I could swear it’s wearing it’s own superman costume. Henry sees me looking and flexes it impressively and that’s all it takes to have him in my mouth. He tastes divine, and I suck him like a porn star on a bet, moving my head up and down his long shaft, slowly then swiftly, taking as much of him as I possibly can. I have always enjoyed giving head, but with Henry it’s an altogether different ball game, to pardon the pun. He is truly beautiful in everyway humanly possible and is built like a Greek god – complete with his own version of Poseidon’s trident! I resist a crazy urge to laugh and redouble my efforts, relishing the hard, yet, soft feel of him in my mouth. He tenses beneath me so I suck harder and faster, knowing he is close.

“Jea. I don’t want to come in your mouth. Not the first time.” He warns me but I don’t care and with wild abandon, take him further still, cupping and massaging his balls with my hand.

“Please, Jea. I want to fuck you. I want to make love to you. Please.”

The tone of his pleading causes me to halt and I look up through my dishevelled hair that is splayed over his belly and thighs. His expression disarms me and taking my face in his hands, he pulls me to him, kissing me deeply.

“Christ, that was good, but I want to be inside you. And I want you on top so I can see your face.”

I position myself over him and wait as he rolls on a condom. Hovering above him, I take his hands in mine to steady myself and slowly, gently lower myself down onto the full length of him. Sinking onto him is like sinking into a dream, that blissful state between wakefulness and sleep, where you don’t quite know what is real or fantasy. He jerks his hips and I’m wide awake again. We start to move together, finding an easy and smooth rhythm. I can feel him deep inside me and he presses a hand against my belly, so that he’s massaging me from outside and in. His hands move up, smoothing a delicious path over my skin to my breasts and he takes one nipple, then the other, between his fingers, rolling the hard point steadily, with just the right amount of pinch. He pulls me forward so that my breasts swing heavy into his face and cups each one, moulding them gently together and, as his lips close over my nipples, I whimper in appreciation. Our pace increases as we both start to lose control, the tempo rising like a symphony reaching it’s dramatic crescendo. I lean back and push harder onto him, gasping and panting, my breasts rising and falling like oversize twin yo-yos. He grabs my buttocks and slams further into me, lifting me off the bed altogether and moves a hand down into the soft flesh between us, circling my clit expertly with his fingers. I feel my orgasm building quickly, far quicker than ever before, and I lose awareness of everything but him.

“Open your eyes. I want to see you when you come. I want to watch you giggle,” he commands.

His words are my unravelling and, as I look at him, I scream his name as the orgasm is ripped from my body, like a beautiful, devastating tornado tearing through a house. A force of nature that should be destructive, yet leaves only a path of bright, bubbling ecstasy in it’s wake. Henry gasps and pushes into me one last time and then stills, as he finds his own release. I’m realise I’m sobbing and giggling and I collapse onto his chest with exquisite, gratifying relief.










Waiting For Superman Part Four

meadowwfsThe next three weeks are a daze of June weddings (one 1950s style, one boho chic and one with a Twilight theme), rising temperatures and daydreams of my impending date with Henry. He has called me a total of twenty seven times since that day at Something Old – the phone line serving to make his already rich-like-chocolate voice even more sensual – and he’s sent over a hundred messages. The content of his texts is sometimes fun banter, other times seriously flirtatious and in each message he counts down the days until he returns. Now that the day is almost here I can scarcely believe I’ll be seeing him again in a few short hours. I’m a nervous, lovesick and completely smitten mess and I still have no idea where we’ll be going or what we’ll be doing. In my wildest moments I’ve imagined that Henry will whisk me away to Gretna Green or Las Vegas to get married. I’ve agonised over what to wear and changed my mind countless times, finally deciding on my favourite poppy print vintage dress and sandals. I sincerely hope we wont be rock climbing.

Completely out of character, I’ve been scouring every gossip column and have even bookmarked TMZ and Just Jared on my web browser, but so far there’s been no whiff of any scandal. Of course, he is pretty much everywhere at the moment, with Man of Steel breaking box office records across the globe and more premieres yet to come, Cavillitis is the hot new fever to catch. Photos of him looking his usual scorching self at the Taormina Film Festival are the latest to appear online, and there is one of him casually sipping from a bottle of water that I’m particularly fond of. A month ago I would have been insanely jealous of that little plastic bottle, but now here I am, gazing at my laptop screen, remembering the taste of him on my lips; like my own personal spring, I thirst to drink him in again. I bring my fingers to my mouth and close my eyes as I recall our moment on the rooftop. My scalp prickles as I remember his hands cupping my face, the urgency with which he kissed me and the very real hardness of him against me. Just looking at him arouses me like wildfire and with the memory of his kisses as new fuel to burn, my fantasies are erotic, hot as hell and out of control. I practically float from day to day, skipping to work with the goofiest grin on my face and each time my phone beeps, I reach new, dizzying heights of happiness.

I am about to shut down for the night when my mobile buzzes. I snatch it up quickly and smile as I see a new message:


From: Henry

Do you have any idea how much I would rather be with you right now?

02/07/13 21:19


I hit reply and quickly type, purposely using as many shortcuts and slang terms as I can, just to wind him up. Henry has an aversion to typical text talk and types every single letter. It’s all very proper, very sexy and very Henry.


To: Henry

Prob as much as I want u 2 b here. Y wot r u doing?


I press send and his answering beep is quick to come:


From: Henry

Oh just a final press call. This craziness could all be over for me before I know it, so I am grateful, but I can think of a number of things I would rather be doing and they all include you. You do know that “wot” is not a word don’t you?

02/07/13 21:21


Two can play that game Mr Cavill.  I type my message with unrestrained glee:


To: Henry

Yes I am perfectly aware that the letters WOT do not form a word recognised in the English language but neither do U B Y R and PROB. I wonder at your displeasure at my incorrect spelling of “what” and whether said disapproval encompasses all of my grammatical misdemeanours.


From: Henry

My only displeasure is that I am not with you. I am glad that you seem to have overcome your affliction. I hope that this improvement lasts until tomorrow at least.

02/07/13 21:22


To: Henry

Affliction? I dont hv an affliction. Only 4 u. R u going 2 tell me whr we r going?


From: Henry

What am I going to do with you? I certainly know what I’d like to do….

02/07/13 21.22


To: Henry

Don’t b a tease – u hv 2 tell me now!


From: Henry

No. You’ll just have to wait. Anyway, you’re the one teasing me about my grammar issues.

02/07/13 21.24


To: Henry

Please tell me….pretty please with sugar sprinkles, chocolate sauce and a cherry on top! I’ll be good. I promise.


From: Henry

I don’t doubt it, but you know that it’s going to be much more than good don’t you? I promise. Only one more day to go…..

02/07/13 21:24  


To: Henry

Wait! Whr r we going?


I send my text but I know that it’s useless. He’s not going to answer me. Every conversation we’ve had these last few weeks has ended in this way, with this maddening, frustrating, and downright sexy countdown of his, so I am surprised when my phone beeps again.


From: Henry

I’d much rather I had you. On top……Tomorrow…….

02/07/13 21:25


I make my way to bed, his audacity making me horny as hell. I know I should be alarmed at his forwardness, but I can’t help the shivers his words send through me. Am I really that much of a done deal? Does he truly want to get to know me or does he just want in my knickers? I know I want him but does he really think we’re going to have sex on the first date? Am I that kind of girl? Well, yes for him I probably am. If I’m honest about it I’m a forgone conclusion – all bets off and he knows it, but should I play a little harder to get? I slowly realise that no matter what happens tomorrow I’m already in love with him and my heart is going to end up broken anyway, so I may as well just enjoy the ride.

Hmmm…me on top…. And with that my overheated libido pictures Henry, standing at the end of my bed, naked except for a Stetson and a pair of cowboy boots.



Wednesday arrives with a hazy, pre-dawn light that creeps slowly into my room, across my bed and up the walls and, minutes later, falls over my face with soft, yet ominous, glow. Sleep alluded me last night to the point that I was curled up at 2am reading the same page of my trashy novel over and over, until at last I’d dropped off into a light and dream-free doze. I woke 20 minutes ago at 6am and watched the shadows disappear as the light grew larger and brighter, an echo of the nervous knot in my stomach.

I get up and shower, luxuriating in the early hour and spend time beautifying myself. I am not a morning person and usually leave it to the very last-minute to drag my arse out of bed. I know I can look good enough without primping but Henry deserves better, so this morning I’m taking full advantage of waking early. If it wasn’t for the lack of decent sleep I may even manage to look desirable; as it is my skin lacks it’s usually glow and there are shadows like lunar craters below my eyes. Resolving to do the best I can with minimal make up and a miracle skin primer, I rejoice in the knowledge that at least my hair for once is behaving. I decide to straighten it – something I rarely do and am pleased with the overall result. I have a moment of blind panic after dressing, when I fret that my dress is too short, too red and too much of a booty call but realise it’s too late to change. My leisurely morning has suddenly vanished and a quick glance at my phone informs me that Henry will be here any second. I slip on my strappy flat sandals, spritz myself with my favourite fragrance – Kenzo Flower, grab my keys, sunglasses and cross-body bag and head outside.

Henry is leaning against a lamppost, looking for all the world like a Rayban-clad Greek god who has fallen fom his cloud. He is wearing a tight, faded red t-shirt that clings lovingly to his arms and chest and dark-blue jeans that cling lovingly to his butt. Even his clothes can’t get close enough to him! No-one wears jeans like Henry and no-one should look this good – not at 9am on a Camden street! He sees me and slowly smiles from behind his shades, his seraphic face lit up in the sunlight and I gasp. Surely this amazing man can’t be waiting for me? The heat of the day, already intense, coupled with my flaming cheeks make me thankful I stuck with the sundress.

“Good morning, Beautiful,” Henry says as he plants a soft kiss on my mouth. He tastes divine; cool, clear and minty fresh and he smells irresistible.

I don’t think I can speak for a minute. It was one thing talking and texting with him these last few weeks, but to think I really am going on this date with him is another thing altogether.

“It’s so good to see you. It’s been a busy few weeks but it’s great to come home, well, sort of home – if you know what I mean? And what a sight to come home to. You are an absolute vision.” He takes my hand in his and casually leads me down the street, “I love the dress. It’s a great colour on you.”

He laughs and I realise we match. I am too stunned by this very welcome p.d.a to do more than giggle shyly. I ponder for a minute at the sudden change in his outlook. At the After-Party he threw me over his shoulder in some kind of misguided privacy protection plan and now here we are hand in hand in public, in broad daylight, in central London. Surely there is more chance of being “papped” right now? I glance nervously around for any telephoto lenses surreptitiously lurking in the bushes of Camden’s scruffy, yet colourful suburbia. Is this what his life is like? Constantly on guard for fear of some unscrupulous hack snapping feverishly away during one’s day-to-day existence? I wonder what has happened in the recent past to cause this unexpected change.

“Where are we going?” I figure I may as well ask again, although I’ll find out soon enough no doubt.

“Surprise,” he answers, “we’re taking public transport by the way. I hope that’s ok”

“Er, sure, but who are you and what have done with Henry?”

“I still have my Oyster Card you know? I used to spend hours on buses and the tube going to and from auditions. It feels like so much has happened recently but, to be honest, it was only a few months ago that this was normal for me. It’s nice to feel normal again.”

“It must be hard to adjust, but what’s normal though? I mean you only have to look around Camden for five minutes to find the abnormal, the weird and the wonderful. I lived in a small town in Wales before I moved here, and never once have I felt that there was any normality there either.” I don’t add that my life is never going to be normal again.

“Right! Everyone spends so much time trying to build some kind of stability in their life, but is it worth it in the end? I mean, what do we really need to survive? I know this sounds hypocritical coming from me, but if it all were to disappear tomorrow, I know I’d still have the most important thing ever, and that’s the people whom I care about.” He speaks with such sincerity, it’s hard not to be impressed by his earnestness. I’ve heard him talk of his family before and it’s brutally obvious he loves them more than anything in this world. They are lucky to have him, and him them.

We arrive at the station and take the Northern Line to Elephant and Castle and then walk a short way to a bus stop. I’m still none the wiser as to our destination and wonder for a minute if we’re going to spend all day on London’s transport network. Henry is quiet but it’s not uncomfortable for me; in fact I can’t quite believe how easy it is to be with him. He sits down on one of the hard plastic seats and pulls me close, so that I’m practically in his lap.

“So, you’re Welsh?” he asks whilst wrapping his arm around my waist.

“No, I’m from Devon but I lived in Llanberis for a while with an old boyfriend. Stacey convinced me to come here three years ago as I’ve always wanted to open my own vintage bridal store, and London seemed to be the best place to do it. I love it here, although I haven’t seen as much of the city as I’d like to. I’m always working and if I’m not working I’m probably shopping for dresses.”

“Well, if the dress I was lucky enough to see you wearing is any indication of your business, I’d say you must be doing very well.” He says, “You don’t believe me when I say you looked beautiful, do you?” he adds whispering in my ear.

I blush and smile and look down at my hands. Henry leans in and nuzzles my neck and I relax completely against him. Our bus arrives and I spy the destination – Greenwich Park.



Our day passes in a dream-like sequence from a romantic fantasy movie. We are happy and relaxed in each other’s company, although the sexual tension between us is growing immeasurably and every kiss or glance adds to the supercharged excitement. It’s not just an elephant in the room, it’s a whole herd, complete with cute babies and an enormous matriarch and the room we’re all squashed into is about the size of an average under-stairs cupboard.

We’ve visited the Royal Observatory and gazed at the unbeatable view over The Thames across to St Paul’s, strolled through the wonderfully fragrant Rose Garden and stopped for coffee and pastries at The White House  – a charming bakery near St Mary’s Lodge. Lingering on The Bandstand, I grabbed the opportunity to put my arms around Henry’s neck and pull him close for a sweet kiss. We took out one of the rowing boats at The Boating Lake. It was quite something to watch Henry in full throe as he rowed that little boat – the muscles on his arms and chest expanding and rippling with each stroke.

Henry is recognised often. Once by a group of fun and flirty cougars, and another time by a man in a Superman tee and his young son. Henry is his usual generous self and happily poses for pictures with them all and, much to the little boy’s delight, even picks him up for the last one. We attract stares and inspection wherever we go, but how much of this is due to star-struck fans or simply because of Henry’s impossible physical perfection, I can’t be sure. Mostly women (and a few men too), they gaze with glazed eyes and open mouths, but one girl treats me to such a look of intense jealousy and vitriol, I can almost feel her burning me with her laser beam eyes. I’m too wrapped up in Henry to care less and marvel constantly at our closeness.

We make our way leisurely through the park and I am struck at how beautiful it is here. There is a serenity and peace even with the many other patrons and it seems that everyone is having a good time in the sunshine. There are families having picnics or playing games, joggers and cyclists, dogs chasing tails, balls and each other, Tai Chi groups displaying their Zen-like calm and couples aplenty, strolling, talking, and kissing. We head along the path south west of One Tree Hill and emerge into one of the most beautiful wild-flower meadows I have ever seen. A sea of tall grasses and flora, simply buzzing with bees and bursting with colour, it almost seems impossible that we are still in London. I skip delightedly through the meadow and am bowled over again at the scene that unfolds before me. In the shade of a large oak, someone has laid out a private picnic, complete with faded blanket, hamper and delicate lace bunting that hangs like icicles from the tree. It’s an impossibly romantic setting that wouldn’t look out of place in a fairy tale. I turn to find Henry watching me, unsure of my reaction.

“Well, we need to eat and I thought you might like this,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“When did you do all this? Come to think of it, when did you get back?”

“I flew back in this morning. I have to confess, a friend arranged this for us. I hope you like it.”

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Suddenly we’re kissing, the passion inside us bottled up for too long bursting forth like a bottle of shaken lemonade. I sink to my knees and take Henry down with me, my hands exploring his face, head and shoulders. His fervour only serving to arouse me even more and I want him. Now. I lie back on the blanket and pull his face to mine, my hands lacing in his short curls at the back of his head. Sliding my hands down his sinewy shoulders and back, I find the hem of his t-shirt and slip my hands up and inside to his skin that is smooth and slightly slick with sweat. The heat between us grows and he moves over me, covering me with his body, his hips grinding rthymically into mine. He grabs my upper arms and moves swiftly so that I am now rolling over him and end up sitting astride his groin, my dress riding up around my hips.

“I really love this dress,” he says gasping between kisses, his hands smoothing a delicious path over my thighs and under the thin cotton, “and I want you more than I’ve wanted anything or anyone, but if we keep this up we’ll be done for indecent exposure.”

I pull back and look down at him, his eyes blue-bright and wickedly intense, his hair dishevelled with flecks of grass in it and I see his slow, sexy smile that is very nearly my undoing. I’m panting, sweat pouring between my breasts in rivulets and I give him an answering smile. Knowing he is right, I lift myself off and away from him, and straighten my dress. Inspecting the contents of the hamper to give my wandering hands something to do, I am pleasantly surprised to find fresh bread, cold meats, cheese, fruit, juice, wine and beer. Taking two bottles out of the cooler, I open them and pass one to Henry, who is sitting with his back against the tree, breathing hard and watching me with hooded eyes.

Taking a big sip, I sit down and lie back into him and ask about his family, his home and his life. He puts strong arms around me and pulls me closer, so that I’m nestled in the crook of his shoulder. We sit for hours, talking and kissing and getting to know each other in this glorious summer meadow.




Waiting For Superman Part Three

His kiss deepens and becomes more urgent and I respond involuntarily, melting against him. Too soon he pulls away, leaving me breathless.

“So,” I say, drawing out the word to give my scattered thoughts time to recover, “how many combinations are there?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I lost count after fifty! I didn’t want to give my number out to complete strangers so I did something I haven’t done for about ten years and I used a payphone. I got through to some real weirdos!”

I smile at the thought of Henry doing a Clarke Kent/Superman style spin in a phone box. “So if you still don’t have my number, how did you find me?”

“Well, I have your loquacious friend to thank for that. You’d think it’d be easy though, wouldn’t you? That I could just ask for the guest list details from the premiere, but Christ, no. That information is seriously guarded.  I’ve driven all my friends mad these last few days asking for help but it didn’t make any difference in the end, as I had to go in person to S & M and prove to a rather austere lady at reception that I’m not an axe murderer. I didn’t get chance to do that until this morning and luckily, I saw Miss Mills whilst I was there. She told me where to find you, so here I am.  I’m heading off again shortly, so, I just wanted to say hi and ask you if are free a week on Friday?”

He says all this rapidly and it’s all I can do to keep up with him. He saw Stacey this morning? What did she say to him? What did he say to her? Why didn’t I accept Stacey’s offer to help in the first place? I make a mental note to buy Stacey a big cream cake to say thank you and that Jackie, Stacey’s ever authoritarian receptionist, is due for a bitch-slap the next time I see her. Damn her too-efficient efforts in keeping this man from me! I marvel at his honesty and his determination to find me bowls me over anew. I feel like I’m floating on a cloud so high I’m getting dizzy from the lack of oxygen. I’m about to accept his offer, when my business head kicks in and pulls the cloud out from under me like a rug.

“Sorry but, no. I have a wedding that day.” I say with regret. “Not mine.”  I add stupidly.

“That’s good to hear,” he laughs throwing his head back, “Saturday then? Sunday? Monday?” he spies my appointments diary on a table and casually opens it to a week in early July. “Any good?” he points to a blank day.

I nod, stunned and watch fascinated as he takes a biro from his jeans pocket, scribbles for what seems like an age and closes the diary with a certain satisfaction. I am transfixed by his strong fingers gripping the pen and can’t help imagine what they would feel like on my bare skin. He then takes a handful of my business cards, studies one for moment and then pockets those along with the pen.

“Good,” he says before he kisses me briefly once more. “I’m sorry I have to rush off again but duty calls. I know I said this last time but I can’t wait to see you again.”

He strides in that purposeful, masculine way of his to the door and as he reaches it, he turns and flashes one of those famous smiles. I realise I haven’t spoken for a while and mumble a garbled goodbye. I watch as he replaces his baseball cap before climbing with an easy grace into a waiting SUV and as the car pulls away, I pick up my diary and turn excitedly to his message:


Wednesday 3rd July 2013

Jeanna with a J,

I feel like we are constantly saying goodbye and that I never have the time to say what I want to. I have worked hard all my life to achieve success but when I’m with you it doesn’t seem to mean as much. I want to warn you that you may hear or see things in the next day or two that you may find disconcerting. I realise that I’m coming on strong and I understand if you don’t want to, but please spend the day with me.

I really want to know you. All of you.

Henry x


P.S. This is my number. I won’t lie – I’ll be checking my phone every minute in the hope that you call or text!


P.P.S. You look beautiful


P.P.P.S. Call me. I’m not an axe murderer – honest!


P.P.P.P.S. Did I say you look beautiful?


Clutching the diary to me in a daze, I pick up the phone to call my best friend.



Several beers, two extra-large meat feast pizzas and a tub of Haagen Dazs later and Stacey, Craig and I are lounged on my sofa discussing the day’s events like giggly schoolgirls. I now know that Henry was waiting outside the locked doors of S & M at eight this morning and that he – according to Stacey – practically charmed the information out of Jackie in a mere two minutes.


“I’m telling you Jea, she was fucking putty in his hands. I know she’s a pain but she’s bloody brilliant at her job, she makes organising that reception look like pissing child’s play. I’ve never seen her act that way around a client. Normally I have to ask her to be a bit nicer to ‘em. Anyway I asked him what was he doing there and if I could help and that’s when he asked me where to find you. I told him about you liking wild flowers best. I can’t believe he actually gave you some. I wonder where the fuck he got them from.”


“It’s not where he got them that matters,” said Craig, “but the fact that he actually got them. It’s so sweet. He is absolutely into you, Jea. Let me read his note again.”


I pass him my diary, cheeks flushed from the beer-buzz and the thought of Henry Cavill being absolutely into me, on top of me, underneath me and all over me. Craig catches my eye and we both start laughing.


“You and your filthy mind as usual missy. I meant romantically. But yes, I’m sure he wants to fuck you into next week too. I mean, why wouldn’t he?”


“Oh, don’t start that again, please. I am not hot, nor am I a babe. I am just a normal looking person.”  I look at both of my friends in exasperation.


“Jea, when are going to get it into that thick fucking skull of yours, that you are indeed hot and that you are a complete and utter dick magnet. Ok you talk too much and you say the craziest fucking things, especially when you’re drunk, you are blissfully ignorant about celebrities apart from Henry and you have a weird obsession with old shit – apart from all that you are quite the fucking catch really.” Stacey is vehement and Craig nods along like one of those dogs you see in the back of cars.


“Thanks a lot,” I say with sarcasm, “are you two ever going to allow me to live it down?”


“Nope,” they say in unison falling about laughing.


It’s true, I don’t read all the celeb magazines and I avoid gossip columns like the plague (with the exception of Henry, of course) but how was I to know Channing Tatum wasn’t a female? Surely it’s an easy mistake to make? Unfortunately for me, I happened to divulge this intelligence (or lack of it) at one of Stacey’s events. To Mr Tatum himself. I promised myself that I wouldn’t attend a premier ever again after that toe-curling embarrassment, but Henry proved to be too difficult to resist. Thank heaven I didn’t humiliate myself like that last week.


“Anyway, he obviously really does like you. I wonder what he meant by reading funny things about him though. Any ideas?” Craig asks.


“No. The only thing I keep coming back to was that phone call the other night. He seemed really angry about something. Like it was something out of his control and I kind of get the impression he likes to be in control.”


“Well you know what the press are like. Slimy bunch of bastards the lot of ‘em. Whatever it is it’s probably not true,” Stacey says sagely, “I wouldn’t waste my time worrying about it. It’ll all be some made up shit anyway. More importantly, where do you think he’ll take you on your date?”


“I have no idea. When I text him earlier to say yes, his reply was something about picking me up at 9am and to dress casual. I’ve got three weddings to finish before then and I honestly don’t know how I’m going to concentrate – all I can think about is him!”


“Jea. What’s all this about in your diary? In this note he wrote. He said you look beautiful and then he said it again. It’s like he’s acknowledging something.”


Craig’s powers of perception are the stuff of local legend and have earned him the unfortunate moniker of Mystic Smeg. He has been known to throw boyfriends out on the merest hint of cheating and he’s usually right. Realising I have to come clean, I explain the wedding dress scenario to my shocked and mercifully silent besties.


Stacey is the first one to speak, “So you were trying one of your dresses on when he walked in –


– And he kissed you and tells you you look beautiful!” Craig finishes.


I nod, the burn in my cheeks warmer than July.


“Fuck me Jea! He fucking loves you!” Stacey cries.



Waiting For Superman Part Two

Monday morning arrives as unwelcome and uninvited as a mobile phone that won’t stop ringing at the worst possible moment. For the past few days I have fluctuated between elation and misery.  Was I really kissing Henry Cavill less than a week ago? The whole dizzying, life-changing experience on that London rooftop seems to be fading like a hot air balloon that is drifting on the horizon. The memory of that short and sweet encounter with the man of my dreams now unattainably distant, even though his scent still lingers on my dress (now hung in my closet) and in my hair. I know I need to shampoo it, but I’m afraid that if I do I will lose this last connection to him. I’m still having difficulty believing any of it actually happened, so that last thing I want to do is literally wash that man out of my hair, hence I’ve probably doubled the share value of dry shampoo overnight! My arrest-me-red lipstick is a squashed, mushy mess and my only other souvenirs of the event are the photo and the note. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I have read and reread his note over the weekend. The photograph that I surreptitiously took of him now also exists as a framed print in addition to the copy on my phone. I’ve tried not to pine over it, over him, but his incomparable eyes taunt me with a reminder of what was and his lips seem to gently mock my longing to return to that brief pocket of paradise when they covered mine in that sweet kiss.

Henry, I think, is still in Jersey. The travelling circus that is the world of movie premieres has moved on from London and touched down in Henry’s home. The tiny island just off the North coast of France celebrated with one of its most famous sons, with a premiere of its own on Saturday. It was heart-warming to see Henry again, surrounded this time by his family and friends but tinged with sadness as a stupid, jealous part of me couldn’t help but wonder if he had met someone else that night. Does he make a habit of picking out a girl at his premieres and seducing them at the after party? Does he send notes like this one often? Is it normal for him to practically throw a girl over shoulder like a cave man but then ask permission to kiss her, like some kind of fucked up mating modus operandi? I know this rat-run of useless and petty questioning is pointless but I can’t help it and I can’t get past the unavoidable fact that he asked for my number and hasn’t called or text and that he didn’t give me his number in return. It’s like there’s a roadblock in my head complete with red and white tape, traffic cones and glaring signs that flash on and off, shouting HE DOESN’T WANT YOU! Reality definitely bites and she’s one blood-thirsty, venomous-fanged, vampiric bitch.

Stacey has done her best to cheer me up. After oohing and ahhing in all the right places over the recounting of my tale with Henry, she offered to use some of her A List contacts to ty to get in touch with him – an offer I had to refuse. I am not going to chase him. She has been unswervingly loyal but magnanimous in her belief that he will call.

“He’s just busy that’s all.” She’d said on Saturday. “These Hollywood types are all the fucking same Jea. They get swept up in whatever they are promoting or shooting at the time and personal lives go to shit. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets in touch with you later today.”

That was two days ago and there’s still no word from him. I resolve to try and get on with my life the best I can from this point on. I have never been the kind of girl that wallows, waiting for a man to call but I have to admit that Stacey may have point, as she does know this industry better than me. Hating myself for clinging to this pearl of wisdom from my best friend, I make my way to the bathroom to shower, knowing full well that I won’t be washing my hair again today.




Work is a welcome distraction, although considering I have my own business and I get to do something I love, I’m not sure I can justifiably call it working.

“Something Old” is my pride and joy and is situated in one of the old arches under the railway at Camden Stables Market.  In the last two years I have laboriously and lovingly taken this dusty, dull, cavernous shell and transformed it into the beautiful, eclectic slice of bridal heaven it is today. The oak double doors are painted a sumptuous antique gold and give way to yards of white gossamer and creamy silks. From the ceiling more lace and satins drape artfully and an oversized gilded birdcage, large enough for a person to sit in, is suspended. There are stacks of Victorian and Edwardian teacups, teapots and cake stands arranged on a fifties style dressing table – complete with spotlights – in one intimate corner and, in another, a tailor’s dummy clasps a huge white ostrich feather fan, as if to shield its modesty. Four large baroque style mirrors line the walls and an original Wurlitzer jukebox plays hits from the twenties to the fifties. A sign reads ‘Wedding’ in large ornate letters reminiscent of a travelling circus and helpfully points the way. Piled high are steamer trunks and antiquated suitcases and just about every surface has a candelabra or lamp.

A little investigation further around a velvet curtained alcove is the payoff: My dresses. The most luxurious, exquisite and opulent collection of vintage wedding dresses are displayed from an ornate version of a clothes airer, that is suspended from the ceiling. The dresses are breath-taking. Masterpieces of design in silks, damask and lace adorned with pearls, beads and ribbons. Each dress is as lovely and unique as the next and each handpicked by me as representative of bygone eras and old time glamour. There is a silk bias cut Chanel 1930s gown embellished with ostrich feather trim and a daring low cut back. A cute, tailored cream A-line dress with matching bolero and pill box hat that Jackie O herself would have been proud of. A full skirted delicate lace dress with so many petticoats it looks as if it is made of wisps of air. There are wiggle dresses, ball gowns, prom dresses, long, full, short, floral and polka dots, hippy chick, steampunk, pin up or grunge – every vintage bride is catered for. These beauties have set me back a small fortune, but I am happy and I never tire of the thrill of helping a bride find her prefect dress.  It’s been a labour of love that began with my mum’s own wedding dress; a pastel floral flouncing affair from the height of 1970s flower power, a dress that wouldn’t be out of place on Kate Moss at Glastonbury or Coachella.

I love every aspect of my work. I can happily spend hours rummaging through car boot sales and charity shops and have a borderline unhealthy addiction to Ebay. I am a trained seamstress, and spent five years of my life studying textiles and design. I love noting more than firing up my old Singer sewing machine to repair, alter or create a gown. If I don’t have a dress for a bride to be, I will endeavour to make one. My business is busy and although it won’t make me a millionaire, I am comfortable and happy.

Today is exciting, as I have just had a delivery of a new dress and this one is rather special.  I make it a habit to try on every gown (if they fit) as it helps me get a feel for how the dress hangs, especially if I want to make a copy for a client and also because I simply can’t help playing dress up! This new dress is stunning. A creamy silk satin and lace number with a fitted bodice, long sleeves and a high neck. The lace overlay is delicate and just about covers my modesty as otherwise it would be open at the nape of the neck to the base of the spine. It’s sweet and demure, yet very sexy at the same time and is quite fitted around the hips, giving me a lovely hour-glass shape before fanning out to a long, sweeping train. I know there is something wholly narcissistic about my dress up fantasies and it’s a part of me that I like to keep hidden – not even Stacey and Craig know about it.

I’m just about to unzip the gown when the bell over the door tinkles. I don’t have any appointments scheduled until after lunch, so assume it’s a walk-in. Unwilling to keep a potential customer waiting I draw back the curtain to say hello and my heart stumbles again as I come face to face with Henry. The blood rushes to my face and chest and I feel uncomfortably hot all of a sudden in this dress. What on earth is he doing here? Why didn’t I take an extra five minutes in the shower to wash my hair? Why did I have to play fairy princess this morning? I must look like such an idiot. Please don’t think I’m some kind of crazy lady, desperate to get a ring on my finger. I just love pretty dresses, that’s all.

“Forgive the intrusion in your place of work but I don’t have a lot of time and I figured I owe you an apology.”

He looks sincere and awkward and I realise he’s letting me down gently. I’m wearing a bloody wedding dress for crying out loud and Henry Cavill is blowing me out! Can this be anymore mortifying?

“An apology?”

I hate that I sound so pathetic but all I want is for him to get this over with and go, so I can take off this stupid dress and lick my wounds in private.

As this is the last time I will ever see him, I take a moment to study him completely. He looks simply divine, casually dressed in thigh-hugging jeans, black tee and baseball cap, his hair curling below its peak and around his ears. He’s wearing the same spicy aftershave as before and, as he lifts his hand to his face to take off his cap, it hits me full on, heady and potent.

“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t call and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to find you again. The lipstick smudged. Do you know how many mathematical combinations there are of your telephone number if you’re missing a few digits?”

His eyes lock with mine and I let his words wash over me and into me, drinking in their meaning. It’s like a switch has been thrown and the atmosphere between us charges instantly. My breathing hitches and my heart doesn’t just skip, its playing Double Dutch.  I only now realise he has his right arm behind his back and as if by magic he produces the most exquisite bouquet of flowers. How does know that wild flowers are my favourite?

“Am I forgiven?” he asks with a shy tilt to head, his magnetic eyes drawing me closer to him like a tractor beam.

He hands the flowers to me – a beautiful mixed posy of Cornflowers, Cosmos, Californian Poppies and fragrant Sweet Peas, tied together with a pretty organza ribbon. How can I resist him?

“There’s nothing to forgive.” I say truthfully and, once again, I’m in his strong arms.

His eyes search mine for moment, as if asking for permission before he kisses me gently. I wonder momentarily if he sees the irony here: a girl in a wedding dress, clutching a bouquet kissing the man she loves. Just for moment I entertain this impossible dream and then I lose myself in him and this bliss.



Waiting For Superman Part One

Part One.

I find a quiet table to sit at, thinking that I should go. I’ve seen him and that was what I wanted but it will never be enough for me. Watching him now – surrounded by his family and assorted admirers – I die a little inside, as I realise that we truly are from different worlds. He is laughing, throwing his head back, revealing those wolfish teeth and THAT devastating smile.

I hunt in my bag for my phone to call a taxi and as I do, I think maybe I’ll just take one quick picture. I know he loves his fans and is always happy to pose for them but I can’t help thinking that this may be a too much of an intrusion. I steady my hand and just as I click to take the shot, he turns and looks directly at me. I fumble the phone and drop it under the table, embarrassment heating my chest and cheeks. I disappear beneath the table to retrieve my phone and take a quick glance at it: he’s staring straight at the lens, his expression unfathomable, blue eyes intense, like sparkling icicles in that precious hour between dusk and true night; the treacherous beauty of winter’s chill and the promise of warm hearths and crackling fires in one.

Taking a deep breath I pocket my phone and sit up straight, trying to look anywhere but in his direction. I don’t succeed and I’m disappointed to see that he’s no longer there. Dammit. I’ve pissed him off I’m sure. I scan the room quickly and the gloom deepens when I can’t find him anywhere. Unable to bear this any longer, I quickly stand and turn to flee and I’m immediately sitting back down again, as I bump into someone taller and broader than me.

He sits down next to me, concern marring his lovely brow as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to see how the photo came out.”

My brain is frozen. I blink, trying to defog my scattered thoughts and calm the galloping hooves that have replaced my heartbeat. There is a delicious, yet slightly nauseating fluttering south of my navel. I once saw a nature programme about millions of Monarch butterflies migrating after their long period of inaction during the winter, and I’m convinced they’ve now chosen my tummy as a perfect take-off site. Is this really happening? I must look like such an idiot right now. He is the only reason I let Stacey talk me into coming here tonight. The reason I am here – and now he is here, talking to me! No, not just talking to me. He’s asking about the photo and I’m thinking about Monarch butterflies! Oh shit! Speak dammit!

Unsticking my tongue, which seems to have tied itself to the roof of my mouth, I glance up at him, mirroring his shy grin. “Um the photo is perfect, thank you, but I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have taken it without permission so I’ll delete it if you want me to. You are my favourite actor. I’ve seen all your work – well, not Hellraiser and Blood Creek because I don’t like scary movies but everything else and you’re great, especially The Tudors and Whatever Works and I’m really excited about Man of Steel and The Man From Uncle and I know that Monarch butterflies are the only insect that can fly all the way across the Atlantic and I’m rambling now, so I probably need to stop talking.”

My cheeks burn again and I silently rue the two glasses of champagne I drank earlier. I hate champagne anyway. Why, oh why did I just do that? He’s going to think I’m crazy – and not in a good way.  I chance another glance at him, still in shock at his presence, and even more surprised that he hasn’t made a quick get-away after my inane speech. I may as well use this opportunity to observe him up close and personal – and boy is he up close – as all too soon this is going to end. Either I’m dreaming (although I don’t remember going to bed) or he will come to his senses and – ever the gentleman – politely leave. I gasp at yet another shock – he’s staring at me so intimately and rubbing his thumb along his lower lip in a speculative way that sends iceberg sized tremors through me.

“So, no scary films, you talk too fast and too much when you are nervous and you like to give out unsolicited intelligence about butterflies. Three things about you I didn’t know five minutes ago. Am I only getting the edited version of you, because I sincerely hope not? You obviously know lots about me, so it seems kind of unfair. Help me out a little and let me play catch up.”

He lingers on the word play for a moment and I’m distracted by his mouth. He has beautifully sculpted lips; the bottom one full but not too full – and almost dead centre is a freckle or beauty spot. This freckle is my absolute weakness where Henry is concerned. Yes, he is the whole package but it’s the freckle that I always look for when scanning new photos of him online and it’s this freckle that drives me wild with lust when I see it, and I’m seeing it – for real – now! I find myself gazing at his lower lip and that spot, wondering what it feels and tastes like and imagining biting down on it…

Henry is talking again, “maybe we should start at the beginning? Hi, I’m Henry, and you are?”

He holds out his hand, and tilts his head inquisitively at me. He looks at me intently, like it matters to him more than anything in the world and once again I’m lost. How am I supposed to converse with him coherently? ‘It’s Henry Cavill. Henry Cavill. Henry Cavill. Henry Cavill’ my mind thunders at me over and over again. The rhythm charging along like pistons and gears in my addled brain, railroading me like a runaway locomotive and I’m helpless. A true damsel in distress in this moment and his eyes are the bright lamplight of this train fixing me and pinning me down to the tracks. I know I am about to be run over by the reality that is Henry Cavill and I don’t want or need rescuing. He is sitting so close to me I can smell his spicy cologne and feel the very weight of him in the air around us. I even felt the cushion in the seat next to me move when he sat down. This must be real. With mind and heart hammering this relentless and almost hypnotic beat, I take his hand and shake it in mine. I’m trying to play it cool but jump visibly at the charge between us.

Wishing I could be as calm as he is but knowing I’m hopelessly losing this game, I speak again, “My name is Jeanna.” I smile, but see his eyes cloud over fractionally and once again, I’m gabbling away before censoring my words. “Yes my name is Jeanna. I spell it J E A N N A not G I N A. I have black hair, I’m five feet eight inches tall, my birthday is the same as hers – 16th April, but that’s where the similarities end. I’m thirty-six, so older than she is and older than you and I don’t like to play games.”

I don’t know why but the look on his face when I told him my name angered me and it looks as if my little rant has got his attention.

“You’re very honest”, he states simply. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I’m sorry but you have a very expressive face. Obviously, that is why you are such a good actor but you looked worried or upset or something when I told you my name and I had to say what I felt. I’m not HER or anyone else. I am honest and I will always say what I feel, unless you ask me something I don’t want you to know. In that case I won’t answer you. I won’t lie.”

Why has this suddenly turned into confessional? Christ on a bike! I’m sitting with Henry Cavill and I’m calling him out for having previous girlfriends? Way to go about ruining the most amazing moment of your entire life. I realise I am holding my breath and let it out slowly. The anger at her goes with it and in its place the nerves crank up another notch to Defcon One.

“I like your honesty Jeanna with a J, and I like you.  A lot.” He says quietly, smiling at me again but this time the shyness has gone and it’s been usurped by the Cavill Megawatt Hollywood Dazzler. The smile I have dreamed about countless times. It’s the kind of smile that could be responsible for melting the polar ice caps and is like the love of a thousand puppies all rolled into one. Those eyes wide, innocent, silently compelling and utterly hypnotic.

“Unfortunately I have to go – the premiere, you know? Please will you wait for me after? Wait here. I will find you. I hope you enjoy the film Jeanna with a J.”

And with that he is gone. Striding away from me with that long-legged grace of his, so that I can only marvel at his retreating back. The film! Man of Steel. It should be renamed Man who Steals because he has my heart, mind, body and soul now and if I’m honest, he always did. I jump up and realise I need to find Stacey. I’m not sure whether my legs will support me though, as I start to replay his words in my mind. Spotting my friend through the masses, I make my way over to her, pretty sure my flushed complexion will give me away.


Stacey Mills may look like a fragile and delicate flower but I know different. My best friend of over twenty years, she is five feet  two inches of feisty girl-power with more sass than a gold hotpants clad Kylie Minogue at a Kylie lookalike convention.  Through her company S & M Events, Stacey has arranged premieres for some of the world’s biggest movies and celebrity is her bread and butter. It’s thanks to her that I have the access all areas pass around my neck and that impending rendezvous with my dream man. She is super organised, wickedly charming and rabidly profane – an interesting juxtaposition to her pop princess looks.

We are seated two hours into the movie – a blur of red and blue (although everything looks rose-tinted to me) – when I feel, rather than see, her now familiar overture of bony elbow digging into my ribcage.

“He’s looking again.” She hisses “Shh. I’m trying to concentrate.”

Trying and failing I don’t add, as the only thing I can think about now is Henry and AFTER. AFTER is gnawing away at the inside of my stomach, just as I am doing to my now useless manicure. Stacey reaches over and tugs my finger from mouth again and gives me what I think is one her stern looks – it’s hard to tell in the darkness. I take my hand back and sit on it along with the other for fear of worrying my nails any further. AFTER is currently threatening to knock my heart out of my chest and a big part of me thinks AFTER may cause me to throw up at any second.

The movie juggernauts its way to a destructive yet heroic climax: Superman on-screen battling the authoritarian General Zod in thirty feet’s worth of glorious Technicolor and I marvel again that this man finds anything about me fascinating. I’m just an ordinary girl; tall, but not exceptionally so. I scrub up quite well and I have good skin and hair. My figure is best described as curvy, although I’ve been fighting the weight gain since I hit my thirties. I once won my hometown Rear of the Year competition, but nowadays my arse looks more like the rear of a bus. I have a small yet full mouth and wide rather than high slanting cheekbones, which make me wonder if I have a long-lost Russian Princess hiding in my ancestry. My best features are probably my eyes; a kind of blue-grey and very expressive, the right one sharing something in common with Henry’s left: a partial heterochromia.

The credits roll and enthusiastic applause rises in waves to the rafters. There are whoops and cheers from the crowd and Henry stands proud and jubilant as he graciously accepts their plaudits. It appears that everyone wants to shake Superman’s hand and he has a smile and word of thanks for them all. The entourage closes in and I can no longer see him and for some reason this makes me worry and a little jealous. I shake my head and laugh at myself. If he is to be trusted then I should be preparing to meet with him again shortly and everything I know about him (which on a personal level is very little) tells me he is but what if he’s changed his mind? What if it’s all some big mistake or he just realises that it simply wouldn’t work? I’m not attempting to cast shadows on Henry’s integrity but things like this just don’t happen in real life. My natural inclination is to worry about things and this being the biggest single event to happen to me, short of my birth, is monumental and a major teenage emo laden angst-fest. I’m not naïve but I have loved before and I know how hard and fast I fall. Henry is pretty much my romantic equivalent of sky-diving.

Stacey says as she takes my hand again and pulls me up onto to my feet.  I smile wanly and wonder if I packed my parachute, and more importantly,  hope that it works.


I am back at the same table, this time waiting, wondering and silently praying. I have resisted the urge to keep checking my phone every minute; the photograph of him vivid, bright and perfect in my memory. I’m afraid if I look at it too often it will fade, like an old-fashioned negative. My hands shake around my glass; the tremors seemingly radiating from my very core. The chatter around me is an adrenalin and booze injected cacophony, punctuated with many “Darlings” and “Sweeties” and much air kissing.  I have destroyed three tissues since Stacey deserted me ten minutes earlier to deal with an “urgent” matter regarding the late arrival of a minor star’s car and a subsequent drunken tirade, her mantra echoing in some shadowy recess of my mind:

“Remember the three Ps,” which according to her are “absofuckinglutely necessary” for success in any situation. “One: Personality: be yourself no matter what and don’t be afraid of who you are. Two: Pee: always, but always make a toilet stop first and Three: Perfume: If you smell fucking fabulous you will be fucking fabulous – thus leading to fabulous fucking! Personally I would add Puke, Perspire and Pass Out to the list but I don’t think Stacey would approve. Another five minutes kicks by and I am suddenly aware that most of the crowd have left. He’s not coming, my sensible side whispers, as I dash away unwanted and useless tears with the back of my hand.


My heart and stomach swap places with a hope that betrays my sensibilities as I hear my name, and even though I know it’s not his voice, I can’t help the crashing wave of disappointment that consumes me completely, as I look up at the familiar face of Craig, Stacey’s P.A. and my other close friend.

“Henry Cavill just gave me this to give to you! Is there something you need to be telling me?”

He gives me a piece of paper and a look so comical I burst out laughing. In my over-excited-too-much-champagne-giddy-with-delight-turned-to-despair state of mind this comes out as half a sob, half a giggle. He looks at me again, this time crossing his arms and tapping his foot impatiently.

“What’s going on? He asked me if I knew you and said that it was important that you got it immediately. Then his agent whisked him away before I could say anything else. You’re right by the way – he is the sexiest man alive.”

I’m only half listening to my friend as he starts listing Henry’s “delicious” qualities, and with fingers that don’t seem able to function correctly, I open the note.

Jeanna with a J, Forgive me, but I have to leave. It would give me great pleasure to see you again at the party. Please come. I will be on the mezzanine at midnight, waiting.


I stare at the missive. Hand trembling so bad I can hardly make sense of the words. I read it again and again trying to assimilate the meaning. Party? What party?


The music steadily thumps a techno-lite version of a recent chart topper. The DJ waves his arms about in staccato time to the rhythm. The crowd follow him enthusiastically, a sea of arms raised to the vaulted ceiling; fists pumping along with the throb of a bassline that is felt through the feet before assaulting the ears. Lights in a myriad of colour swoop over the throng and cast elongated shadows over the anonymous faces, walls and floor.  The After Party is living up to its billing and the assembled VIP movie watchers are now letting loose. I have spied gossip column regulars, sports stars and TV favourites since I arrived, but no sign of Henry. The party is being held in club fittingly called Metropolis (although I have to wonder if the name was added specifically for tonight’s event) on the 38th floor of one of London’s tallest skyscrapers, right in the heart of the city.  I amble over to the floor to ceiling windows and take in the vista. The venue is heart stopping in its simplicity and the view over London striking.

As midnight draws near I find Stacey and Craig. I am nervous all over again and desperately need some encouragement. Feeling absurdly like Cinderella, I wonder if I’m about to turn into a pumpkin and cast my eyes about wildly for a Fairy Godmother. Craig wordlessly hands me a drink which I eye suspiciously.

“It’s only water.” He shouts over the music with a shake of his head.

I thank him with a faint smile and take the glass. I am grateful for this tiny act of kindness from my friend who knows me well. I need to keep a clear head now. Stacey gives me a warm hug and marches me toward the stairs.

“Good luck hon.” She nods to the security guys, who magically stand aside to let me pass. “I’m right down here if you need me, Jea.”

Stairs. I silently rebuke Mr Cavill for his choice of meeting place, as I realise my legs and five-inch heels aren’t cut out for climbing shiny glass and chrome steps, whilst my brain and heart restart the whole runaway train thing: Henry Cavill. Henry Cavill. Henry Cavill. Henry Cavill….

I reach the top, holding my breath and the stair-rail both, afraid to let go and fall. It is brighter here than I could tell from downstairs, a soft glow radiating gently from the walls. There is a sense of homeliness, like putting on a pair of comfy socks after a cold and long day, which seems oddly detached from the dance-floor below. Two extremely comfy looking sofas and a solitary table are the only furniture and a single seat is occupied. I force myself to look straight ahead and find the deep blue sea of those eyes again, as he’s here, waiting for me, just like his note said. He stands. For what seems like forever he stands there looking at me, until I start to feel even more self-conscious and a little bit like a museum exhibit. I’ve been holding my breath so long now that I may have forgotten how the process works. My hand is started to ache from gripping the bannister so tight but I don’t want to let go just yet, he may be Superman on celluloid but I’m also certain that any resulting fall will be cause and effect of just being near him. Straightening my shoulders and mentally girding my heart, I start to speak just as he does.

“Hel –

“Hi. Tha –

We both laugh and try again.

“You go –

“Sorry, you fir –

Smiling broadly he makes a grand sweeping gesture with his hand and inclines his head, waiting for me to speak.

“I was just going to say hello.” I whisper.

“Me too. I also wanted to thank you for coming.”

He smiles a shy, boyish smile and I’m struck at the guilelessness in his words. Did he really have doubts about my attendance? I try for a natural smile to hide any shock I am feeling. He moves suddenly, closing the distance between us in a second and too stunned to do anything to but stare, I don’t protest as he takes my wrist from the railing and pulls me along in his wake. He turns and swiftly makes for a door I hadn’t noticed before. Somewhere in a shadowy room of my mind, I register the fire exit sign above the door, the faintly green glow kicking my survival instinct in the shins and waking me up. He may be Mr-Sex-On-Legs-Cavill but I know nothing about him and he could be dangerous. My heart screams n denial at the thought that he could be anything less than perfect and my libido laughs rebelliously.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I am determined to keep any fear out of my speech and try and fail to break free of his strong contact on my wrist. He makes no attempt to respond and I see that we are headed for yet more stairs. I am tripping along in his wake, valiantly trying to keep up with him. I’m going to break an ankle at this rate.

“If it is your intention that we head up these stairs, at least let me take off my shoes.” I snap at him, thinking this meeting isn’t going the way I’d planned it in my dreams.

He stops briefly, arches his right eyebrow and swoops me up, shoes and all, so that I am in his arms and being carried up the offending stairs before I can object.

“Put me down! I’ll scream.” I say it bluntly, but it sounds hollow and even I don’t believe myself.

His proximity is like a strangle hold on my sense of indignation, gripping me with a yearning I have never known. His cologne is a heady and spicy musk in my face, enticing me like vapours from a witch’s brew. I don’t know what to do with my hands, even though I long to stroke the soft curls around his ears that are now tantalizingly close. We reach the top of the short narrow staircase and Henry opens yet another door, this time onto cooler air and a roof terrace quiet, and still in the moonlight. A soft breeze ripples past and I shiver, although I don’t feel particularly cold. Henry stops and finally sets me down on my feet, sliding me down his hard body with an aching slowness that leaves me reeling. He doesn’t let me go and in this moment, I am glad, as I don’t think I can stand of my own accord.

“Sorry,” he says simply.

Sorry. He’s sorry. What on earth? I don’t understand this man one bit.

“I wanted to ask you something but I want it to be private. I never know who is looking or who has a camera these days.”

He drags both hands through his hair, momentarily relinquishing me and I know I should be pleased but I’m not and I feel bereft.

Could I…kiss you?” His voice is quiet but his eyes burn, wondrously lambent and hopeful.

Kiss me? Yes, yes a thousand time yes! My mind is tripping, dipping and swirling like a rollercoaster running dangerously close to the rails. He’s asking for permission? This is crazy. I feel like I am on the Big Wheel swaying in my little gondola at the very top of the world, the view over everything breath-taking and daunting all at once. The whizz and whoosh of the whole carnival surrounds me, sweeping crescendos of blinding, bursting light and sound, explode like popping balloons full of rainbows, and inside I am laughing and screaming, and I really am falling into time and space and  ecstatic oblivion.

“You just manhandled me up some stairs and now you are asking my permission?” My voice is too high and my eyes are too wide.

“Sorry,” he says again, “that wasn’t very well thought out was it? Is that a no, then?”

This is it. The moment I have dreamed of my whole life.

“No. It’s not a ‘No’.”

“Thank you.”

He smiles that smile again; the Henry Cavill Weapon of Mass Seduction. It leaves me breathless; isolated on a barren speck of the world, like the lone survivor of a devastating, yet beautiful and all-ravaging apocalypse. He cups my face in his hands as synapses explode with delicious fission all over my body and leans toward me. The intensity of his gaze melts any vague notion of resistance I may have had. He kisses me and the world ends and starts again, as I find my own Utopia in the soft, sweet sanctuary of his lips.


For a few precious and stolen moments (or it may have been several star-struck hours, or even a handful of sun-kissed lazy days) I am the girl kissing Henry Cavill on a skyscraper rooftop in London, although it feels like I am at the very top of the universe, looking down through the stratosphere on an especially starry night. He tastes like heaven; my own personal ambrosia cushioned by the warm, soft and delicious plumpness of his mouth. His hands, gentle, hold my cheeks and imprison me in an unyielding frame. A soft, guttural exclamation escaping from him as our lips close and open and meet again, turning and twisting with the other’s in a dance as old and erotic as life itself. One of his hands shifts from my face and grasps my hair at the nape, pulling me closer still, and I gasp as his teeth graze my lower lip. His kiss deepens into something urgent and primeval, and I feel my most sensitized zones stand to attention, as my body responds involuntarily, my own hands now fisting in his gloriously soft curls. He pushes me back to the door almost violently and I’m pinioned by his hips, his groin grinding hard and growing against mine, and I feel omniscient and a little delirious with the knowledge. I know I could quite easily end up having fantastic bang-bang sex with Henry Cavill right here, right now, and a wanton, needy part of me doesn’t care. She is already ripping a foil condom packet with her teeth, like a hungry lioness tearing into the flesh of its prey. This kiss. I never want it to end.

A dull vibration against my thigh interrupts the fantasy, like a nuisance fly around the kill my lioness can’t shake off. Henry pulls back hesitantly, then resumes kissing me but the pest won’t be silenced and he stills. Without breaking eye contact he fishes in his pocket for the offending phone and presses a button, effectively killing its incessant buzz. He smiles a lop-sided apologetic grin and swoops down to kiss me once more. Things are just getting interesting again when a melodic but unfamiliar tune rings out from the transgressive mobile.

“You should answer it.” I say it without believing it myself.

“I don’t want to.”

“Well that makes two of us but it might be important.” He looks questioningly at me for a second before deciding to take my advice and he answers the call.

As jubilant as I am at his reluctance, a small part of me would have preferred it if he had thrown the damn thing away. I step aside to give him some privacy but also to give myself time to reflect on the last and best five minutes of my life. I have kissed Henry Cavill! I want to run to the edge of the roof garden and scream it into the oblivious London night sky. I bring tentative fingers to my lips that are still swollen and tingling, evidence of his mouth that was tracing mine. I looked straight into those incomparable blue eyes and saw the desire in them, like twin pools of burning ice. I had my hands on that unbelievably sexy curly mop of hair and I felt his erection pushing into me. Henry Cavill kissed me and he wanted me! Maybe I will wake up in a minute and it will all have been a dream – but what a dream?

“What?… Who?… Uh huh… Yeah, but it was years ago, I don’t know. Shit! No. Ok, yeah I’m coming now. Can you get Steve to meet me around the back please? Thanks. Yeah, I will.”

Henry ends the call and he looks angry. It’s not his usual composed demeanour.

“I’m sorry. I have to go. This isn’t how I planned things progressing in my head but I don’t want you falling in those heels, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to do this again.”

Once more I am in Henry’s capable arms, as he scoops me up again (I am starting to feel like a fireman’s dummy), tugs open the door and sprints down the stairs in double-quick time. The music from downstairs that was mercifully silent on the roof garden now invades my brain, the assault on my eardrums a testament to the fact that our moment is over and my libido evaporates with each thump of the beat. He deposits me underneath the green light inside the mezzanine room. He looks suddenly unsure and, again, this seems to be at odds with his normal self-possession.

“Do you um, want to give me your number?”

His eyes shine with honesty and his beguiling smile is like an arrow aimed straight at my heart. My number? Target acquired and locked Mr Cavill. Spirit soaring at the thought of any kind of shared future, I answer with a goofy grin and fumble in my bag for a pen I know I don’t have. Victorious, I produce my lipstick – a hot pink matt that I’m shocked to see he isn’t also sporting after our luscious lip mambo.

It seems it’s my turn to be shy and I hold up the lippy, “I, err, don’t have a um pen. Is this ok?”

He nods and swiftly unbuttons his shirt from the collar down to his chest. I gasp and just when I don’t think this night can become any more surreal (or amazing) he takes my trembling hand in his and places it on the downy, soft curls above his heart. “Just here.” The lambency in his eyes threatens to overwhelm me and it’s all I can do to keep my hand steady as I scribble out my number above his hard, perfect pecs. I’m done too soon and he takes my hand again and brings it to his lips for a swift, chaste kiss.

“Thank you. I am sorry. I hope to see you soon Jeanna with a J,” and he disappears down yet another staircase.

I stand there for a few moments, allowing the intelligent side of my brain time to play tag with everything else. The kiss, his words, my number, his chest! I am beyond ecstatic right now. I am Julie Andrews singing and twirling like a crazy lady on a mountain top. A Disney princess who finally found her prince. An adrenalin-pumped and exhilarated rookie who just completed her first “jump” from thirty thousand feet. Yes, the landing may have been a little abrupt, but I’m on solid – if slightly shaky – ground, my parachute billowing behind me like a beautiful, bright nimbus and I can’t help my smile as wide as the whole sky, as I go in search of my friends.


I love to write and I write with love. I am a happily married mum of two brilliant little boys. Henry Cavill is my book boyfriend inspiration. Please feel free to leave feedback and comments and to share with your friends. I hope you enjoy my stories.