Hugh grant is fingering a diamond bracelet.
He is standing in the biggest jewellery store in London. He comes in here every other Wednesday afternoon. Sometimes he buys something, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he brings random items in for resizing for no particular reason. Sometimes he flirts with the woman behind the counter, sometimes not.
He comes here because he wants to be seen. He has a reputation to uphold, after all. He is Hugh Grant. He is the most romantic man in all of Europe, if not the world. He is buying jewellery for his significant other, after which they will make slow and passionate love, and she is the luckiest woman in the world.
These are the things that Hugh Grant wants you to know and understand. These are the things that are important to him. The things that are important to the throngs of women that double take on this same street corner every Wednesday. They will tell their friends they saw Hugh Grant buying jewellery and go home and pleasure themselves thinking of his firm but gentle embrace.
Hugh slides his Visa platinum preferred customer card across the counter and leaves with the diamond bracelet in his front left pocket. He is done for today. He gets in his small BMW and puts the bracelet in the glove box with the others. He drives home. When he drives, he drives very fast because he is Hugh Grant.
He walks in the front door of his 3.2 million dollar house and retires to the theatre room. It used to be a living room but is now a theatre room. He flips through the channels; sports, sitcoms, music videos, and finally stops on a 1989 romantic drama he stared in. He cringes at his hair before turning the set off.
He gets up and walks to the wall under the staircase which is covered in expensive pine slats. He slides his hand down the third edge from the left until he feels the small pin sized hole and presses inward on it. With a soft click, a small but passable door pops out about an inch. He grips the edge and swings it wide before entering through it and closing the door shut behind him.
He stands in the darkness listening to the black for a short while before reaching up and pulling the hanging cord. A single swinging light bulb blinks on revealing a rough but passable wooden stairway. He descends, his overpriced leather shoes clunking on the rough lumber stairs.
Reaching the cement floor he scans the room, everything is how he left it, perfectly intact. Every tool, every utensil has its place down here. He walks to the middle of the room and runs his hand on the rough, wood of the thick, solid oak table. He had it custom made and imported from Japan. He could have just bought a table at the furniture store, but he does what he wants to do because he is Hugh Grant.
He walks slowly around the table, dragging his palm across the surface. Every gouge and splinter, every cut and scratch has its own story to tell. The once bright and vibrant wood is stained a faded rouge that will never go away.
Killing women isn't much different than anything else he does in the run of a day really. It's just another one of those things that fits on the daily planner right between signing a movie contract and taking a shit.
Hugh sighs again, before turning and heading up the stairs.
A stack of fan mail sits on his mail mantel. He could use the mantel for other things, like keys, or change, or pictures of his nephews, but this particular mantel is used only for fan mail and nothing else because, he is, as we've come to learn, Hugh Grant. Picking up the top letter and opening it, he scans the desperate scrawl, picking out the key phrases he comes to expect from letters like these. "Huge Fan", "Stellar performance", "Beautiful eyes".
At the bottom of the letter is a phone number. There is always a phone number. Sometimes beside a silhouette of red lipstick, sometimes not.
He is Hugh Grant and he thinks that he will call this woman. Maybe take her for a drink, give her a diamond bracelet, and invite her back to the homestead to see where things go from there.
©2009 Broken Chair