An insider tells Life & Style that Rupert Sanders’ estranged wife, Liberty Ross, wants to give Robert a shoulder to cry on. —“Liberty Reaches Out to Rob,” Life & Style
An insider tells Life & Style that Rupert Sanders’ estranged wife, Liberty Ross, wants to give Robert a shoulder to cry on. —“Liberty Reaches Out to Rob,” Life & Style
Every day Robert Pattinson receives bags full of letters and millions of tweets that promise him undying love, but Robert Pattinson will never love again. For his heart was ripped out, cruelly stomped under rubber Converse heels; there is a gaping cavity where his heart beat once for true romance before Kristen Stewart tore it loose.
He knows he cannot be seen at Fashion Week in such a state. He curls up on his side and waits for death, like Bella did when Edward left her in Twilight: New Moon, because Bella had no agency. Rob’s shoulders shake as he anticipates the brutal press tour he will soon endure with Kristen, promoting with pasted-on smiles Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part Two, even though it’s all a filthy lie now. As if a woman as selfish as Kristen would ever give birth to a hybrid psychic vampire baby named Renesmee! What a crock! Only nice girls do that.
Thankfully, the tabloids placed the blame right where it belonged, on Kristen’s hunched shoulders, publicly shaming Rob’s 22-year-old ex-girlfriend instead of the 42-year-old married father who was still sort of her boss. Yes, she had roped Rupert into her web of lies.
In the fetal position, his face slick with tears, Rob shudders as he pictures Kristen and Rupert together. Their portrait of sin is grainy in resolution, owing to the long-range lens of the paparazzo who trailed them for hours and hid in bushes and behind trash cans in order to capture their illicit cuddle-puddle of lust.
His hands ball into angry fists. Edward Cullen the vampire would have ripped Rupert’s throat out, because he had neither impulse control nor sense of proportion, and was really a horridly abusive partner. But at least Edward would have done something, Robert thinks. Edward wouldn’t be sprawled naked on the deck of his lavish New York City hotel room just to feel the wind against his skin, to feel alive again.
Rob fends off entreating text messages and Twitter DMs from beautiful women and men claiming to be werewolves, when the phone lights up with a message on a number his few friends have. Here 4 u. Walkin @ Alex Wang. Hit u up after? — LIB
So Liberty went, after all. A smile plays across Rob’s lips. He is proud of her, energized by the bravery of this coolly suave older woman who is the spitting image of his ex-girlfriend, to the point that she actually played Kristen’s mother in the movie that her husband directed. Liberty’s example liberates Rob. He pulls on an outfit from the stores sent for his perusal, dark sunglasses to hide the shadows of his inner anguish. He will go to this show, the fashion show of Alexander Wang.
Of all people in this accursed universe, Liberty Ross was the last he should seek. But they had a mutual friend whose name he now cannot recall — Ann Sider? Ensign Der? — and that friend had relayed Liberty’s support. Against all odds, he had come to lean on her.
Standing in the shadows at the back of the show, his eyes find Liberty and fix on her. She looks studiously toward the parading models, no doubt expertly critiquing their lines. Color and light sizzle in the blacklight of the show. As Rob watches Liberty’s face illuminated, florescent, he thinks that maybe he can live again. The news of their pairing will set off a firestorm of publicity even more dazzling than this collection. More dazzling, even, than this magnificent ivory-skinned woman before him.
Liberty is a woman grown; she carries herself with poised confidence, self-assured and mature, everything that Kristen Stewart is not. Despite the obstacles of women clinging to his lapels and tearing at his hair, Rob fights his way backstage and greets Liberty by sweeping her into his arms, an exuberant embrace that causes so many camera flashes to pop that it is as though they are in the sun. He smiles. This is a daring role for him, the one who would indulge a married woman, who would taunt his ex-girlfriend with his bursting masculinity. Who would use sex for revenge. He wonders if this will give casting directors a better idea of his range.
The crowd files out of the tent, and soon he and Liberty are alone on the catwalk. Liberty is keen and lusty as he, yielding in his arms. She takes to his touch like a woman starved, like a woman who understands the turmoil of being the partner of a megarich talent who trots the globe and sometimes hooks up with other megarich talents. Their agony aligns as their bodies do.
“What’s the line,” Liberty pants against his ear, “when Bella and Edward finally do it after 2,000 pages of teasing?” Their hearts beat as one. Their sweat mingles under the blacklight as they move with abandon, buoyed on the wave of tabloid speculation their coupling has already unleashed. The dried flakes of Liberty’s blacklight makeup rub across their bodies, making them sparkle.
Rob knows the word. He knows it well. He’s said it at conventions until he’s blue in the face, whispered it into that straggly brown hair he’d rather forget. But Liberty wants it — wants him. “’Forever,” he intones. The line-reading makes Liberty writhe with ecstasy, although she tells him later that she’s really more of a Cedric Diggory fan.
