Aphrodite Rising

Chapter #10 - Sylvia - Enter James Hampton

After my evening with Norm Stetler, my life entered a period of stasis. I was neither working in the diner, nor did I have any roles to prepare for or perform. I dragged myself out of bed, showered to wash the grogginess I felt away, dressed in a casual pencil skirt, blouse and flats and, after fixing my hair and putting on my face, decided to visit the diner for breakfast. Angela was at school that morning, and had spent the night at Gerard's house, so I hadn't seen her since the previous morning and I longed for some sort of companionship.

The little bell on the door rang its usual greeting as I entered. The air smelled of bacon grease and stale cigarette smoke, mixed with the sweet, fruity aroma of the famous homemade pies. I took a seat at the counter, admiring just how clean it was kept despite being referred to as a "Greasy Spoon." The red and white naugahyde in the booths gleamed, the chrome trim was without a single finger print and the formica on the counter top, though slightly scratched and stained from the occasional coffee ring was so spotless that diners could very easily have forgone the plate and eaten directly off it.

Betsy was running the counter and she smiled at me as I sat down, returning quickly to the cup of coffee she was refilling. When she was done, she set the pot back on the coffee machine and came over to me. "I'm surprised to see you here," she said, her voice taking on the high pitch I had expected to hear.

"Life has not quite yet begun," I shrugged. "I signed the contract, but movie roles don't just fall from the skies."

"Are you here for a bite, then?" she asked.

"And some good company," I answered.

Nick, the cook spied me from the window behind her and waved. "Would you like the usual?" he asked a bit loudly through the clatter of the kitchen and the din of the dining room.

"Please," I smiled. There was a section of the morning news lying on the stool next to me and I grabbed it, scanning the headlines and busying myself until my food was done.

The bell on the door rang and I heard Betsy greet whoever it was that had arrived. "Take a seat and I'll be with you in a sec," she said brightly. No one came to sit next to me.

When I finished reading the front page, I set the paper down and glanced around the diner, observing my fellow people. Nick set a plate in the window with a clatter and grabbed the ticket for the next order. The man that Betsy had been serving when I had arrived stood up, dropped some change into his saucer, picked up the jacket he's had slung over the back of his chair and waved at her as he left. There was an elderly couple in one of the booths that sat side by side, holding hands and sharing a plate of pancakes and eggs. She had her grayed hair tied up in a colorful scarf and his hair was matted down from wearing the hat that sat on the bench opposite him. Their faces had such lines of life and their eyes reflected the love they had for each other. I remember hoping to have that one day.

Nancy re-emerged behind the counter and grabbed the order that was in the window. She set down a plate of scrambled eggs, thick bacon and buttered toast that Nick had cooked to perfection, on the counter in front of me. "Here you go, Hon," she said. Leaning closer to me, she whispered, "You should check out the dish that just sat down in the corner pocket.

We referred to the booth at the far end of the diner as the Corner Pocket because it was the furthest from the hustle and bustle and that area had always seemed a bit darker to me. Two types of people tended to sit there: Those who preferred not to be seen and those who preferred not to be bothered. I didn't want to overtly ogle the man that sat there, but there really was no other way to see without being completely obvious about it. I asked Betsy to keep an eye on my plate and surreptitiously made my way to the ladies' room, which afforded me at least a better partial view of the man in the corner.

As I passed him, my heart skipped a beat. His head was down and I recognized the the overcoat and fedora of the person who had been outside my apartment the previous morning. I hurried into the restroom and checked myself in the mirror. There was no way to really go about confronting him without seeming like an absolute nut case, so I took a deep breath and resolved to pass him by, to ignore him to the best of my abilities.

As I walked casually out of the short hallway where the ladies' room was, I glanced back over at the man. He was looking in my direction, his lips curled into a subtle smile as he saw me. It was the same man who had visited our dinner table a couple nights before. I approached him and leaned towards him, my hands rested flat in the table. "Is it customary for you to follow people?" I asked.

He was not startled at all. "I'm sorry for that," he said, his voice wonderfully rich. "I had no idea you lived there. I was just waiting for the bus and when I saw you come here, well, that's exactly what I ended up doing. I was hoping you would return today." He shrugged and flashed a nervous grin. There was something about him that seemed oddly familiar to me and a brief flash of recognition in his eyes, but I brushed it off, thinking it was due to meeting him somewhat prior. He stood and extended his hand toward me. "Friends?"

I hadn't realized just how tall he was until he stood next to me and I grasped his hand almost too willingly. "Alright," I mumbled in embarrassment. As I let go, I sighed, "I'll just get back to my eggs before they get cold, then." I sauntered back to my set at the counter, feeling the red heat of a blush creep over my face.

As I sat back down and picked up my fork, he appeared on my left. "I'd really like to try this introduction again," he said softly, "seeing as how the first two times have been a bit of a bust." With a smile, he extended his hand to me. "Third time is the charm?"

I couldn't help but smile back at him. I took his hand. "Sylvia Jameson," I replied.

"James Hampton," he said as he gently kissed the back of my hand. "It is truly my pleasure to meet you. He let go of my hand and sat down on the stool next to me. "And I am so sorry, again, that it seemed like I was stalking you."

"Would you like some coffee, Mr. Hampton?" I asked.

"I would love some."

I will not lie. I knew immediately that we had a chemistry between us. He was a dashing man, very different from the Hollywood types that I had gotten to know. As debonair as Russell Owens was, James Hampton had style in droves. I was no spinster, nor was I immune to the male charms. I had been on plenty of dates, but I had vowed to never get close enough to a man that my heart would be broken again. Will had been the one and only to get that far into my heart, but James was persistent. It may have been his British charm, but each time I attempted to give him the cold shoulder, he would overcome it with a suave smile that melted me.

We sat in the diner for at least two hours, drinking coffee and chatting about shared associates. He said he had begun working with Gerard as his agent. I had no reason to worry that Gerard would treat James as he had treated me. Back in those days, most agents had a rather misogynistic view of actresses, unfortunately. Though most of us were tough as nails, we were seen as delicate flowers that must be protected. Seeing as how James fit neither in the category of woman nor delicate flower, I had every confidence that Gerard would represent him to the fullest of his ability, besides, hopefully after his experience with me, he had learned his lesson on withholding the juicy roles.

We parted for the afternoon only because he'd had a prior engagement, but not before he had procured my phone number and the promise of a dinner date. I had no idea that this was the beginning of the greatest love of my life.