The Actor

Things with the Actor have gotten off to a shaky start. Again.

I met him in a crowded Vancouver pub last July, still jetlagged and disorientated and more than a little worse than wear after weaving our girlie chain from pub to pub along Granville Street and sweetalking tough looking bouncers into free entry and free rounds of sweet shots.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry." Flashing my best cheeky grin, the Englishness of my accent enhanced through alcohol. I've fallen into his arms. Literally.

And then the small talk. His friends leave him. He is enchanted; he says, letting them file past him. He is broad. Heavy arms tattoed through a black shirt. There is something, just something that happens in that moment and I leave him, my email address scribbled on a parking ticket.

The email the following day is direct. To the point. Vancouver men are not afraid to go after what they want and not afraid to let you know that they are interested.
I procrastinate, I have little time in Vancouver and am not interested in pursuing a holiday romance, although deep down I know that I will be coming back very soon.
He pushes. Lays it down in black and white.

"Meet me for a drink, I'll be at a gig tonight in little Japan. I'll put your name on the door.
I'll see you there."

There is something in that directness. I am intrigued. So I google. As you do. And I go out for dinner with a friend, meet some other friends for a drink. And in a split second, I decide to go. Rushing back to the Gorgeous's to change into a black dress, pulling on sexy wedges and taming sunsoaked hair. The zipper breaks, and there is nothing else to wear.

Should I still go? Looking at my dress in disbelief.

Absolutely, the Gorgeous says, taking needle and thread and sewing me into the dress.

"This way," she looks at me with a cheeky grin, "you'll have to behave."

And out the door, an hour and a half late.

He is waiting outside, sees me step from the cab and takes my hand. Is charming and doting, a gentleman in a Harley Davidson t-shirt and baseball cap. Holds my hand. There is something in all that, I feel safe. The night rolls into morning, and I leave the next day for a few days away with my family.
When I get back, he will already be on his way north for a film. I won't see him again.

And I get back to London, try to fall back into a routine. There are a few phone calls and the occassional email. He stops acting, writes full time. The emails and the phone calls stop. Life is like that.

So last week an email. I am back, would he like to meet up.
Yes. He says. Yes. Yes. Yes.

But somehow we can't seem to connect, phones going dead, Rosie, the cat vomitting mid conversation, a bee that needed to be released from his flat. And when we did arrange drinks last night I had to cancel and new dates can't seem to be confirmed.

So, I say with a sigh. Watch this space. I'm heading out into the big bad old world of actually dating.

Which will be a welcome and entertaining change from my current routine, snogging cute boys and then promptly forgetting their names.