Hiddle Me This | cumberknit | (32/32) + Alternate Ending - 95.3k - September 2012
Tom Hiddleston is the consummate gentleman, in public. By the time Caro Foreman realizes his impeccable acting extends beyond the film set, she may be in too deep.
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My protests had fallen on deaf ears. Keith, my division chair, had basically ordered me to attend the hospital's charity event, suitably attired and with a smile on my face. I couldn't think of a way I wanted to spend my Saturday night less than in a dress and high heels, making small talk with strangers and pretending to remember their names. A few celebrities were attending the event in order to draw more attention to the fundraiser, but as usual, none of the names sounded more than passingly familiar to me. Between the demands of my schedule at work and my fledgling knitwear design business, I didn't spend much time watching television or going to the movies. I did indulge in the theatre on occasion, but the stage rarely featured famous faces. When I bothered to go, I wanted to be entertained; I didn't care who the actors were as long as the acting was good.
I had arrived as late as I dared, but the pre-program reception was still in progress. Keith caught my eye as I came in and beckoned me over to what looked like a reception line with a small jerk of his head. He wasn't smiling as he murmured, "You're late," in my ear. Then he turned on his charm, his Johannesburg accent obvious as he turned to the man next to him.
"Mr Branagh, allow me to present my colleague, Dr Carolyn Foreman. Carolyn, Kenneth Branagh."
My eyes widened; I didn't pay much attention to the entertainment world, but even I had heard of Kenneth Branagh. "It's a pleasure to meet you," I managed to choke out whilst shaking his hand, acutely aware of Keith's grin as he hovered at my elbow. He seemed to be revelling in my discomfort, and I still didn't understand why he had insisted that I be there. I had managed to avoid attending this event for the past three years without anyone seeming to care, but this year Keith had insisted that I come. As Keith was an old workaholic who generally had about as much interest in celebrities as I did, I hadn't a clue what was going on.
Keith herded me down the line, and the names and faces blurred, since other then Kenneth Branagh, I recognised none of them. I shook hands and mouthed greetings, feeling a bit like Eliza Doolittle at a tea party. I was stifling a giggle at the urge to actually say, "How good of you to let me come," when I finally reached the last person in the receiving line. He was very tall and slim, and his suit fitted him very well. I accepted his outstretched hand and looked up into strikingly blue eyes. The giggle threatened to escape as I found myself faced with a mischievous grin surrounded by a close-cropped beard oddly ginger in contrast to the thick, curly, dark blond hair on his head. He was easily the best-looking man I'd seen since arriving in England three years ago, not that I'd been looking.
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