Showmance - L.H. Cosway



All actors are sluts.

Okay, so maybe not all actors, but whatever. I was in love with an actor, or at least I thought I was, and he was about as oblivious as those little old ladies who used to swoon over Liberace. So oblivious that, even though we’d been sleeping together, he had the gall to ask me to pop to the shop and grab him a pack of johnnies. But not for us, oh, no. Apparently he planned on banging the leading lady after the show.

I stood there, gobsmacked, my bleeding heart dripping all over the floor as I tried to maintain some dignity.

“Excuse me?”

“Johnnies, condoms, prophylactics. You’ve heard of them, yes?” Blake elaborated.

“Y-yes, of course I’ve heard of them, but what about — ”

He cut me off. “These past few weeks have been great, Rose, but I’m just not in the market for a relationship. Best if we both move on now, eh?”

My head moved slowly from side to side in disbelief. “So it all meant nothing to you?”

“Of course it meant something. It meant I got you in my bed. We had a nice time. Let’s leave it at that.”

There was an odd, disconnected look in his eyes that I couldn’t quite decipher. Then it hit me. He didn’t care about me at all. Probably never had. It was my own hopelessly romantic heart concocting a very lovely but very misleading illusion. I must’ve looked pissed beyond belief, because Blake swallowed and braced himself as though about to take a punch.

I wanted to punch him. Maybe I should have. Instead I told him angrily, “Buy your own johnnies, you whore.” And then I stomped out of the room, tears catching in my throat.

I arrived home just after eleven to find my flatmate, Julian, entertaining a few friends in the living room of our spacious London flat. And before you wonder, no, I couldn’t afford spacious, not on a choreographer’s assistant’s salary. Julian was the one who could afford it, and that was because he was a big ol’ gigolo.

And before you wonder, yes, he was an actual gigolo. I wasn’t adopting that oh-so-modern habit of affectionately referring to my BFF as a whore. Not my style. When I’d called Blake one earlier in the evening, I’d meant it in the traditional sense.

“Cheer up, Rose!” Julian called to me, draped across the lap of a blonde wearing a purple blouse. “If you keep up that face, it might get stuck.”

I glared at him, hung up my coat, and went into my bedroom. The door slam was satisfying, but it was all I had left. Flopping down onto my bed, I buried my face in the pillows.

My heart ached as I finally let the tears flow. God, why did this shit have to hurt so bad? What was the point? I wished I’d been born asexual. That way I could just focus on my career and not get sidetracked by pretty men with wandering penises…penii?

“Okay, let’s be having it,” Julian declared as he flounced into my room and shut the door. “What happened this time?”

I turned over to scowl at him. “Get out. You’re all…sexed up. I don’t want sexed-up sympathy.”

He smirked. “Olivia’s put me in a cheery disposition. You should be glad. It means I’m in a mood to indulge this episode, whatever it’s about.”

I assumed Olivia was the blonde in the purple blouse, though I knew she wasn’t a client because he never brought his work home. No, she was purely for enjoyment. Julian cocked an eyebrow, waiting for me to spill. He often refused to talk about my love life because I chose the worst men to fall for, even though I knew better. And I did know better. Nevertheless, I always went for actors. When you worked in theatres throughout the West End, they made up ninety percent of the dating pool.

“I’ve been sleeping with Blake,” I blurted before burying my face in the pillows once more. I couldn’t take the judgement that was sure to follow. When I was met with stony silence, I chanced a peek at him. Julian stared at me, his luscious lips drawn into a thin line.

“What are you looking at me like that for? Say something.”

“Anything I have to say you’re not going to like.”

“Just hit me with it. I can take it.”

Another long silence, followed by a breathy sigh. “Of all the men you could have slept with, you chose Blake Winters, West London’s very own public bicycle. Everybody’s