Love on the Rebound

A short story by Vanessa Wu.

Smashwords Edition.

Copyright © Vanessa Wu 2011.

Edited and published by Ambergris Books.

This story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Love on the Rebound

Adele watched the two lovers in the stairway. She was below them, just outside the door to the dance floor. Trance music pounded loudly on the other side of the door, pitching high and low, wailing and thrumming on sonic waves that were making her feel slightly sea-sick. The music drowned out the lovers’ words but she could guess what they were saying because they had been saying it for the past hour.

Miranda, who had come to the night club straight from her performance at the Adelphi, had probably not intended to end the affair. But she was tired, it had been a difficult crowd and her feet ached.

Neil, who was drunk before she arrived, got drunker. He stared at several passing women with more than a passing interest and seemed oblivious to Miranda’s reproaches. He then told Miranda that having a West End role was making her just a little bit arrogant.

On the stairs their body language said it all. She, one step above him, her posture erect and proud, looked like Amundsen conquering the pole. Her hands were on her hips, one of which was thrown out to the side. Her back was arched and her chin jutted forward. She glowered down at him with the ferocity of a lioness.

He cowered on the step below. He reached out to clutch her arm and she flung his hand away. His shoulder drooped. His jaw was slack. His eyes were desperate and lost.

Miranda beckoned to Adele. “Come on,” she shouted. “We really are going.”

They fetched their things from the cloakroom and climbed the stairs with their coats over their arms.

Adele trailed behind as they emerged into the bright lights of theatres, restaurants and taxis in St. Martin’s Lane. Miranda was in high heels and a thin blue dress. She pulled on her white woollen coat and raised her arm for a cab. A driver pulled up abruptly and turned off his For Hire sign. Miranda set off towards him but Neil clung onto her and held her back.

“You can’t go yet,” he said. “I haven’t finished.”

“Oh, you’re finished all right. You’re finished. I’m finished. We’re finished.”

“No!”

“Neil! Let go of me.”

“Not until you say you’ll stay and have another drink.”

“No, let’s not discuss it any more. My throat’s getting sore and I’ve a singing lesson tomorrow morning.”

“You’ve had enough singing lessons. It won’t hurt to miss one.”

“And you’ve had enough whisky. The only reason you’re hanging onto me is so you don’t fall over.”

“Rubbish.”

“Look, the tax driver’s getting impatient.”

“Rubbish.”

“I think he might even come over here and clout you if you don’t let go.”

“Rubbish.”

“I’ll say one thing. I’m not going to miss your conversation.”

She pulled away from him and he lurched sideways but managed to stay upright, staring after her. She opened the cab door, turned on her heel and glared back at him. She was magnificent in her white coat. Her blonde hair was swept back from her face in a cut that made you think of stylish restaurants and five star hotels. Two sparkling threads of diamonds hung down from her ears and twirled insolently under the street lights. She had taken the time after leaving the stage to remove her make up. She didn’t need it. Her face was radiant. Her complexion glowed and her blue eyes shone like gems beneath the smooth perfection of her brow.

Adele helped Neil into the cab and he sank into the corner sighing heavily. It was starting to rain. He wiped his glasses with the corner of his handkerchief and screwed up his face in an expression of pain, as though the street lights were hurting his eyes. It was just after midnight. There was a long queue of people in bright clothes queuing up to get into the nightclub. Some girls were screaming and doing a jig on the pavement while others were whipping out impossibly large umbrellas from their tiny clutch bags and jostling each other with them.

“Neil, your phone.” Neil’s phone had slipped out of his pocket and was sliding off the seat. Miranda picked it up and handed it to him. “Who’s going to look after you when I’m not around to do it?”

Miranda crossed her legs and Adele observed that the gold heel on her shoe was six inches long at least. Adele’s shoes had two inch heels. She couldn’t wear higher without being crippled by pain. She didn’t know how Miranda did it and she had to admire her style. After four hours on stage she still looked as fresh as a daisy and had the energetic grace of a model on a catwalk

“I suppose this means you don’t want the lead part in Night Stalker after all,” Neil said.

“Spare me the empty promises,” she replied.

“It’s not an empty promise. You know I tailored it to you.”

“You didn’t tailor anything. You asked the writers to spice it up a little, that’s all.”

“I know what sells.”

“So why are you still trying to get funding for it then?”

“You know the funding was there. It was all arranged. I can’t help it if the backers mess me around. I’ll get someone else to fund the project. And I’ll get another actress for the lead.”

“Please do. I don’t do nude scenes any more anyway.”

“Since when?”

“Since I got this role. This is Bernard Shaw, darling. Classical theatre.”

“It’s about a whore and her daughter.”

“But it’s principled, Neil. Bernard Shaw was a gentleman and it shows in his play. ”