It was not until the end of show wrap party that I was finally able to prise Alison Taylor's private phone number from her with a combination of charm, wit, guile, and alcohol. The blow that had finally shattered her defenses was a simple one, but one that I had been saving until the time was right.
“I shall write a play,” I said, “I shall write the most perfect romance ever written, for just the two of us, and then we shall act it out together, scene by scene.” She smiled coyly, in that delightful way that she had, and said that she would take me up on my offer on the condition that her paying for dinner wasn't a part of the story.

“No,” I replied, “you will offer to, as a modern woman who is able to fend for herself, but I shall gallantly refuse your offer, and after much argument shall finally convince you. You will come to consider me intractable on this matter, but shall never cease to make the point of asking. It will become one of the charming little games that we play.”
Naturally I did not have to tell her my name. The words James Roland Tyler were printed on every poster, set in bold type over the front of every showbill. I was the darling of the media, the greatest playwright of the decade, and as my star actress Alison and I had spent more than a little time together. Time enough for me to fall madly in love with her.

Later that evening, upon being delivered back to my house by my chauffeur, I went up to my office and immediately began to write. By morning I had the first scene finished. Not until a courier was winging the printed manuscript away to her house did I finally collapse onto my luxurious couch and pass into a deep slumber. I awoke late in the afternoon to the sound of the telephone ringing. Over the crackling of her cell phone as it strained to hold the signal, Alison laughed, and informed me that we had a date.

Days passed quickly and before long the weekend arrived, bringing with it my first date with Alison. I read through the opening scene again, to be sure that all the details were set into my mind. As ordered my chauffeur brought me to her house exactly 13 minutes past the time I had stated. Stepping out of the car I walked up to her door and rang the bell. She opened it almost immediately, grinned, and said “You're late,” holding up the manuscript of the first chapter, “just like you said you'd be”.
“I'm sorry my dear, but the traffic was just murderous” I replied, reciting my line word perfect, whilst carefully ignoring her blunder in drawing attention to the charade. I carefully plucked the manuscript from her hand and set it on the side, before escorting her to the car, continuing to apologise profusely for my tardiness.

We arrived at the restaurant, where the maitre-di informed us that there had been some kind of mix up, and that our table had been taken. Keeping my cool under fire, I took the man to one side, quietly, although not so much so that Alison would not notice, slipped him a few notes, and asked him to sort the whole thing out for us, whilst even more quietly thanking him for remembering his part. Within moments we had been escorted to an even more impressive table than the one that had I supposedly reserved, and informed that our starters would be on their way. Again I was forced to apologise for how disastrously everything had gone so far. She looked a little incredulous, and said quietly “But you knew that would happen. It was all written out in your script.”
“Of course,” I replied in a whisper, “Every perfect romance must include it's little imperfections.”
“So does that mean you're really going to...?” She began to ask, but was cut off by the arrival of the soup, which I tasted with great care. It was, sadly, excellent, and I reflected that I should probably have been somewhat less discerning in my choice of restaurant. Spitting out the small mouthful with a look of absolute disgust I turned to the waiter with fury in my eyes, but kept my voice in check as I asked him “What kind of vile muck is this? How dare you serve me something so utterly foul. I demand to see the manager at once... no actually, I shan't even bother. It's a waste. Come Alison my dear, we are leaving immediately. It seems these bumbling oafs have completely ruined our evening.” I was standing now, and I offered her my outstretched hand. For a moment she looked a little nervous, but then I could see her mentally collecting herself. Suddenly there was a look of pure outrage on her face, to match my own, and flinging her head back she nodded at me, took my hand and stood to go. I collected my jacket, and we marched out heads held high, whilst those waiting to be seated looked at us with nervous alarm, and began to cast wary glances towards the door as if looking for a chance to likewise evacuate the establishment. Somewhere behind me the maitre-di was yelling something about this 'not being part of the deal', but I wasn't really listening.

We arrived back at my place fifteen minutes later, and headed inside. I went through into the office and called for takeaway. When I came back into the living room I found her gone. For a moment I was worried that my “ruined dinner scene” had been all too convincing, and that she had taken off. Then I noticed that her coat was still hanging by the door, and a sound from the kitchen made me turn. She sashayed into the room holding a bottle of champagne in one hand, and two crystal flutes in the other.
“You know,” she said, opening the bottle, “that was actually a lot of fun. I was kind of nervous at first but, well...” She simply smiled and offered me a glass. Returning the smile I took the proffered glass and drank deeply.

Over the following few months we arranged to meet many times, and each time I sent her a script a few days beforehand. We went for a walk in the park, visited several restaurants, frequented the theater and the opera, and chatted for hours at end in discreet little coffee shops. Finally the time came for us to consummate our love. I had worked on the script endlessly, devoting every spare moment to it's perfection. It was a masterpiece. It was with no small amount of excitement, and even a little nervousness that I sealed the envelope, wrote her address on the front, and handed it to the courier. A few hours later the phone rang, and with trembling hands I answered. “James? Yes, it's Alison. Yes, I got the script. Is tomorrow Ok?”

We met in the park, late in the evening, to watch the sun go down. It was perfect. The last shreds of light made the most beautiful play of colours across the sky. Smiling, she leaned across and kissed me, gently, on the cheek.
“So”, she whispered, “shall we be heading back to my place?”. I glanced nervously at the sky, but made no answer.
“What's wrong?”, she asked.
“I'm waiting for the rain” I replied. “There has to be rain. The weather report said there would be storms tonight”.
“Well never mind that, eh? Let's just head home.”
“No” I snapped, “there has to be rain. It's in the script.”
She looked at me a little funny, but made no reply. So we waited for the rain. Hours passed, and still the clouds did not come, even though it was now pitch black. Finally she said
“James, I'm going home now. You can join me, or you can stay here and wait for your rain”.

As we stepped inside the door I turned to her and said, without thinking “We simply must get our clothes off to dry. I don't suppose you have a bathrobe or something that I could borrow?” She looked a little startled as she said
“There wasn't any rain, James. We're completely dry”
“I know, but it's, well, it's in the script”
“Look, forget the script, ok? We don't need it. We'll just... improvise”
I was about to protest when she pulled me close, and gently placed her soft, warm lips against mine. After that I didn't really think of very much else.

Some time later we lay breathless in each other's arms. Looking up into my eyes she smiled and said
“That was amazing. James, you made me feel like a goddess.” Too caught up in the moment to reply, I managed to summon up a smile. She kissed me once more, and whispered
“I love you”. A warm glow spread through my body. It had worked. Even with a little improvisation, it had worked. It was the perfect romance. And now all it needed was it's conclusion.
“Don't go anywhere” I said, as I climbed out of the bed, pulled on some trousers, and dashed out to the car. A few minutes later I was back, with a satchel and a sheaf of paper. The satchel I threw onto the bed, where she now sat in a silk dressing gown, and passed the sheaf of paper to her.
“What's this?”
“The finale. One last scene” I replied, as she began to leaf through it. Whilst she read the script I turned my attention to emptying out the bag. Wrapped in cloth, a silver knife and a small glass bottle rolled out. I looked up just in time to see her drop the script and jump to her feet, a terrified expression seizing her face.
“James, what the fuck is this? What are you... is that a knife? You can't seriously be planning on...?”
“But Alison”, I pleaded, “don't you see? It has to be the perfect romance. We will live on in history, like every great romance. Though we die our story will be eternal”
“Woah, hold on. You think that a fun couple months and a night of shitty sex are going to make me join you in a suicide pact? You're fucking crazy.”
“But you said it was amazing... that I made you feel like a goddess. You said you loved me.”
“Yeah, because it was in your fucking script. I'm an actress James, this is what I do. I act. I play a part. You think I actually bought into all of this? That I was in love with you? I fall in love with people every day. It's my job. But you... you actually believe in all of this, don't you?” Her face softened a little, and an infuriating note of pity came into her voice.
“You think that somehow putting words down on a page, and then getting people to act those words out somehow makes it real. You don't understand that the world doesn't work like that”
My whole body had gone numb. I felt cold, I even shivered a little. I felt... hurt, betrayed. It was as if she had kicked my legs out from under me, just to stab me in the back. And wasn't in the script, any of it. It had gone wrong.
“No, you don't understand”, I said, reaching out for the knife.
“You're just an actress. I'm the writer. I decide how this story ends”.